While Other People Sleep by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online Page A

when I died.
    Tonight I'm dreaming of a chameleon.
    It sits at a small table in a warm, softly lighted room and transforms over and over again—from itself to a version of myself to a woman in a loose sweater who pulls its hood down over honey-blond hair and casts swift, angry glances behind her.
    Behind her—where yet another version of myself sits, thinking she's safe among the people who love her.

Sunday night
    T wo-eight-niner, contact Oakland Approach on 135.4.”
    I keyed the Citabria's mike and acknowledged the SFO air traffic controller's instruction. Then, as I switched frequencies, I heaved a sigh of relief.
    I'd flown into the busy Class B airport many times, both as a passenger and as a pilot, but always on commercial flights or with Hy. Doing so was a tense, no-nonsense proposition; you didn't waste a word or a second, and you complied with air traffic control quickly and to the letter. During the flights when I'd piloted, I'd relied, emotionally at least, on the presence of Hy, a former commercial pilot who held nearly every license, certificate, and rating known to aviation; his concern over my dependency was what had prompted him to ask me to fly him into SFO tonight to catch the red-eye for Miami, where he'd connect with his flight to Buenos Aires. Departing there without him, he reasoned, would show me I could handle the situation on my own.
    Well, I'd handled it—keeping my nervousness out of my voice, because even at this late hour the controller hadn't the time or inclination to coddle me. And now I was almost back to Oakland, regretting that the ride was such a short one. It was a beautiful evening, the clear spell that began on Friday having persisted. Below me, the lights of the Bay Area tried to outdo the stars and moon in their brilliance. And compared with landing at SFO, landing at Oakland was, in Hy's parlance, a piece of cake.
    Back on the ground, I chained and locked the Citabria and started through the executive terminal to the parking area, intent on my car, home, and bed. But at the last minute I veered over to the lobby desk and asked the woman on duty if Jeff Riley was working tonight. Yes, she said, as a matter of fact he'd just gone into the vending room. I followed and found the short, bearded lineman cursing at a cup of what I call cardboard coffee that had spilled over his fingers while he was trying to wrest it from the machine.
    “Hey, Sharon,” he said, “somebody told me Ripinsky coaxed you into flying him to SFO.”
    “Yeah, he did. I could've had him there in twenty minutes by car—not to mention more cheaply, given the huge landing fee. But he wanted me to learn a lesson in self-reliance.”
    “How'd it go?”
    “Pretty well. I was nervous departing, of course, but now I know I can do it.”
    “And a good thing, because someday you may have to do it—there or at another Class B airport. You're all grown up now, at least as far as flying's concerned.” Jeff leaned against the wall, sipping coffee and making a sour face. “I've always figured there're two kinds of pilots: those who deliberately choose to limit their experience, and those who go the whole nine yards. Nothing wrong with either; the ones who limit themselves're smart, recognize the extent of their abilities. But for a long time I've had you pegged as the other.”
    “Have you? I'm flattered. By the way, that reporter—have you seen her around here again?”
    “Nope.”
    “Will you do me a favor? Keep a closer than usual eye on Two-eight-niner for a while.”
    “Will do.”
    “Thanks. Hy and I will stand you to a couple of rounds of beer someday soon.”
    “Hell, it's a pleasure to help out. I wouldn't want any harm to come to that nice little plane. Or to you or Hy.”
    Until he said it, the possibility of vandalism or sabotage hadn't occurred to me. But I carried the notion home with me, like a suspiciously ticking package.
    Somebody had broken into my house while I was gone.
    I felt it the