Time of the Wolves

by Marcia Muller

  “You’re looking good,” he said, stepping back.

  “So’re you.” John’s a big guy—six foot, four—and sometimes he bulks up from the beer he’s so fond of. But now he was slimmed down to muscle and sported a new closely cropped beard. Only his blond hair resisted taming.

  He grabbed my bag, tossed it into the Scout, and motioned for me to climb aboard. I held my ground. “Before we go any place . . . you didn’t tell Pa I was coming down, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Ma and Melvin? Charlene and Ricky?”

  “None of them.”

  “Good. Did you make me a motel reservation and reserve a rental car?”

  “No.”

  “I asked you. . . .”

  “You’re staying at my place.”

  “John! Don’t you remember . . . ?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t involve the people you care about in something that could get dangerous. I heard all about that.”

  “And it did get dangerous.”

  “Not very. Anyway, you’re staying with me. Get in.”

  John can be as stubborn as I when he makes up his mind. I opted for the path of least resistance. “OK, I’ll stay tonight . . . only. But what am I supposed to drive while I’m here?”

  “I’ll loan you the Scout.”

  I frowned. It hadn’t aged well since I last borrowed it.

  He added: “I could go along and help you out.”

  “John!”

  He started the engine and edged into the flow of traffic. “You know, I missed you.” Reaching over and ruffling my hair, he grinned broadly. “McCone and McCone . . . the detecting duo. Together again.”

  I heaved a martyred sigh and buckled my seat belt.

  The happy tone of our reunion dissipated when we walked into the living room of John’s little stucco house in nearby Lemon Grove. His old friends, Bryce and Mari Winslip, sat on the sofa in front of the corner fireplace; their hollow eyes reflected weariness and pain and—when they saw me—a kind of hope that I immediately feared was misplaced. While John made the introductions and fetched wine for me and freshened the Winslips’ drinks, I studied them.

  Both were a fair number of years older than my brother, perhaps in their early sixties. John had told me on the phone that Bryce Winslip was the painting contractor who had employed him during his apprenticeship; several years ago, he’d retired and they’d moved north to Oregon. Bryce and Mari were white-haired and had the bronzed, tough-skinned look of people who spent a lot of time outdoors. I could tell that customarily they were clear-eyed, mentally acute, and vigorous. But not tonight.

  Tonight the Winslips were gaunt-faced and red-eyed; they moved in faltering sequences that betrayed their age. Tonight they were drinking straight whiskey, and every word seemed an effort. Small wonder: they were hurting badly because their only child, Troy, was violently dead.

  Yesterday morning, twenty-five-year-old Troy Winslip’s body had been found by the Tijuana, Mexico authorities in a parking lot near the bullring at the edge of the border town. He had been stabbed seventeen times. Cause of death: exsanguination. Estimated time of death: midnight. There were no witnesses, no suspects, no known reason for the victim to have been in that place. Although Troy was a San Diego resident and a student at San Diego State, the SDPD could do no more than urge the Tijuana authorities to pursue an investigation and report their findings. The TPD, which would have been overworked even if it wasn’t notoriously corrupt, wasn’t about to devote time to the murder of a gringo who shouldn’t have been down there in the middle of the night anyway. For all practical purposes, case closed.

  So John had called me, and I’d opened my own case file.

  When we were seated, I said to the Winslips: “Tell me about Troy. What sort of person was he?”

  They exchanged glances. Mari cleared her throat. “He was a good boy . . . man. He’d settled down and was attending college.”

  “Studying what?”

  “Communications. Radio and TV.”

  “You say he’d ‘settled down’. What does that mean?”

  Again they exchanged glances. Bryce said: “After high school, he had some problems that needed to be worked through . . . one of the reasons we moved north. But he’s been fine for at least five years now.”

  “Could you be more specific about these problems?”

  “Well, Troy was using drugs.”

  “Marijuana? Cocaine?”

  “Both. When we moved to Oregon, we put him into a good treatment facility. He made excellent progress. After he was released, he went to school at Eugene, but three years ago he decided to come back to San Diego.”

  “A mistake,” Mari said.

  “He was a grown man . . . we couldn’t stop him,” her husband responded defensively. “Besides, he was doing well, making good grades. There was no way we could have predicted that . . . this would happen.”

  Mari shrugged.

  I asked: “Where was Troy living?”

  “He shared a house on Point Loma with another student.”

  “I’ll need the address and the roommate’s name. What else can you tell me about Troy?”

  Bryce said: “Well, he is . . . was athletic. He liked to sail and play tennis.” He looked at his wife.

  “He was very articulate,” she added. “He had a beautiful voice and would have done well in radio or television.”

  “Do you know any of his friends here?”

  “No, I’m not even sure of the roommate’s name.”

  “What about women? Was he going with anyone? Engaged?”

  Head shakes.

  “Anything else?”

  Silence.

  “Well,” Bryce said after a moment, “he was a very private person. He didn’t share many of the details of his life with us, and we respected that.”

  I was willing to bet that the parents hadn’t shared many details of their life with Troy, either. The Winslips struck me as one of those couples who have formed a closed circle that admits no one, not even their own offspring. The shared glances, their body language, the way they consulted non-verbally before answering my questions—all that pointed to a self-sufficient system. I doubted they’d known their son very well at all, and probably hadn’t even realized they were shutting him out.

  Bryce Winslip leaned forward, obviously awaiting some response on my part to what he and Mari had told me.

  I said: “I have to be frank with you. Finding out what happened to Troy doesn’t look promising. But I’ll give it a try. John explained about my fee?”

  They nodded.

  “You’ll need to sign one of my standard contracts, as well as a release giving me permission to enter Troy’s home and go through his personal effects.” I took the forms from my briefcase and began filling them in.

  After they’d put their signatures on the forms and Bryce had written me a check as a retainer, the Winslips left for their hotel. John fetched me another glass of wine and a beer for himself and sat in the place Mari had vacated, propping his feet on the raised hearth.

  “So,” he said, “how’re we going to go about this?”

  “You mean how am I going to go about this. First, I will check with the SDPD for details on the case. Do you remember Gary Viner?”

  “That dumb-looking friend of Joey’s from high school?”

  All of our brother Joey’s friends had been dumb-looking. “Sandy-haired guy, one of the auto shop crowd.”

  “Oh, yeah. He used to work on Joey’s car in front of the house and ogle you when he thought you weren’t looking.”

  I grinned. “That’s the one. He used to ogle me during cheerleading, too. When I was down here on that kidnapping case a couple of years ago, he told me I had the prettiest bikini pants of anybody on the squad.”

  John scowled impatiently, like a proper big brother. “So what’s this underwear freak got to do with the Winslip case?”

  “Gary’s on Homicide with the SDPD now. It’s always best to c
heck in with the local authorities when you’re working a case on their turf, so I’ll stop by his office in the morning, see what he’s got from the TJ police.”

  “Well, just don’t wear a short skirt. What should I do while you’re seeing him?”

  “Nothing. Afterward, I will visit Troy’s house, talk with the roommate, try to get a list of his friends, and find out more about him. Plus go to State and see what I can dig up there.”

  “What about me?”

  “You will tend to Mister Paint.” Mr. Paint was the contracting business he operated out of his home shop and office.

  John’s lower lip pushed out sulkily.

  I said: “How about dinner? I’m starving.”

  He brightened some. “Mexican?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “OK.”

  “You’ll pay.”

  “John!”

  “Consider it a finder’s fee.”

  Gary Viner hadn’t changed since I’d seen him a couple of years earlier, but he was very different from the high school kid I remembered. Gaining weight and filling out had made him more attractive; he’d stopped hiding his keen intelligence and learned to tone down his ogling to subtly speculative looks that actually flattered me. Unfortunately he had no more information on the Winslip murder than what John had already told me.

  “Is it OK if I look into this for the parents?” I asked him.

  “Feel free. It’s not our case, anyway. You go down there”—he motioned in the general direction of Baja, California—“ you might want to check in with the TJ authorities.”

  “I won’t be going down unless I come up with something damned good up here.”

  “Well, good luck, and keep me posted.” As I started out of his cubicle, Gary added: “Hey, McCone . . . the last time I saw you, you never did answer my question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Can you still turn a cartwheel?”

  I grinned at him. “You bet I can. And my bikini pants are still the prettiest ever.”

  It made me feel good to see a tough homicide cop blush.

  My first surprise of the day was Troy Winslip’s house. It was enormous, sprawling over a double lot that commanded an impressive view of San Diego Bay and Coronado Island. Stucco and brick and half timbers, with a terraced back yard landscaped in brilliantly flowering ice-plant, it must have been at least six thousand square feet, give or take a few.

  A rich roommate? Many rich roommates? Whatever, it sure didn’t resemble the ramshackle brown-shingled house that I’d shared with what had seemed a cast of thousands when I was at UC Berkeley.

  I rang the bell several times and got no response, so I decided to canvass the neighbors. No one was home at the houses on either side, but across the street I got lucky. The stoop-shouldered man who came to the door was around seventy and proved to like the sound of his own voice.

  “Winslip? Sure, I know him. Nice young fellow. He’s owned the place for about a year now.”

  “You’re sure he owns it?”

  “Yes. I knew the former owners. Gene and Alice Farr . . . nice people, too, but that big house was too much for them, so they sold and bought one of those condos. They told me Winslip paid cash.”

  Cash? Such a place would go for many hundreds of thousands. “What about his roommate? Do you also know him?”

  The old man leered at me. “Roommate? Is that what you call them these days? Well, he’s a she. The ladies come and go over there, but none’re very permanent. This last one, I’d say she’s been there eight, nine weeks.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  He shook his head. “She’s a good-looking one, though . . . long red hair, kind of willowy.”

  “And do you know what either she or Mister Winslip do for a living?”

  “Not her, no. And if he does anything, he’s never talked about it. I suspect he inherited his money. He’s home a lot, when he’s not sailing his boat.”

  “Where does he keep his boat?”

  “Glorietta Bay Marina, over on Coronado.” The man frowned now, wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “Troy Winslip’s been murdered, and I’m investigating it.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t read about it in the paper?”

  “I don’t bother with the paper. Don’t watch TV, either. With my arthritis, I’m miserable enough . . . I don’t need other humans’ misery heaped on top of that.”

  “You’re a wise man,” I told him, and hurried back where I’d left the Scout.

  Glorietta Bay Marina sits at the top of the Silver Strand, catty-corner from the Victorian towers of the Hotel Del Coronado. It took me more than half an hour to get there from Point Loma, and, when I drove into the parking lot, I spotted John leaning against his motorcycle. He waved and started toward me.

  I pulled into a space and jumped out of the Scout. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Nice way to greet somebody who’s helping you out. While you were futzing around at the police department and Troy’s place, I went over to State. Talked with his advisor. She says he dropped out after one semester.”

  “So how did that lead you here?”

  “The advisor sails, and she sees him here off and on. He owns a boat, the Windsong.”

  “And I suppose you’ve already checked it out.”

  “No, but I did talk with the marina manager. He says he’ll let us go aboard if you show him your credentials and the release from Bryce and Mari.”

  “Good work,” I said grudgingly. “You know,” I added as we started walking toward the manager’s office, “it’s odd that Troy would berth the boat here.”

  “Why?”

  “He lived on Point Loma, not far from the Shelter Island yacht basin. Why would he want to drive all the way around the bay and across the Coronado Bridge when he could have berthed her within walking distance of his house?”

  “No slips are available over there? No, that can’t be . . . I’ve heard the marina’s going hungry in this economy.”

  “Interesting, huh? And wait till you hear what else. . . .” I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “Dammit, you’ve done it again!”

  “Done what? I didn’t do anything! What did I do?”

  “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

  John’s smile was smug.

  I sighed. “All right, other half of the ‘detecting duo’ . . . lead me to the manager.”

  My unwanted assistant and I walked along the outer pier toward the Windsong’s slip. The only sounds were the cries of seabirds and the rush of traffic on the strand. Our footsteps echoed on the aluminum walkways and set them to bucking on a slight swell. No one was around this Wednesday morning except for a pair of artists, sketching near the office; the boats were buttoned up tightly, their sails furled in sea-blue covers. Troy Winslip’s yawl was a big one, some thirty feet. I crossed the plank and stepped aboard; John followed.

  “Wonder where he got his money,” he said. “Bryce and Mari’re well-off, but not wealthy.”

  “I imagine he had his ways.” I tried the companionway door and found it locked.

  “What now?” my brother asked. “Standing around on deck isn’t going to tell us anything.”

  “No.” I felt in my bag and came up with my set of lock picks.

  John’s eyes widened. “Aren’t those illegal?”

  “Not strictly.” I selected one with a serpentine tip and began probing the lock. “It’s a misdemeanor to possess lock picks with intent to feloniously break and enter. However, since I intend to break and enter with permission from the deceased owner’s next of kin, we’re in kind of a gray area here.”

  John looked nervously over his shoulder. “I don’t think cops recognize gray areas.”

  “For God’s sake, do you see any cops?” I selected a more straight-tipped pick and resumed probing.

  “Where’d you get those?” John aske
d.

  “An informant of mine made them for me . . . he even etched my initials on the finger holds. Wiley ‘the Pick’ Pulaski. He’s currently doing four to six for burglary.”

  “My little sister, consorting with known criminals.”

  “Well, Wiley wasn’t exactly known when I was consorting with him. Good informants can’t keep a high profile, you know.” I turned the lock with a quick flick of my wrist. It yielded, and I removed the pick and opened the door. “After you, big brother.”

  The companionway opened into the main cabin—a compactly arranged space with a galley along the right bulkhead and a seating area along the left. I began a systematic search of the lockers but came up with nothing interesting. When I turned, I found John sitting at the navigator’s station, studying the instruments.

  “Big help you are,” I told him. “Get up . . . you’re blocking the door to the rear cabin.”

  He stood, and I squeezed around him and went inside.

  The rear cabin had none of the teak and brass accoutrements of the main; in fact, it was mostly unfinished. The portholes were masked with heavy fabric, and the distinctive trapped odor of marijuana was enough to give me a contact high. I hadn’t experienced its like since the dope-saturated ’Seventies in Berkeley.

  John, who cultivated a small crop in his backyard, smelled it, too. “So that’s what pays the mortgage!”

  “Uhn-huh.” My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, but not fast enough. “You see a flashlight any place?”

  He went away and came back with one. I flicked it on and shined it around. The cabin was tidy, the smell merely a residue of the marijuana that had been there, but crumbled bits of glass littered the floor. I handed John the flashlight, pulled an envelope from my bag, and scraped some of the waste matter into it. Then I moved forward, scrutinizing every surface. Toward the rear, under the sharp cant of the bulkhead, I found a dusting of white powder. After I tasted it, I scraped it into a second envelope.

  “Coke, too?” John asked.

  “You got it.”

  “Mari and Bryce aren’t going to like this. They thought he’d kicked his habit.”