Dead Midnight (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “My God!”

  “And then there’s another detail: on Saturday, a woman whose description matches Tessa’s was seen delivering a suitcase to the magazine’s head of research, Kat Donovan. I suspect it contained payoff money.”

  “For what?”

  “Information Kat turned up.”

  He flushed. “So she’s the one!”

  “The one who what?”

  “The bitch!”

  “I think you’d better tell me all of it, Mr. Amaya.”

  “No.” He ground out his cigar and stood. “This conversation is over. If you don’t leave immediately, I will call building security.”

  When I got back to my car I called the hospital where the paramedics had taken Engstrom, for an update on his condition; they said he had a broken arm and mild concussion, but was resting comfortably. Then I called the office for messages. Julia was still there; I wondered when she found time to spend with her son, decided that was her business. Besides, I didn’t want to discourage dedication in a new employee.

  “Hy called,” she said. “He asked me to tell you he’ll be home around noon on Friday. A Mr. Hernandez wanted to thank you for letting him catch his elevator on time, said to tell you he remembered something else. Before Remington disappeared, she and Amaya were upset because somebody had found out something damaging about him—Amaya, not Hernandez—and would have to be ‘silenced.’ ”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Julia went on, “A Mrs. Woods says the boys have returned. And Ted phoned to ask if you’d found out anything.”

  “Thanks, Julia. Will you transfer me to Mick, please?”

  “I was on my way out, Shar.”

  “Sorry, this is top priority.”

  “Dammit—”

  “Bargaining chips—remember?”

  “Okay, okay. What d’you need this time?”

  “A background check on one Jorge Amaya.” I gave him what details I had.

  “I’ll get started.”

  Sometimes I’m so manipulative that I’m ashamed of myself, but at least it gets the job done.

  It was six o’clock now—end of a long, difficult day. All over the Bay Area people were heading home in their vehicles on the crowded streets, freeways, and bridges. They were lining up for CalTrain and BART, or rushing for the ferries, streetcars, and buses. The bars and restaurants were greeting their early customers; the athletically inclined were jumping on their mountain bikes or donning their running shoes; others were picking up groceries, lighting barbecues, or thinking fondly of pizza or Chinese takeout. Thousands of mundane, comforting rituals were going on all around me.

  And I wasn’t taking part in any of them.

  As I sat in my costly slot in the garage on the slope of Nob Hill, a familiar yet puzzling sense of loneliness and loss washed over me. It was true that years before, without fully comprehending the consequences, I’d set out on a path that few people—particularly women, at the time—would have chosen. A path involving long hours, sleepless nights, frustration, danger, and enough resultant demons to cast an epic-length horror film. But unlike many of my colleagues, I now had resources to fall back on: Hy, my family—more family than most, even with Pa and Joey gone—and my friends. The agency, my home, my cats, Two-five-two-seven-Tango, and Touchstone.

  So why this overwhelming sense of emptiness?

  Well, why not? Over the years I’d seen too much violence, too many evil deeds done as the result of greed, cowardice, or just plain stupidity. In the past week I’d seen the body of a friend who had died needlessly, a near suicide, and another man badly injured. I was on overload and wanted nothing more than to stow the memories in my mental bank vault, go home, and indulge in those mundane, comforting rituals allowed to other people.

  But I wasn’t other people. And tonight I needed to continue searching for answers.

  Parking in Ted and Neal’s neighborhood is even more difficult than on Nob Hill, especially in the evening when the residents—and their cars—return. I left the MG in a pay lot on the northern Embarcadero and walked up the series of concrete stairways that scale Tel Hill to the end of Montgomery Street; by the time I reached the top the pain in my back had flared up again, and I paused to gulp down two dry aspirins.

  The elevator of the building on Plum Alley was descending in its glass-block enclosure, distorting the figures of its occupants till they were long ripples of color. I stood aside while two women exited, then rode up to the third floor. Music played softly in a couple of the apartments, but no sound came from the rear unit. I pressed the bell, heard footsteps coming along the hallway.

  “Shar!” Neal looked surprised to see me, then frowned. “Is something wrong? Ted—”

  “Ted’s okay, but he hasn’t been able to reach you, so he asked me to stop by.” I moved inside and along the hallway to the high-ceilinged living room. The apartments on this floor had two levels, and a small kitchen was tucked behind a spiral staircase. A man sat on a stool by its counter, sipping a glass of red wine. He was tall, blond, slender, and very young—quite the opposite of Ted. I glanced at Neal, waiting for an introduction.

  Neal said, “This is Steve Box. Steve, Sharon McCone.”

  The man nodded and extended his hand to me. “Neal’s former boss. I’ve been hearing about that fiasco for days now.”

  His easy familiarity made me bristle. I said, “Actually it was Neal’s partner, Ted, who was supposed to be doing the bossing.” I turned to Neal. “Don’t you feel you owe Ted an explanation about this?”

  “This?” His gaze followed my hand as I motioned at Steve Box and comprehension flooded his eyes. “Oh, my God, you don’t think … ? Yeah, you do.”

  I waited.

  “This is not what … Steve’s been helping me … Maybe I better just show you.” He started for the staircase, and I followed. At its top the door to his library was closed. He pushed it open. “Behold the domain of the twenty-first-century bookseller.”

  Inside the book-lined room, next to a handsome old partners desk, stood a new workstation. Set up on it was a Macintosh G-4 Cube computer with futuristic spherical speakers, a zip drive, a scanner, and a printer.

  I stared. “… This is yours?”

  “Mine, and Wells Fargo’s—at least till I pay off my MasterCard.”

  “You can use it?”

  “I can use it, and my stock is all online, thanks to Steve.”

  I thought of how I, a confirmed technophobe, had taught myself to operate the computer Hy kept at Touchstone one dismal, rainy weekend. I’d considered that an achievement of considerable proportions, but Neal had completely outstripped me. “Pretty sexy hardware,” I said.

  “When I fall, I fall hard.”

  “Amen to that.” Steve’s voice spoke behind him. “He’s already opened an auction on E-Bay that ought to net him enough to make the next MasterCard payment.”

  I turned to him. “What are you—some kind of consultant?”

  He nodded. “I’ve carved out this niche to help those who weren’t born into the new technology to adapt to it. Neal’s by far my most talented student.”

  I turned to Neal. “So it was computer equipment in those boxes Mona Woods saw the two of you carting in?”

  “Computer equipment and the antiquarian books I’ve been keeping in a self-storage unit.” He motioned at several dozen cartons piled between the desk and the window. “Mona’s been spying on us, huh?”

  “She was concerned that you and Ted had broken up, and …” I looked at Steve.

  He said, “Neal’s a nice guy, but I don’t think my wife would approve of me moving in with him.”

  “You didn’t tell Ted about Mona’s suspicions?” Neal asked.

  “No. But what about him? He’s staying at my house and feels really miserable.”

  “You say he’s tried to call?”

  “Yes, but the line’s always busy.”

  “That’s because I’ve been online. I couldn’t get the pho
ne company to come out and install another line till next week.”

  “That’s no excuse. You could’ve called him.”

  “I could’ve, but I was still pissed at him, and talking when I was in that kind of mood would’ve done us more harm than good. Besides, I wanted to get the business up and running first, to prove to him that I can do something right.”

  “So do something else right—call him.”

  My duty to my friends carried out—at least until the next crisis—I ransomed my car from yet another costly lot and headed down the Embarcadero to the pier. By now it was close to eight and dusk had set in, enveloping the palms along the streetcar tracks and making their swaying fronds seem like spectral arms raised in supplication. The only vehicle parked in our slots was Mick’s motorcycle. He was working late, which meant he had either turned up nothing on Amaya or a great deal.

  As I entered his office and he swiveled away from his workstation, his expression told me the news was good. “Your man’s a piece of work,” he said.

  I sat down in Charlotte’s chair. “How so?”

  “Well, the one thing that checks out is that his family’s rich. Very. But the rest of it—the degrees, the business experience—is a flat-out lie. And Jorge’s youthful indiscretions make mine seem tame.”

  “Hard to believe. What’s he done?”

  “The whole nine yards. Womanizing. Drinking. Drugs. He got kicked out of three parochial schools in Costa Rica and a couple of expensive prep schools up here. When he was eighteen there was a scandal involving the wife of a highly placed government official down there, and that was when the family decided it was advisable he leave the country—with a generous allowance. He lived in New York for a few years, then tried to set himself up as a producer in Hollywood. There was a problem with him playing fast and loose with his backers’ funds, which his father resolved, and then he came up here. He’s been at the Nob Hill address for three years, no gainful employment till the gig with InSite came along last June.”

  A gig that Remington had arranged in order to have her lover and co-conspirator on the inside. “Classic remittance man,” I commented.

  “Say what?”

  “Nothing you’d relate to.” In spite of his father being very wealthy, Mick had always preferred to pay his own way; Ricky had even had trouble getting him to accept the downpayment on his condo. “Nice work. Go home, have a good evening.”

  “Thanks, boss woman. I’ve got to rest up for our bargaining session tomorrow.”

  After Mick left I went to my office and tackled the stack of paperwork in my in-box. Expense reports to approve. Client reports to read and okay. Mick’s eccentrically worded and frequently misspelled reports to tone down and correct. Employee complaint: cheap coffee from Costco sucks. Memo to Ted to buy a different brand of cheap coffee from same.

  By the time I finished it was after nine. I hadn’t eaten since lunch with Glenn, and then very little, but I wasn’t hungry. I took J.D.’s diagram from my bag and carried it and my case file to the armchair by the window.

  J.D., it seemed, had stumbled onto many of the same things I had since learned or assumed. Nearly all his scrawled notations held meaning for me now, if the relations between some of them didn’t. This time I recognized the lines connecting Amaya, Vardon, and Remington as a triangle. Interesting that the one linking Amaya and Remington bisected Engstrom. The connector between Roger and Jody was firm and clear, but the lines radiating out from them to the others seemed to be nothing more than J.D.’s futile efforts to think the situation through.

  And the questions: Afton? He’d found out about the developers who were buying up Dogpatch property. Econ? Econium Measures, of course. CWP? He’d gone over Remington’s movements on the day she disappeared, making sure that no one at the nonprofit whose board meeting she was supposed to attend had seen or heard from her. ER? Eagle Rock, Oregon. LR? I hadn’t a clue.

  But then again …

  I opened the case file, paged through it. Mick had printed out a map of the Dogpatch area, shading the properties already owned by Afton Development in orange, the properties needed to complete the parcel in yellow. A number of them extended south of Dogpatch proper, and one in particular, that hadn’t yet been acquired, gave access to the bay.

  I studied it, matched it to my mental map. It was the site of the old Islais Creek Resort. The Last Resort. LR.

  I plan to live in that building and eventually run a consulting firm out of it.

  So Dinah Vardon had claimed when I’d asked about her purchase. But if that were true, why had she put her renovations on hold indefinitely? Because she’d found out Afton Development would pay a small fortune for precious bayside land? Perhaps she was holding out on them, to maximize her profit. Good business on her part—so why lie to me?

  Vardon’s house on Vermont Street was dark again. I rang the bell anyway, received no answer. Next I checked the Last Resort. Dark and deserted-looking. Should I call it a night?

  No. A sixth sense always kicked in when I was close to the truth. Now it told me I was very close.

  I drove out of the resort’s parking lot, left the MG on Third Street, and doubled back on foot. The building was obscured by mist that rose like steam off the bay. Across the street I crouched down behind an abandoned truck and studied it. No lights upstairs, no lights downstairs, no lights in any of the outbuildings.

  After a minute I moved away from the truck and slipped along the street, past dark houses with barred windows and boarded doors. Where the pavement ended I crossed and approached the resort from its blind side, moving through the outbuildings. The sheds in which the former owner used to store contraband were falling down, the boathouse not in much better shape. As I neared it I saw a new-looking padlock and hasp securing the door.

  I checked the padlock. So new that it was not yet corroded by the salt air. I reached into my bag for my set of picks, then thought better of it and went around the structure to the water side. The rusted metal overhead door to the boatwell was frozen partway up; there was about a two-foot clearance between it and the floor beside the well. I straddled the beams between the pilings, gritting my teeth against the pain in my back, swung around on them, and squeezed through.

  Even before I took out my flashlight I made out a bulky shape next to the well. A car. I turned on the flash, shone its beam over there. White BMW convertible, the type the newspaper account said Tessa Remington had driven. When I examined the license plates I saw their number didn’t match the one published. But the other night Dinah Vardon had been driving a similar car. Was this hers? I went around to look in the glove box for the registration. None there. I checked under and behind the seats. Nothing.

  Car coming along Water Street.

  I shut the BMW’s door, listened.

  Coming here.

  I looked around. Other than the BMW, the boatwell was the only place to hide.

  Gravel crunched under the car’s tires as it stopped outside.

  I rushed to the well, scrambled over its side, stifling a gasp as my feet went into the icy water. Grabbing hold of the exposed beams, I lowered myself till I was knee deep in the bay and clung there, my forehead pressed to the splintery wood.

  The padlock and hasp rattled, then someone opened the door and came inside. I held my breath, hoped that the slapping of the water around me wouldn’t give me away. Footsteps crossed to the rear of the BMW. Something thumped on the planks, and after a few seconds I heard a whining sound.

  Electric tool of some kind. Screwdriver?

  Metal clanged, the tool whined again. The person went to the front of the car and repeated the process.

  Changing the license plates.

  Next the footsteps went to the passenger’s side of the car; its door opened. In seconds it slammed shut and the person left the boathouse, fastening the padlock. It was a few more minutes before the other car’s engine started up, then faded into the distance.

  I pulled myself from the boatwell and la
y on my stomach on the planks. My feet and calves were numb, my jeans and athletic shoes soaked. I smelled of brine and tar and some chemical whose identity I didn’t even want to speculate on. After a moment I sat up and wrung out the jeans as best I could without taking them off, rubbed my calves to restore the circulation. Took off my shoes and emptied the water from them, rubbed my feet.

  After I’d put on the soggy shoes, I turned on my flash and went to take a look at the new plates on the BMW. 2 KCV 743. Tessa Remington’s. On the passenger’s seat lay a purse and briefcase that hadn’t been there earlier. The purse contained identification and credit cards in Remington’s name, as well as five hundred dollars in cash. The briefcase held files relating to the various funds managed by the Remington Group, an agenda for the February 14 board meeting of the Committee for Wireless Privacy, and a dossier on Jorge Amaya that disclosed many of the facts I already knew, plus a prior arrest for statutory rape in Los Angeles, charges subsequently dropped.

  Had Remington been hiding here at the Last Resort for the past two months while she gradually transferred the funds from the Econium Measures accounts? Was she planning to make a move tonight? And if so, what was her relationship with Dinah Vardon?

  The briefcase had another compartment that closed with a tiny lock—easy enough to pick. Inside was a clasp envelope. I took it out, found several sheets labeled TIMELINE. It was a schedule: of deposits into Econium Measures accounts; of transfers from same. There were no names or numbers for the accounts into which the funds had been moved. Interspersed with the deposits and transfers were various cryptic notations, among them “lose Lewis file,” “disable scanner,” “delete payroll,” “activate fire alarm.” The date for the latter was this past Friday.

  The last notations were dated a week from tomorrow: final payment, Afton; final transfer, Econium.

  An embezzlement scheme so elaborate and meticulously planned that Remington had felt the need to spell it out for herself. Well, no wonder: amounts were penciled in beside each financial transaction; the total of funds to be transferred—undoubtedly to a protected account outside the country—was close to a hundred million dollars.