Dead Midnight (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “I’m not worried about jail. Or you.”

  “You should be.”

  “I don’t think so. Last chance to take me up on my offer, McCone.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Your loss.” She shrugged and smiled. “If you won’t take my money, I know an excellent attorney who will.”

  Wednesday

  APRIL 25

  It was dead midnight when the police arrived.

  I’d had no difficulty preventing Dinah Vardon from leaving—in fact, I hadn’t had to try. Acting oblivious of the .357 trained on her, she’d sat herself down on the pool table, called her attorney, and insisted he meet her at the Hall of Justice, then proceeded to ignore Houston and me. Later on I reflected that she reminded me of a cat that has gotten its nose out of joint: it puts its back to you and stares haughtily into the distance, but from the flattening and swiveling of its ears you can tell it is listening to everything that goes on behind it.

  And in the interim between my 911 call and the arrival of the first squad cars, there was plenty for Vardon to listen to. Jody confirmed what Eddie Nagasawa had told me, and much of what I’d theorized. She’d asked Eddie about the insurance policy Roger claimed to have left her after a call from Vardon suggesting they “get together to talk about Roger.” After Eddie showed her how to retrieve Roger’s files, it had taken her a while to piece them together and figure out that the so-called policy was actually on her own computer. Finally she accessed it and put it on disc, uncertain as to what to do with it.

  If at all possible, she didn’t want to make Roger’s confession public; Remington’s death had been an accident, but knowledge of his part in it would tarnish his memory in the minds of those who had cared about him. She felt for Tessa Remington’s husband and friends, however, and knew they deserved to learn what had happened to her. And Vardon became insistent, calling repeatedly, the conversations taking a threatening turn. When she encountered me at Roger’s flat and realized the Nagasawas were opening an inquiry into his suicide, she decided to take the disc to his father, but Daniel’s seemingly skeptical reaction made her back off. Vardon called again the next day, and Jody set an appointment with her, but fled to Oregon instead, taking the Zip disc with her.

  Most likely Vardon had known or found out about Jody’s cottage in Eagle Rock and gone there with the intent of killing her. But coincidentally she met up with J.D. I’d probably never know what went on during their final confrontation. And given the lack of evidence, there was an odds-even chance she would never be charged with the murder.

  She’d covered up an accidental death. Figured out Tessa Remington’s passwords and looted the Econium Measures funds. Driven around in the dead woman’s expensive car for two months while Tessa’s corpse lay in cold storage because she—as she’d bragged to Jody—could get away with it and wanted to taste what it was like to be rich. Bribed Kat Donovan to leave the area, arriving at her house in the BMW wearing a yellow head scarf that, to a neighbor who admitted to bad eyesight, made her look like “a blonde in a fancy car.” Held Jody hostage and repeatedly threatened to kill her if she didn’t turn over the disc.

  And if I hadn’t stopped her tonight, she would have disposed of Tessa’s body, along with her personal effects, by pushing her car into the sea south of the city off treacherous Devil’s Slide. Jody was certain that even if she’d surrendered the Zip disc she’d have been a passenger in that car.

  Arrogance is its own undoing, of course. Vardon had incriminated herself because she couldn’t resist bragging to Jody. And she hadn’t realized the limitations of her knowledge of forensics; given the condition of Remington’s body, no coroner would have believed she and Jody had died at the same time in the same car wreck.

  But those crimes were nothing compared to the enormity of J.D.’s murder. It pained me to think there might never be justice for him.

  Adah Joslyn’s voice spoke behind me. “Damn, McCone, you know I hardly ever check my e-mail at home.”

  I turned toward her. Even at this late hour she was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit, her curly hair perfectly styled. “I sent a message to your office as well. Doesn’t somebody monitor what comes in when you’re off duty?”

  “My counterparts on the other shifts, yes. One of them read it.”

  “So he couldn’t figure it out and get over here?”

  “He’s a recent hire from the Detroit PD. Your note said you were headed to the Last Resort. How the hell was he supposed to know what that is?”

  “You’ve got a point there.” I glanced at the door, where Vardon was being led out in handcuffs, then looked across the room, where a paramedic was examining Jody.

  “She’s one tough woman,” I said. “She held Vardon off as long as humanly possible. And shouted when she heard me moving around upstairs.”

  “If she’d’ve come to us in the first place, J.D. would still be alive. And you and I both know that even if Vardon’s charged with murder, some hotshot lawyer’s gonna get her off on lack of evidence.”

  Something was nagging at me. I closed my eye, struggled to bring the memory to the surface.

  “McCone? You all right?”

  I pictured J.D. smiling at me when we met outside In-Site’s building last Thursday. Heard him say, “You’re still doing that.”

  I asked Adah, “How fast can you get a search warrant for Vardon’s house?”

  “Case like this, pretty quick.”

  “Good. This is a long shot, but I’ll tell you what to look for.”

  “Hey, McCone!”

  “Uhhh?” I was in bed in the RKI apartment, bruised and battered, and once again hiding from the press. A Vicodin-induced dream involving seahorses swimming among wildflowers still had hold of me.

  “You were right,” Adah’s voice said. “Vardon kept the jeans and tee she wore home from Oregon after she stole your travel bag.”

  That made me sit up. “And?”

  “The penny was in the inside pocket of the jeans, right where you said it’d be.”

  Again Vardon had been done in by her arrogance. No one would search her house. No one would connect the clothing with J.D.’s murder.

  “For once,” Adah added, “it’s a good thing you’re superstitious.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I’d distinctly remembered finding a shiny new penny and tucking it into the inner pocket of those jeans the last time I’d worn them. It was for just such occasions that the phrase “lucky penny” was coined.

  Friday

  APRIL 27

  Eventually you let go of it.

  Now you know there are as many reasons as there are suicides. Often more than one cause for that final self-destructive act. And none of those reasons has anything to do with the living—with you.

  I let go as I stood on the Marin Headlands, remembering.

  Joey. His life, and he didn’t care to share it with any of us. For some reason he’d failed to bond with his own family members, just as we’d failed to bond with him. No need to feel guilt or remorse; it happens. His death was presumably the way he’d wanted it—lonely and private.

  J.D. His life, and he’d given so freely of himself to others. But there had also been a closed, secretive side to him, the side that made him an investigative reporter. Death was nothing he would have willingly sought, but on occasion he’d risked it for the sake of a good story. No need for guilt or remorse there, either. He’d died doing the thing he loved most, and in time that knowledge would ease my sadness.

  Behind me I heard the voices of those who had gathered on the bluff above the Golden Gate to celebrate J.D.’s life. An Episcopalian minister who had never met him but understood how much a proper service would mean to his religious parents had officiated, coached on personal details by J.D.’s friends. Tables with food and drink had been set up and, while his mother and father remained in attendance, we reminisced somberly. But after the limo hired to return the Smiths to the city departed, the gathering took on a lighter tone. Voices
were raised in humorous and frequently irreverent remembrances. Glasses were raised as favorite J.D. anecdotes were related.

  When my own mood turned somber again, I walked over to the guardrail to say my private good-bye to him, while looking across the bay at the city he had loved. Peace of the sort that I hadn’t experienced in many months washed over me. The city was turning golden in the late afternoon sunlight. I knew it was only makeup to hide its blemishes and scars, but I also knew that the imperfections masked an inner beauty. Good people, such as those who had gathered here for J.D., were a large part of that, as were—

  Strong hands grasped my shoulders. I smiled, recognizing Hy’s touch.

  “Hey, you,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t make it on time for the service. Flight delays …”

  “It was a good one. I spoke for both of us, told the story of the whale-watching expedition.”

  “I’ll never forget how he kept saying, ‘I can’t be seasick, I’m a reporter! We’re only allowed to get sick when we’re drunk!’ ”

  “That was J.D.”

  “So how’re you, McCone?”

  “Ready.”

  “For?”

  “Two-five-two-seven-Tango.”

  “Destination?”

  “Touchstone.”

  “I figured as much, and called North Field. She’s gassed up.”

  I pictured the airport and the city of Oakland shrinking beneath us till they were toylike. The bay receding behind us. The thickly forested ridge turning dusky as we crossed it and turned north along the coast. The scalloped coves of Mendocino County welcoming us …

  “Home, Ripinsky.”