The Dangerous Hour

by Marcia Muller

  “Ralph picked up on your fear, and you scared him, too.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Listen, Shar, I’m into animal psychology. People psychology, too. If you’re that afraid of needles, this is never gonna be a comfortable deal.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “How often d’you have to give him the shots?”

  “Twice a day.”

  “A problem if you go out of town or come home late. And you go out of town and come home late a lot.”

  I’d thought of that before.

  Michelle added, “I can help you out here.”

  And here comes the sales pitch.

  “For, say . . .” She screwed up her brightly lipsticked mouth, rolled her eyes thoughtfully. “For twenty bucks a month, I’ll be glad to shoot up Ralph for you.”

  Michelle already earned a substantial monthly stipend from me. Not that I begrudged her a penny: she was conscientious in the extreme and frequently provided nice personal touches, such as the fresh flowers I’d found in the living room when I’d returned from San Diego after my father died. Still, I sometimes wondered about a kid whose avowed goal in life was to amass large amounts of cash in order to become a real estate mogul. . . .

  “Of course,” she added, “if you’d rather do it yourself, I’d be happy to work with you for a few months—at only ten bucks per—till you’re ready to go it alone.”

  Yes, she’s certainly into people psychology.

  I said, “Twenty bucks a month seems fair to me.”

  After Michelle left, I went to the phone, picked up the receiver, then hesitated and replaced it in its cradle. If Hy was determined to maintain silence, so would I.

  Since the events of September 11, 2001, Hy’s duties as an international security specialist and hostage negotiator had demanded a great deal of his time, but now he had taken a well-deserved vacation. This week he was at his ranch in the high desert country near Tufa Lake. If the weather was good there, he’d ride this morning, checking the sheep graze that was willed to him years ago by his stepfather. If the weather was bad, he’d be in the comfortable living room by the fireplace, browsing through his collection of western fiction and nonfiction, sampling volume after volume until something caught his interest. But no matter what he was doing, I knew he was thinking of me.

  Hy and I had always shared an odd psychic connection, and now I could feel his mood as if he were beside me. Today he was contemplative and patient. Biding his time without feeling particularly anxious. Giving me the chance to decide what direction I wanted our future to take. No pressure, and thus no call.

  So why did I feel pressured? And why couldn’t I bring myself to call him? Normally, given what had happened during the past two days, I’d’ve been on the phone to him, seeking his input and reassurance. But now . . .

  I glared at the phone.

  Why did people want to change things that were functioning perfectly well to begin with? Why did they want more, when less was enough—?

  The office phone buzzed, bringing me back to the present. I picked up.

  Ted. “There’s a Mr. Todd Baylis here to see you. He’s with the Investigations Bureau of the Department of Consumer Affairs.” His tone was ominous—and with good reason.

  The other shoe had dropped.

  “Ms. McCone?” Ted asked formally when I didn’t respond.

  “I’m here. Tell Mr. Baylis I’m finishing up with something, wait five minutes, and show him in.”

  I used those minutes to calm myself so I could project a professional appearance.

  Todd Baylis was a stocky man with thick blond hair, a cleft chin, and a bone-breaking handshake. As he sat on one of the clients’ chairs, his gray eyes assessed me through a pair of chromium-rimmed glasses. I thought I caught a hint of meanness in the set of his mouth, but supposed that could just be my reaction to the threat his presence implied.

  I sat behind my desk, anchored his business card under my stapler, and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Baylis?”

  He set his briefcase on the desk, opened it, and took out a file. “Last month your agency contracted with a client named Alex Aguilar.”

  “That’s correct. He hired us to investigate several incidents of theft at his job-training center in the Mission district.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been a police matter?”

  “Of course, but . . . I assume you live in the Sacramento area, Mr. Baylis?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you familiar with San Francisco?”

  “Not intimately, no.”

  “Well, there are problems here. I love the city, but I’d be the first to admit to them. Our police department has been in what I’ll politely call a state of disarray since last fall, as well as being chronically understaffed and overburdened. Agencies such as mine take up the slack.”

  “Who was assigned to the Aguilar investigation, Ms. McCone?”

  He knew that; it would have been detailed in Aguilar’s complaint. So why was he asking?

  If I weren’t cynical, I’d say it’s to verify the facts. But I am cynical, so I’ll say it’s because he thinks taking an aggressive stance will give him power over me.

  I said, “Julia Rafael handled it. My only Spanish-speaking operative. I assume you’re here in response to a complaint from Supervisor Aguilar. And I assume you’re aware that Ms. Rafael has been arrested.”

  Now the hint of meanness around Baylis’s mouth grew more pronounced. He curled his lip, revealing unnaturally white and even teeth.

  “That’s true, Ms. McCone,” he said. “Mr. Aguilar has lodged a complaint with my department—against you, as Ms. Rafael’s employer.”

  A chill settled on my shoulders. I folded my hands on the desk and said as coolly as I could manage, “Ms. Rafael has denied Mr. Aguilar’s allegations. Because of the timing of her arrest, we won’t know if the district attorney intends to go forward with the case until this afternoon.”

  “Has she been released on bail?”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “You’ll have to consult with her attorney on that. Glenn Solomon, of Solomon and Associates.” I handed him one of Glenn’s cards, which I kept in a wooden box on the desk.

  Baylis’s eyebrows raised a fraction; obviously he knew Glenn by reputation. “Perhaps after she’s arraigned we could meet so I could hear her side of the story?”

  “Of course. I’m as anxious as you must be to clear up this false allegation.”

  “And perhaps you could provide me with a copy of her case file and report?”

  I nodded and buzzed Ted, asked him to print them. When I stood to show Baylis out, he said, “That’s all right, Ms. McCone. I know the way.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Glenn said. “This complaint to the DCA worsens the situation.”

  “I gather it isn’t the type of problem you care to handle. Any suggestions as to someone who might represent me?”

  “The person I think you want is Marguerite Hayley—Maggie, for short. Extremely sharp woman, specializes in this area. Degrees from Berkeley and Yale, taught for a while at Boalt Hall. She doesn’t work cheap, but she gets the job done.”

  “She’s here in the city?”

  “Tiburon. Why don’t I put in a call to her, get the ball rolling.”

  After considering my options for a few minutes, I buzzed Ted and asked him to set up another agency meeting for that afternoon. “Check everyone’s schedule, and try to find a time when they can all attend. And until then, don’t mention Todd Baylis’s visit to anyone.” My employees deserved to know what was going on, but it was better presented to the whole group at the same time, in a straightforward manner, rather than having them hear it by word of mouth.

  “Will do.” Ted’s tone was curt.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How long have we worked together in one capacity or another, Shar?”

  “Eons.”

  “And whe
n was the last time you knew me to gossip about sensitive material?”

  “Never.”

  “Then why do you feel compelled to warn me against it now?”

  “. . . I don’t know.”

  “Could it be that your distrust of Julia has spread to the rest of us?”

  “Ted, no. But this is a really bad time; I’m trying to handle a type of situation I’ve never encountered before. Never thought I would encounter. I guess I’m doing it badly. If I implied—”

  “That’s okay, so long as you don’t imply anything like that to the others.”

  “I would never—”

  “Look, Shar, you’re talking to the grand poobah here.” The title he’d created when I’d promoted him and upped his salary last year. “One of the items on the job description I’ve concocted for myself is to help you keep things in perspective. Be the in-house psychologist to the often stressed-out boss. Truth is, when one trusted person lets you down, you may have a tendency to expect the worst of others. I’m cautioning you, is all. So say thank you, and let me get on with setting up this meeting.”

  “Thank you and please get on with it.”

  No wonder I loved and valued Ted.

  After I replaced the receiver, I got up and paced—from the desk to the window and back to the desk. I’d been spending too damn much time in the office lately, mired in reports and fiscal matters and personnel issues. But those things weren’t what had drawn me to the business; field work and the chase had. I needed to get out of here, take action. But what?

  The phone buzzed. Ted said, “An Elena Oliverez on line two.”

  Who . . . ? Oh, yes, the woman whom I’d helped uncrate the ceramic figures at the Mexican Museum on Saturday.

  “How did your opening go?” I asked her after we’d exchanged greetings.

  “Very well. I met your Mr. Aguilar. He’s quite attractive, in a scruffy way. Charismatic, too.”

  “Were you able to learn anything about the fraud case?”

  “It wasn’t the time to bring it up. I did mention it to a couple of the museum employees, though, and they knew nothing more than what appeared in the newspaper. However, I did hear some interesting information. Mr. Aguilar has been out of sorts for about a month: extremely nervous and short-tempered. One of the other directors mentioned an outburst at a board meeting.”

  “Over . . . ?”

  “Nothing in particular, just a sharp exchange of words with one of the members. I’m well acquainted with such incidents, from sitting on my own museum’s board.”

  “When was this?”

  “A month ago. Could his short temper be related to the fraud case?”

  “I doubt it. A month ago he didn’t even know his credit card was out of his possession.”

  “Well, he didn’t seem stressed last night, and he left this morning on a trip to Mexico and Central America. A buying trip for a business he owns.”

  The import shop in Ghirardelli Square. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I could find out.”

  “I really appreciate this, Elena. And, as thanks, I’d like to take you to lunch before you leave town.”

  “I’d like that, too, but I’ll have to take a rain check until I return next month to dismantle the exhibit. I’m flying home to Santa Barbara this afternoon. Our daughter is driving my husband crazy. It’s not that Arturo’s an inept father; Gaby’s a real handful. Exactly as my sister and I were, only my mother—Gabriela, my daughter’s named after her—had to cope all alone. Anyway, I’ll call you before I come back up. I’d like to talk with you about your work; I’ve had . . . some experience with crime myself.”

  And, having imparted that tantalizing bit of information, Oliverez ended the call.

  Another bit of interesting information: Alex Aguilar was out of town. Meaning that if I visited Trabajo por Todos, I wouldn’t run the risk of encountering him.

  As I drove along Mission Street toward the job-training center, my eyes were assaulted by a riot of color. Red, white, and green Mexican flags fluttered in the wind outside a bakery. Pink, saffron, and turquoise mobiles twirled lazily in front of an Asian market. Artichokes, oranges, avocados, grapefruits, and limes were heaped in the outdoor bins. A black lowrider was painted with brilliant flames. A woman strolled along wearing a purple and green sari. Several walls were painted with intricate multihued ethnic murals. Sound blasted my ears: salsa and rap music, honking horns, shouts, and the shrieking brakes of a Muni bus. The air was thick with the smell of frying tortillas, exotic spices, sesame oil, curry, and good old American grease. When I stopped for the light at Seventeenth Street, I saw a red, yellow, and blue cloth parrot fall from above, its wings fluttering. It bounced off a parking meter and landed on the sidewalk. When I looked up, I spotted the laughing brown face of a little girl at a third-story window.

  In the late 1800s the Mission became a way station for the waves of immigrants inundating the city. Newly arrived Irish, Germans, and Italians settled there, creating a solid working-class neighborhood. Then, in the 1930s, came the Latin Americans—a flood tide that reached its peak in the ’50s—and for decades the district was predominately Hispanic. Now yet another ethnic transition is taking place as Asians, blacks, and caucasians move in. The result is a melting pot in the truest sense of the word. The area has its problems—gentrification that threatens to displace longtime residents, drugs, crime, homelessness, and lack of funding for critical services—but it’s also a place where ground for community gardens is broken, where colorful street fairs celebrate diversity, where clubs and restaurants and boutiques take hold and siphon off money from more advantaged parts of the Bay Area. Many years ago I lived near the heart of the Mission, and I’m not all that far from it now; it was an interesting place back then, but today it is positively vibrant.

  Of course, you still can’t find a parking space. . . .

  I circled the block where the center was located, cruised along Capp Street. No spaces, but a chain-link fence opened onto a small parking lot, and I saw a sign for Trabajo por Todos posted on a rear entrance. I pulled in and wedged my MG into a narrow space between two monster SUVs.

  Concrete stairs led up to the entrance, which was unlocked. Inside I heard the chatter of female voices. I walked along an industrial-carpeted hallway, glanced through a door from which the voices came. Women—at least fifty of them—sat at long tables, their sewing machines’ clacking and whirring competing with their conversation. A garment-manufacturing company, but not a sweatshop; years before, I’d investigated abuses in one of the latter, and I could tell the difference. These workers looked happy and productive, and were probably unionized and well compensated.

  A sign beside the elevator indicated that the job-training center was located on the second floor. I opted for the stairs. I hadn’t been able to swim at my health club as often as I would’ve liked recently, so I took my exercise when and where I could.

  A series of arrows painted on the pale green walls directed me through labyrinthine hallways, past closed doors where no light shone behind the pebbled glass windows. No surprise: much of the office space in the city was vacant these days, especially in areas considered marginal. Finally, at the end of the last hallway, a set of double doors opened into the center’s headquarters.

  The kid at the desk in the small reception area had lime green hair and multiple facial piercings. So much for bringing the occupationally disadvantaged into the mainstream. I was reminded of my half brother, Darcy Blackhawk, who had had purple hair and piercings when I met him, but had recently removed the hardware and dyed his hair back to its original black in an attempt to reconnect with his Shoshone roots. Personally, I doubted that Darcy, a former substance abuser, would ever reconnect with much of anything; he lived in a world of his own manufacture—a safe haven from the demons that plagued him in this one.

  “Help you?” the receptionist said.

  “I hope so. I’m a freelance writer, and I’m interested in doing an art
icle on your organization. Is there someone I could talk with?”

  “That would be my dad, Gene Santamaria. I’ll see if he’s available.” He picked up the phone, spoke into the receiver, set it down. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. Please have a seat.”

  So much for first impressions. Santamaria’s son was cordial and efficient enough to impress even Ted.

  I sat on a metal folding chair and studied the notices posted on the bulletin board across from me. They were mostly in Spanish, advertising—as much as my rusty language skills would permit me to make out—everything from a fiesta of food and dance to a battered-women’s shelter. The door behind the reception desk stood open, and from inside came the sound of laughter, a baby crying, and a strident voice that could only be an aerobics instructor’s.

  It was five minutes before a big bald man with a swooping mustache that reminded me of Hy’s stepped through the door. He glanced at the receptionist, who nodded toward me, then came forward, extending his hand. “Gene Santamaria, program coordinator. And you are?”

  I rose and took his hand, coming up with my half sister’s name because I’d been thinking of Darcy. “Robin Blackhawk, struggling freelance writer.” Actually, Robin Blackhawk was a law student who planned to transfer from the University of Idaho to Berkeley in September.

  Santamaria let go of my hand and stepped back, appraising me and raising his bushy eyebrows. “Struggling? I didn’t think struggling writers dressed with such style.”

  I’d worn my Donna Karan suit today because I had an appointment with an important client that afternoon. It was a two-year-old outfit that still seemed like an extravagance, but one which, Ted assured me, presented the proper image for the owner of a successful and growing agency.

  God, sometimes I longed for the days when all I wore were jeans!

  I said to Gene Santamaria, “Don’t let my style fool you—this suit is left over from when I was a dot-commer.”

  “Ah, yet another casualty of this hideous economy.”

  “Yes, but it’s enabled me to get back to the things I really care about. Writing, and publicizing those who deserve it. Such as your job-training program.”