The Dangerous Hour

by Marcia Muller

  “And after I read your report, I gave it to the head of Atwater. He fired them both. So what’s the connection to Aguilar?”

  “Escobar now runs the language lab at Trabajo por Todos, and was romantically linked to Aguilar last fall, before he met Julia.”

  “Revenge might be a motive there, but if he’s no longer seeing Escobar . . .”

  Craig said, “It turns out Aguilar did go to Central America. He’s in Guatemala City as we speak, and his traveling companion is Tracy Escobar.”

  “Well, keep working on it,” I told Charlotte.

  “But wait, there’s more!” When she let loose with one of her throaty giggles, I realized she was parodying those TV commercials where sellers entice viewers to phone in and buy merchandise with the promise of additional free goodies.

  “It had better not be a Salad Shooter,” I warned.

  “Nope, it’s a deadbeat dad I tracked down last month. He’s had his wages garnished to the point where he’ll be eating Tuna Helper with cat food till he’s of retirement age. His name is Patrick Neilan—”

  “And he lives in Aguilar’s apartment building.” Neilan had bad-mouthed the supervisor to me. Did he genuinely dislike him, or had he recognized the agency’s name and tried to throw me off by distancing himself?

  Charlotte said, “You want me to talk to him?”

  “No, I’ll pay a personal visit to Mr. Neilan.”

  Patrick Neilan’s garage door was raised, and his broken-down Ford Falcon still sat with the hood up, in the same state of disrepair as when I’d last seen it. I rang the bell of his apartment and, after half a minute, received an answering buzz.

  The apartment was at the front of the second floor, over the garage space: one small room, a bath, and a kitchen. Neilan had fashioned a sleeping alcove in a narrow hallway between the kitchen and the bath; he had to step on the mattress in order to fetch us coffee. The other furnishings had come either with the unit or from a thrift shop; aside from a couple of snapshots of two small children attached to the refrigerator by magnets, there were no pictures, no knickknacks—nothing that spoke of the man who lived there.

  He saw me looking around and shrugged, his wide mouth pulling down. “It’s a place to sleep, not home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “About half a mile away. My family settled in the Mission after the oh-six quake, never even thought of leaving. My father’s a cop, his father before him, all three of my brothers. Even my sisters married cops.” He shook his head. “Me, I had bigger ideas, so I went to Golden Gate University, got a business degree, met my wife there. We had two kids right away, I was working a day job at a small accounting firm, and another at night—security. Doesn’t give you much time for the things that matter.”

  I knew about those nights working security; it was how I’d put myself through UC Berkeley—having little social life, even less sleep, but finding time to study during the long midnight hours.

  “I’ve been there,” I said.

  “Well, you can probably guess the rest of the story, then. I’m gone day and night. The wife is working at an insurance agency. Her boss is single, makes good money, and next thing I know, she’s out the door. But she’s not really gone, because there’s the child support.”

  Neilan’s blue eyes grew dull, and he ran a hand through his already tousled red curls. “I tried to make the support payments on time, but I lost my day job, and the security firm cut way back on my hours. I love my kids, but what can I do? I’ve gotta live, don’t I? After I missed a couple of months, the ex cut me off from seeing the kids. I moved to this dump to save money and forgot to give her the new address. She isn’t speaking to anybody in my family, so she hired detectives to track me down. Why she needed them, I don’t know; I’m not more than ten blocks from our old apartment. Anyway, she got a judgment against me, and now my wages’re garnished down to practically nothing. I can’t pay my rent, so next month, streets, here I come.”

  A familiar saga of the working poor, and my firm was responsible for it.

  Neilan appeared to be thinking about what he’d told me. “Ah, hell,” he said, “you shouldn’t have to listen to this. I’m even sick of listening to it.”

  I liked Neilan, and certainly couldn’t see him as a man who would help Alex Aguilar frame Julia. Besides, I felt bad about my agency’s role in his financial downfall.

  “Patrick,” I said, “do you remember the name of the detective firm your wife hired to track you down?”

  “Not offhand. Mc-something. Wait a minute! That was you?”

  “One of my employees, yes.”

  “Jesus.” He shook his head, frowning. “Stuff like that—how can you sleep at night?”

  Good question, but so often I didn’t see the end results of the cases I contracted for. “Look,” I said, “maybe I can make it up to you.”

  “Don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Just give me a minute. D’you think you’re a good security man?”

  He considered, eyes moving thoughtfully. I liked it that he took time before answering.

  “I’m not bad,” he said. “I can read people, and I’m observant; I’m quick at picking up on little things that don’t seem right. I put details together in a way that the other people who work with me don’t. Why?”

  “That’s how I was when I worked in security. My supervisor noticed it and recommended that I be trained as an investigator. How about if I test your aptitude for investigation while you pick up some extra money? I’m not promising anything, but depending on your performance, we might be able to talk about a trainee position with my agency.”

  Surprise and pleasure transformed his freckled face. “I could go for that. What d’you want me to do?”

  “It concerns the building’s other tenants, particularly Alex Aguilar.”

  Ghirardelli Square sits on the lower slope of Russian Hill, a stone’s throw from Fisherman’s Wharf. The red-brick complex, which used to house a chocolate factory, a woolen mill, and other enterprises, was refurbished in the 1960s as space for specialty boutiques and restaurants, and incorporates large, attractive outdoor areas. Los Colores, Alex Aguilar’s shop, was off the main courtyard on the north side of the complex—a pricey location.

  I spotted the shop when I reached the top of the stairway from Beach Street, and moved toward it, giving wide berth to a white-faced mime who was entertaining a group of tourists. If the truth be known, I’m terrified of mimes; for some reason they zero in on me, and countless times their antics have humiliated me in front of total strangers. An understandable aversion, perhaps, but I’m also terrified of bagpipers, and not a one has done anything more to me than insult my eardrums. Go figure.

  The windows of Aguilar’s shop were decorated with a display of colorful weavings that swayed and fluttered in a breeze from the open door. Inside I encountered a four-foot-tall wooden plant with large leaves in various shades of green and with yellow fruit on long stalks; it was a moment before I noticed the snake that rested in an undulant pose amid the foliage, red tongue extended evilly. I touched one of the leaves, and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Behind the plant, someone laughed. I peered through its branches and saw a young Hispanic woman with upswept hair and long silver earrings. She said, “That’s the fourth time it’s happened today. The plant fits together with pegs, and they come loose.”

  I retrieved the leaf from the floor and took it around to her. “I’m glad I’m not the only clumsy one.”

  She set it on a glass display case containing jewelry. “No harm done. Look around; let me know if I can help you with anything.”

  I moved about the space, browsing. The goods were interesting: exotic clothing, carvings, colorful wooden boxes, paintings with an iridescent quality that resembled stained glass. I’d have to tell Ted about the rack of brilliantly dyed handwoven vests; his new fashion statement was tending toward the south-of-the-border look.

  On the surface, at least, Los
Colores appeared to be a legitimate operation—Derek’s assessment when I’d phoned the agency before I drove over here. His Internet search had shown nothing about Aguilar’s business that could be construed as illegitimate: after three years, the shop was turning a tidy profit; it had an excellent credit rating and belonged to all the right retailers’ associations.

  I moved to the glass case, examined the jewelry. A pair of hammered copper earrings caught my eye, and I asked the woman if I could see them. Three hundred fifty dollars. Well, of course. Aguilar would have to charge high prices to make the rent. I was about to hand them back to her when someone came through the door behind me and a familiar voice said, “Maria, do you know where I can reach Alex? It’s an emergency.”

  I turned. Harriet Leonard stepped around the wooden plant. When she saw me, she whirled and headed back outside.

  I set the earrings on the counter and followed. Leonard was moving swiftly across the courtyard. She looked back, then speeded up, nearly crashing into an old man with a walker. I started to run as she disappeared down the stairway that led to Beach Street.

  The mime whom I’d seen earlier began running along at my right, his movements aping mine.

  Jesus Christ, not this again!

  “Go away!” I shouted.

  He mimicked the motions of my mouth.

  “Asshole!”

  More mouth motions. People flocked behind us, laughing.

  All right for you!

  The stairway was a couple of yards away. I feinted to the left, speeding up. Darted to the right, grabbed the handrail, and started down.

  Behind me I heard a grunt as the mime smacked into the wall at the top of the stairs.

  Next time you’ll know better than to mess with me, buddy.

  Of course, by the time I reached street level, Leonard was gone, and I felt guilty about the mime. What if he’d been hurt? Lately I’d felt all sorts of urges to retaliate against people who annoyed me—which they seemed to do with increasing frequency—but I’d acted on few of them, and never done bodily harm.

  What was wrong with me, anyway?

  Chalk it up to the times. People dying needlessly both here and overseas; entire countries being laid to waste; a once- robust economy in the tank; tax cuts for the rich, while our educational and health care systems foundered; an overall in-your-face, “I got mine, so fuck you” attitude—it was enough to reduce the most even-tempered individual to sheer rage.

  No, my attitude wasn’t extreme, only misdirected.

  I headed for my car, looked at my watch. Three-thirty. Hy’s ETA at Oakland Airport’s North Field was five. It would take him forty minutes or so to tie down Two-Seven-Tango and catch a ride with one of the many people he knew at the field, to the place nearby where he garaged his decrepit Morgan. If the car started—and during the past year it hadn’t been too reliable in that department—he’d be at my house by six-thirty.

  I could try to track down Harriet Leonard, but given my lack of a phone number or address for her, that might be a time-consuming proposition. And I’d earlier promised Adah I’d stop by her place to discuss what I knew about Johnny Duarte. In the interests of staying on my friend’s good side, I turned the MG toward the Marina district.

  The roses around the fountain in the courtyard of Adah and Craig’s Spanish-style apartment building on North Point Street were blooming in profusion this year. I went over and smelled a coral one whose scent was particularly exotic, before I climbed the private stairway to their second-floor unit. When Adah let me inside, her big white cat waddled out from under the coffee table and sank his fangs into my ankle.

  “Charley! What the hell? Stop it!” I shook him off and glared at his owner.

  Adah, looking relaxed in running shorts and a tee, rolled her eyes and clapped her hands at the cat. He retreated to the bedroom. “Sorry about that,” she said. “He’s pissed at the world.”

  “Why?”

  “Vet told us he’s ‘officially obese’ for the second year in a row. We’ve got him on short rations.”

  “I suppose that’s better than having to stick him with a needle twice a day, like Ralph.”

  “I don’t know. When he’s in this kind of mood, I think I’d enjoy jabbing him.” Adah led me to the kitchen, poured us wine, and we took our glasses to the deck that overlooked the communal vegetable garden the tenants had planted in the narrow space between the building’s wall and the back fence.

  “Johnny Duarte,” she said when we were settled. “What d’you know about him?”

  I detailed my contact with Duarte, ending with Harriet Leonard’s flight from the shop in Ghirardelli Square.

  Frown lines appeared between Adah’s eyebrows. “This Harriet Leonard’s beginning to interest me. San Mateo County picked up her name as a friend of Duarte’s from a news broadcast, asked me to question her. She lives a couple of doors down the street from his condo, in a rental property he owned. I went over there after lunch, and although she denied it, I could’ve sworn she was packing for a trip.”

  “You find out anything from her?”

  “Not much. She told me about him phoning her and asking her to give you the note canceling your date. Didn’t say anything about him sounding scared. Friday night she went back to the condo to see if Duarte had returned, and a reporter showed up, so she gave him the interview. I asked about her relationship with Duarte; she said they were good friends. Seemed more nervous than upset about his death, though, and kept looking at her watch.”

  “So you . . . ?”

  “Passed on the information to San Mateo County, asked if they wanted me to order a surveillance. They were less than impressed with the nuances I’d picked up on, and said no. So I called it a day. Not my jurisdiction. I’ve got enough problems on the job without taking on theirs.”

  I—and everyone else who kept up with the news—was fully cognizant of those problems. Like any major city’s police department, the SFPD had always had its organizational and political difficulties, but the previous November, following an incident now labeled as “Fajitagate,” all hell had broken loose. Three off-duty police officers, including the son of the deputy chief, had allegedly accosted two men outside a bar and grill on Union Street, demanding they hand over a take-out bag of steak fajitas. When they refused, a fight broke out, the officers fled, and one of the men called the police.

  The incident spawned accusations by the district attorney’s office that the department had covered up the off-duty officers’ misconduct, and eventually resulted in multiple grand jury indictments of officers all the way up the chain of command—including the chief of police. The chief, who was close to retirement, took medical leave; when most of the indictments were later quashed, the mayor named the deputy chief—father of one of the accused—acting chief. In time, the son was let go for administrative reasons, but the damage had been done, and a recent report on an unrelated incident, alleging that a police captain had ordered a subordinate’s name withheld as a potential suspect in a kidnapping, had only worsened the situation. Morale within the department, seldom high in recent years, was now at an all-time low.

  I asked Adah, “How are things down at the Hall?”

  “They’ve been better.” A loyal cop, she steered the conversation away from the controversial subject. “So Leonard wanted to get hold of Aguilar, and panicked when she saw you. Why, d’you suppose?”

  “Why did she panic, or why did she want to get hold of him?”

  “Both.”

  “I think she wanted to get hold of him to warn him about Duarte’s death. Her behavior tells me that Aguilar may have been doing business with him out of that shop.”

  “Drug business.”

  “Right. Everything my new hire, Derek Ford, has been able to learn about the operation points to it being legitimate, but Aguilar does make frequent buying trips to Central and South America. He could be importing drugs as well as merchandise.”

  “Well, that would bring the supervisor down,
now, wouldn’t it? And end Ms. Leonard’s ‘career.’ No wonder she was scared of you. She’s probably found out who you are, suspects you’re investigating him.”

  “I was going to try to locate her, but from what you tell me, she’s probably long gone by now.”

  Adah nodded, frowning again. “You know, here’s Aguilar, the product of a family dedicated to community service. He makes a slip in college, does some dealing. But finally that’s behind him; he’s on track again with the job-training center, charitable activities, board of supes, and potential mayoral candidacy. Why would he team up with Duarte again?”

  “Pressure. Duarte knew about his past.”

  “Okay, if Aguilar is doing business with Duarte, why would he call attention to himself with these false accusations against Julia?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s what you better find out, girl. That is very definitely it.”

  When I arrived home, I found Hy’s long, lanky body sprawled out on a chaise longue on the deck. Ralph lay draped over his feet. The cat had wanted nothing to do with me since the insulin-shot fiasco on Sunday, and his haughty expression when he looked up conveyed that he had found someone far better to associate with.

  Hy said, “There you are. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to spend my whole evening with this creature. Michelle came over to give him his shot, told me about his diabetes.” He shifted his legs, and Ralph slid down and slunk into the house.

  I leaned over to give Hy a kiss, then sat on the chaise next to his. “D’you believe it? A cat with diabetes?”

  “I’d believe anything these days.” He looked and sounded tired; even though his stay at the ranch was supposed to be a vacation, I was sure he’d spent a good deal of it fielding phone calls from RKI’s clients and operatives around the globe.

  “So what’s the crisis at the agency you need to talk about?” he asked.