The Dangerous Hour

by Marcia Muller

  “Will do. How’s the investigation coming?”

  “I won’t have a good handle on that till the staff meeting this afternoon. And yet . . .”

  “Yet what?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to get his hopes up. After all, it was just a feeling. But my feelings had usually stood me in good stead, and what I sensed now was that we were very close to a major break in the case.

  “No trace of Dan Jeffers so far,” Craig said, standing in the door of my office. “He’s not driving that old van anymore—at least it wasn’t reregistered when it was due in May, and there’s no certificate of planned nonoperation or record of a sale on it. I know the highway patrol’s been cracking down on people without current tags.”

  “He could’ve sold it, and the new owner hasn’t gotten around to notifying the DMV.”

  “Lots of possibilities, I suppose, but there’s the obvious.”

  “Meaning Jeffers has been killed by the person he saw at Olompali? Well, why don’t you pursue that angle?”

  “I’m already on it.”

  I picked up the phone, buzzed Charlotte. “Anything on Tracy Escobar?”

  “A lot of background information, but nothing that seems relevant. Neighbors at her building say she stopped seeing Aguilar late last year, took up with him again late in June.”

  “After this credit-card business was set in motion. Revenge motive but wrong timing. For now, you’d better get back to your regular caseload.”

  “Okay.” She sounded relieved. I understood why: earlier I’d reviewed my assignment log and found that Charlotte easily had the largest number of open files.

  I set about doing my day’s paperwork, and the morning sped by. My stomach was growling emphatically when I looked up and saw Hy standing in the doorway. His hazel eyes were shining in a manner usually reserved for fine aircraft.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  I got up and followed him down the stairway to the floor of the pier. A silver-blue classic Ford Mustang with a white convertible top sat next to my MG.

  Hy gestured at it. “Mine.”

  “Beautiful! But I thought you were going to buy a secondhand truck, and use a company car when you need a classier vehicle.”

  “That was the plan, but when I went down to the auto dealerships near Serramonte, this baby was sitting on one of the lots, just begging for me to buy her.”

  I walked around the car, studying it. It was in mint condition. “Well, how could you resist? What year is it?”

  “Sixty-six. Fully rebuilt engine, new upholstery, new ragtop. Want to take a spin?”

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “McCone, you’re all stressed out. You need to be good to yourself. I’ll treat you to lunch at that Singaporean place on Geary that you like so much. Besides, I want to talk with you; I’ve come up with an idea about this frame.”

  “You’ve had a busy morning—a new car and an idea.”

  “That’s me—a regular dynamo.”

  We were sitting at a window table in the Straits Cafe, waiting for our samosas and sashimi salad, when he laid out his idea for me.

  “Remember that time before we met, when you went up to the Delta to investigate some trouble your sister and her husband were having with their B and B?”

  “Yes. Appleby Island.”

  “And when we did meet, you were at Tufa Lake, on loan from All Souls to Anne-Marie, who was temporary counsel for the Coalition for Environmental Preservation. Then, when I went missing down in Mexico, you cut loose of the co-op and came looking for me.”

  “So what’re you getting at, Ripinsky?”

  “You’ve always taken on cases that weren’t officially All Souls’ or the agency’s business. You ever consider that this harassment might stem from one of them?”

  No, I hadn’t. I’d been too focused on official files. “You may be onto something here.”

  “Okay, did you make notes on those investigations? Keep any records?”

  “No.”

  “But you remember them.”

  “The significant ones, yes. But what’s significant to me and what’s significant to whoever’s out to get me might be very different things.”

  “Well, let’s go over them anyway. Start with the case in the Delta.”

  “It was a harassment situation, and the perp died accidentally.”

  “And we know about Mono County and Mexico. No possible threat from anyone connected with either.” Our food came, and he refrained from speaking until the waiter had departed. “What about when you were searching for your birth parents? Step on any toes then?”

  “Well, Jimmy D. Bearpaw didn’t like me much, but it wasn’t really personal. Besides, he’s not smart enough to mastermind anything this complex. The technology would be totally beyond him.”

  Hy grinned wryly. He’d met Bearpaw, owner of a greasy spoon in Modoc County, who fancied himself a restaurateur and wit of the highest order. “Tell you what, McCone. Tonight we’ll draw up a list and then brainstorm. Take you down memory lane, so to speak, until we’ve covered every possibility. Until then, bon appetit.”

  Daphne Ashford’s studio was in a storefront on Stanyan Street across from the northern end of Golden Gate Park, where she and her husband, Charlie, had operated a print shop until it was edged out by national chains and computerization. Charlie, a commercial photographer who was currently in great demand, occupied the floor above. When I arrived at two that afternoon with Angela Batista, Daphne’s eyes quickly cataloged her facial injuries, but in a manner that Batista could scarcely have noticed. Then she served us tea and got us settled beside her oversize monitor.

  Daphne, I reflected, was the perfect person to handle a sensitive interview like this. An artistocratic-looking blonde with manners to match, she was extremely tactful and could put the most uncomfortable individual at ease. As she began the session by explaining the process to Batista, I found my own stress level dropping.

  “The first aspect of the person’s appearance that we’ll be concerned with is facial shape.” She clicked on an icon, chose an option. “These are the standard shapes, but after you select the closest match, we’ll refine it.”

  Batista studied the various choices, indicated an oval.

  Daphne clicked on the oval prototype. “Now, what’s wrong with this picture?”

  “. . . The chin. His is longer.”

  “Like this?”

  “No, more . . .”

  “Like this.”

  “Yes, but his face, it pooches out here and here.”

  “Around the cheekbones. Are there hollows underneath?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his skin tone? Pale? Medium? Dark?”

  “Dark.”

  “This dark?”

  “Darker.”

  “Good. Next, the hair.”

  “Black.”

  “And its length?”

  “Short. Very short. Like a marine wears it.”

  “This way?”

  “Yes.” Batista was leaning forward in her chair, fascinated with the picture that was emerging.

  “Okay, now the eyes. Shape?”

  “They remind me of those nuts . . . almonds.”

  “Very good. Color?”

  “Dark brown.”

  “This dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now the nose. How’s it shaped?”

  “Long.”

  “Thin? Wide?”

  “Thin, with a little hook.”

  “This way?”

  “Yes. And maybe it was broken once.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A bump in the middle. Here.” Batista indicated a place on her own broken nose.

  “Good.” Daphne showed her different examples until she chose one that was the right size and shape. “Now his mouth.”

  “Thin. Very thin.”

  “Like this?”

  “Smaller. Yes—that’s it.”

  “Ears?”

/>   “Big, but flat against his head.”

  “Facial hair?”

  “None.”

  “Marks on his face? Moles? Pockmarks? Scars?”

  Batista hesitated. “A scar. No, two or three.”

  “On his forehead? His cheeks?”

  “Forehead, yes. Cheeks? There, too. Knife scars, or they could have been from acne. I don’t know.” Batista pressed her hand to her eyes. She was tiring, and the pain medication that she’d taken shortly before we left the RKI apartment was probably wearing off.

  Daphne said, “You’re doing really well. Don’t worry about not remembering small details. The scar on the forehead—was it straight, jagged?”

  “. . . Jagged.”

  “Horizontal? Vertical?”

  “. . . Horizontal.”

  “Like this?”

  “No, more on an angle.”

  “To the left? The right?”

  Batista shook her head. “I’m sorry, I cannot—”

  “That’s okay. Show me where the marks on the cheeks are.”

  Batista indicated one place on the right cheek, two on the left.

  Daphne asked, “Is there anything else you remember about his appearance?”

  “There . . . there is something wrong with one of his hands.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t picture it. Just . . . something wrong.”

  “Which hand? Right? Left?”

  “I can’t recall.” Batista slumped in the chair, clearly exhausted.

  Daphne looked at me, and I nodded to indicate we should end the session. She hit the print icon and swiveled away from the workstation. “You did really well, Ms. Batista. Can I get you some more tea, some cookies, perhaps?”

  Batista glanced at her tea, which she hadn’t touched. “No, no thank you. I would like to use the restroom, and”—this to me—“maybe I can go back to the apartment?”

  “Of course.”

  After Daphne had shown Batista to the restroom, she returned and handed me the composite sketch. “Will this help you?”

  “Some. He looks vaguely familiar, but then, he’s a type. He could be any one of the informants I’ve used in the Mission. And I’m not sure how reliable a witness Angela is. The guy beat her up, and trauma can affect memory and perception. There are two other people I’d like you to put through the process who may remember him more accurately.”

  “When’re you bringing them by?”

  “One at five this afternoon, if that’s okay. And another some time tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’ll be here. Actually, I’m excited about this. You’ve opened my eyes to a whole new service I can offer—plus, you’ve distracted me from my need to clean the flat.”

  At five o’clock I brought Vanessa Lu to the studio. The preschool teacher added significant detail to the image of R. D.: the shape of the two scars on his right cheek, and a small tattoo of a spider on his neck. She said he also had tattoos on his forearms, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to him to identify what they represented.

  After leaving Daphne’s I dropped Lu off at home and went back to the pier. The agency staff meeting that afternoon had been largely unproductive, and I’d pulled everyone but Mick off the investigation so they would contend with their other assignments. Mick had wrapped up his inquiry into the circumstances under which Aguilar had fired his aide—he’d been accused of sexual harassment by a fellow staff member but had landed a better job in Seattle—and told me he’d be at home, working all night on tracing R. D., if necessary.

  Hy had been called away to a meeting at RKI’s world headquarters in La Jolla that afternoon, so our brainstorming session was off. I immersed myself in the rest of the day’s paperwork, reluctant to return to an empty house and at least one surly cat. During recent years, I’d experienced greater and greater pangs of loneliness when Hy departed on one of his business trips or went alone to his ranch or our Mendocino County seaside retreat. Maybe it was time . . .

  He’ll still be going off on trips. He’ll still need solitary time at the ranch or the coast. And so will you.

  But somehow it would be different. We would have made a . . .

  Commitment.

  I hate that word.

  Well, maybe not hate. Maybe fear.

  It’s such a risk, and I’m not sure I can afford that big a one.

  Tuesday

  JULY 22

  “Shar,” Ted said, “you remember Alison James.” To my blank look he added, “She worked here for a while last month, and she’ll be helping out again this week.”

  Alison had white-blond hair, sharp features, and was so short and slender that a stiff wind off the bay would have blown her halfway to Daly City. She didn’t look at all familiar. So many of Ted’s prospective assistants had passed through the offices during his search for the paragon of the paper clips that I hadn’t noticed this woman.

  I mumbled, “Of course,” shook her fragile-looking hand, then turned to my office manager and snapped, “I thought you understood about the hiring freeze.” I hadn’t slept well in my empty bed the night before, and my voice reflected my generally bad disposition.

  Ted frowned at me. “I said, this week. Alison’s here on a temporary basis, to help me organize those files for the DCA investigator, as well as with cleaning the supply room.” He smiled at her and, in what I supposed was an attempt to salvage the situation, added, “She’s already proven herself invaluable. Come see what she found.”

  Ashamed of my surliness, I followed him into the supply room, where he showed me a file box labeled with dates from the year before we’d moved to the pier, when I’d still rented space in All Souls’ Bernal Heights Victorian.

  “Where was this?” I asked.

  “Back of the closet, in with the outdated supplies like typewriter ribbons and carbon-paper sets. It must’ve been put there by mistake when we moved. I showed it to Mick, and he said he never got around to transferring those particular case files onto the computer. Maybe one of them will help you with this current investigation.”

  Alison had come into the room behind us. I turned to her and said, “Good work! Ted’s told you about the problems we’re having with the Department of Consumer Affairs?”

  She nodded, looking nervous, hands clasped behind her. God, had I intimidated her that much with my snappishness? If so, she was not going to have a good week here.

  I added, “I’m sorry I was rude before. I’m sure you’ll be a great help to all of us.”

  “Thank you.” To Ted she said, “I’ll start printing out those files now.”

  After she fled the room, I said to him, “She seems efficient, if a trifle timid.”

  “Anybody’d be timid, the way you growled.”

  “I apologized, didn’t I?”

  Ted surveyed me sternly, then relented. “Okay, I had my doubts about her before, and I still do. She doesn’t have a detectable sense of humor, and to survive around this place, that’s a necessity. But what the hell am I supposed to do? I need somebody to help out.”

  “Well, let’s not judge her yet. We can’t afford to keep her for more than the week, anyway. What temp agency is she from?”

  “None. She sent in her résumé in response to the ad I’ve been running in the Chron, and it looked good, so I asked her to come in last month on a trial basis. I can’t believe you don’t remember her.”

  “She probably hid every time she saw me coming.”

  “A wise move. Anyway, yesterday she made a follow-up call to see if the job had been filled, and I decided to give her another chance.” His dark eyebrows drew together. “Shar, if money’s that much of an issue, I’ll pay her salary, and you can reimburse me later.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The wolf’s not at the door—yet. And the answer to our problems may very well lie in that file box. You want to haul it to my office for me?”

  “Sure.” He picked it up, balanced it on his shoulder, and we set off along the catwalk.
>
  Dust and a faint smell of mildew rose from the box when I opened it. I leafed through the folders, noting the names on the labels, then began skimming them, bypassing the cases I clearly remembered. Again I was vaguely depressed by the ordinariness of their contents: a property-line dispute during which one neighbor repeatedly removed the surveyors’ sticks and then claimed kids must have taken them; a battle between a landlord and a tenant, in which the tenant had moved to a new apartment, then attempted to hold up the landlord for thousands of dollars to relocate; a barking-dog episode that resulted in harassment on both sides and brought out the worst in all parties connected with it—including me.

  And then my hand stopped at a file midway through the box: Winslip, Bryce and Mari.

  Friends of my brother John. I’d taken on the case at his insistence. They were from Oregon, but their only child, Troy, had lived in San Diego. When Troy was stabbed to death in a field near the bull ring in Tijuana, the San Diego police received little cooperation from the Mexican authorities, so Troy’s parents hired me to bring his killer to justice.

  First I’d identified the man responsible for Troy’s death, but turned up no hard evidence with which he could be charged. Then I found a message on Troy’s answering machine, in which the killer had challenged him to a duel: “Knives at midnight, Winslip,” the man’s voice said, “Knives at midnight.” The words were in a Spanish-accented falsetto, accompanied by weird, cackling laughter. Still not enough proof—at least not to charge him with murder—but perhaps there was some other crime that applied. I researched the state penal code, then advised my contact on the SDPD of a little-known 1872 statute that was still on the books—Chapter 225, Section 231:

  Duels and challenges.

  Defined: Combat with deadly weapons, fought between two or more persons, by private agreement.

  Punishment when death ensues: state prison for two, three, or four years.

  Dueling beyond State: Every person who leaves this State with intent to evade any provisions of this chapter, and to commit any act out of the State, which would be punishable by such provisions if committed within this State, is punishable in the same manner as he would have been in case such act had been committed within this State.