The Dangerous Hour
Page 20
More high weeds, and a half-collapsed fence. The house had once had a service porch, but now two of its three walls were caved in. The floor was rotted out, but I balanced on a beam and peered through the crack-webbed window in the back door.
A kitchen. Unused. Nothing on the countertops, mismatched dishes in the glass-fronted cabinets.
I listened. Quiet in there. Nobody home. I took out my gun and then grasped the doorknob. It moved easily, and the door swung open.
You’re committing criminal trespass again.
No, I’m assisting in a police investigation.
The voice of my conscience fell silent.
I moved slowly across the kitchen. Stopped at a short hallway where a door opened to either side. Ahead was an archway leading into the front room; light shone through it, laying a path on the linoleum floor.
Steady and quiet, now.
Down the hallway. Bathroom to the right, empty. Bedroom to the left, same.
Pause. Listen.
Nothing. Move on.
Next to the archway, I flattened against the wall, then peered around its edge.
Empty room. Minimal furnishings.
But ample signs of a struggle.
A lamp lay smashed on the floor, its bulb flickering. A rocking chair was overturned, a bookcase tipped, paperbacks scattered. The jagged neck of a broken beer bottle shone in the light from the overhead fixture, and the rest of it lay in puddled shards.
I stepped into the room, sweeping it with my gun while searching for a closet or anyplace else someone might be hiding. Then I lowered the weapon and took in the scene in segments, as if I were photographing it. Not much to see: a scarred fake-leather sofa, an end table covered with burns and stains, a TV, a rotary phone that had been ripped from the wall.
Possible crime scene—don’t disturb it.
I went back down the hall to the small bedroom, turned on the overhead. Double bed with rumpled sheets, bureau, men’s clothing hanging from pegs on the wall. Nothing more. On the bureau was a pile of change and a wallet. I went over there and, using a Kleenex, flipped open the wallet.
Cash—fives and ones mostly. No credit cards. A single photograph of a young woman with a teased hairstyle that dated from the sixties. Driver’s license made out to Dan Jeffers. The photograph showed a narrow-faced man with a wispy beard and receding hairline; the license had expired two years ago.
Jeffers, living here, in a house belonging to Dominguez’s prison buddy?
I set down the wallet, went through the bureau drawers. Standard clothing, inexpensive and serviceable. In the bathroom I found the usual items, plus a prescription vial half full of Xanax tablets, filled in May at the Los Alegres pharmacy I’d visited. One refill left.
I held the vial in my hand, shaking the pills around. Something wrong here. There was no trace of Dominguez’s prison buddy in this house. But Dan Jeffers? Had he also been in prison with Dominguez and Sly Rawson? If so—
Muffled ringing in my purse. I put the vial back in the medicine cabinet, pulled the phone from my bag, and answered.
“Shar?” Charlotte’s voice, shaky and high-pitched, betraying her west Texas origins, as it always did when she was excited or upset. “Somebody took a shot at Mick outside the pier. He’s okay, but I think you’d better get over here right away.”
Flashing lights, police lines, traffic slowing as drivers rubbernecked. A Channel 7 news van. I pulled the MG onto the sidewalk in front of the adjacent pier, ran down there. Adah was standing near our entrance, talking with a pair of plainclothesmen; a technician was perched on a ladder, digging with a knife at the stucco wall—removing the bullet that could have killed my nephew. I stepped over the yellow tape, went up to Adah.
“Where’s Mick?”
“Inside. He’s okay, McCone. Shaken, but just fine. That shot”—she waved her hand at the wall—“wasn’t intended to hit him. It’s way high and to the right.”
“Maybe Dominguez is a bad marksman.”
She took my arm, walked me away from the other detectives. “You don’t know it was Dominguez.”
“Of course it was Dominguez! Who else?”
“Could’ve been random.”
“Come on, Adah. Two shootings, both my employees, same general location. Not random.”
“Give me some proof.”
“I gave you proof: Alex Aguilar, who admitted helping to set up the scheme to bring me down.”
“Your word against his. And we don’t have the witness; he’s vanished.”
“Then try Dominguez buying an illegal gun.”
“You said the pawnbroker won’t corroborate what he told you.”
“Well, what about Dominguez leaving crazy messages for me all over town?” I took the last two from my bag, handed them to her, along with one of the composites. “The first note, which is at Richman Labs, was a picture of knives. ‘Knives at midnight’—get it?”
She examined the notes as I explained how I’d gotten them. I asked, “Isn’t that enough proof to put out an APB, bring Dominguez in?”
She sighed wearily. “Not my call. I’ve been removed from the investigation.”
“Why?”
“Phrases such as ‘too close to the victims’ and ‘special treatment’ were tossed around.”
“Jesus Christ, the fucking department—”
“Lower your voice.” She jerked her chin at the plainclothesmen, who were watching us. “Those guys’ll be working the case. The last thing you need is for them to overhear you dissing our little fraternity.”
She sounded as bitter and tired as Greg Marcus had at the book signing last Sunday. How long before she got fed up and quit? But what would she do then? I couldn’t imagine Adah as anything other than a cop, and in any department other than San Francisco’s. She was a native of the city, one of the “red-diaper babies” of Bernal Heights, which had once been considered a hotbed of Communism.
“Okay,” I said, “sorry.” For a moment I considered telling her about what I’d found at the house on Regis Street, but decided against it. Adah would bend the rules when it suited her, but she wouldn’t take kindly to me committing criminal trespass.
“Look,” she said, “I’ll show them these notes. Maybe then they’ll take the investigation more seriously. But if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath: those guys are old guard, and over the years, neither of us has racked up too many points with that crowd. Where’ll you be if they want to talk with you?”
“The pier, with Mick.” I moved away, turned. “And thanks, Adah.”
She nodded and went back to her colleagues.
The floor of the pier was deserted when I entered, but voices echoed from upstairs.
Mick: “I’m fine, goddamn it! I don’t need to go to the hospital. I told the cops I was fine; I’m telling you I’m fine. I’m fine!”
Strident, Texas-accented words that I couldn’t understand.
Mick: “Stop fussing! You remind me of my grandmother!”
Charlotte: “Maybe your grandmother could talk some sense into you. Obviously, I can’t!”
Ted: “Why don’t we all take a deep breath and calm down now.”
Silence as I took the stairs.
They were in Ted’s office: Mick seated in the chair, his face red; Charlotte pacing, hands clasped behind her; Ted perched on the edge of the desk, frowning. As I came in, Mick glared at me and said, “Don’t you start!”
It was his typical defensive reaction when he was scared but felt he needed to appear strong—bred into him during a childhood when his father was almost always gone and his mother depended on her oldest son for emotional support and help with his siblings. Lots of hard times, and then the big time, when the money gushed in and none of the Savages knew how to cope with sudden affluence. All things considered, it was a wonder Mick had turned into such a level-headed man.
I said to him, “Why don’t we talk in my office?” To Charlotte and Ted I added, “Will you excuse us for a while?”
I didn’t speak until we were in my office and seated by the window, the door closed. Mick slouched in my desk chair, which he’d rolled next to the ratty old relic under the schefflera plant, staring grimly at his reflection in the glass.
“Rough evening,” I said.
“Yeah.” He paused. “Shar, d’you mind if we turn off the lights? I feel like . . .”
“I know, a target.” I got up, switched off the overheads. It was more pleasant in the darkness, and when I returned to my chair, I sensed him relaxing. After a moment I reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked.
“I do, and I don’t, but I’d better. Okay, after I left the hospital—Jules is doing well, by the way. She got to see Tonio for a while, and Sophia’s with her tonight. Anyway, after I left them, I started back here, and wouldn’t you know it, my bike ran out of gas a few blocks from our condo. I only filled it a couple of days ago, and haven’t driven it very far. I don’t know how that could’ve happened.”
“You have a lock on the gas cap?”
“It’s busted—oh.”
“Right.”
“So it was Dominguez, and he planned to pick me off.”
“Planned to scare you. And me. What next?”
“I pushed the bike over to our building, left it there. Then I walked down here.”
“You hear anybody following you?”
“No, and I’m pretty streetwise.”
“Yes, you are. He must’ve been waiting outside the pier. He has an uncanny way of knowing what people will do, and he’s probably been studying all of us for some time now. Go on.”
“I was crossing the sidewalk toward the pier. This skiptrace on Dan Jeffers has been frustrating Derek, so I sent him home at five—no sense abusing a new employee—but I decided to do some more digging. Next thing I knew, there was this loud noise. I’ve fired guns; I know a shot when I hear one, so I dived for the sidewalk, flattened, and covered my head. A car peeled away; I guess it was the shooter.”
“You get a look at it?”
“No. I stayed down, wasn’t taking any chances.”
“I’d’ve done the same.”
“Well, a couple of guys came running across the Embarcadero and helped me up. They didn’t see the shooter, either. And as soon as I was on my feet, there was sweet Charlotte, screaming and grabbing at me. Nearly knocked me down again. If I’d’ve been wounded, she’d’ve probably finished me off. Shar, does she remind you of Grandma?”
“Let’s not go there now.”
“Because if she’s going to turn out like that, I’d just as soon not marry her. I love Grandma, but . . .”
Marry Charlotte? Marry anyone? My God, you’re so young!
He’s older than both his parents were when they married.
I asked, “Have the two of you been talking about marriage?”
“Off and on. But now I’m not so sure we should.”
“I don’t think life’s major decisions should be made when you’ve just been shot at.”
“You do think she’s like Grandma.”
“I don’t know what I think. Wait and ask me a week after this nightmare is over.”
He squeezed my hand. “Sorry. I’m only thinking about me, when I should be . . .” He put his other hand to his eyes.
“Of course you’re thinking about you. You’ve had a bad scare; it makes you question everything. But you shouldn’t judge Charlotte by one Grandma-esque performance. If anything, it proves she loves you.”
He was silent for a moment, except for faint snuffles, which he tried to disguise. When he spoke again, he sounded drained. “So what do we do now?”
“I want you and Charlotte to spend the night at your dad’s. He has a security man and an excellent alarm system. You’ll both get a good night’s sleep there.”
“But I want to help. I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.”
“Take your laptop, then. Here’s something you can look into.” I explained about the blue house on Regis Street and what I’d found there.
“Dan Jeffers, Sly Rawson. Two-oh-one Regis Street.” He reached for a scratch pad and wrote down the names, proving how shaken he was. Mick had a sharp memory and seldom made notes.
I said, “Promise me this: don’t stay up all night.”
“Jeez, now you’re sounding like Grandma.”
“Say that again, and I’ll truss you up, drive you to San Diego, and make you spend a week with her.”
After Mick left, I buzzed Ted and told him to go home. He refused, said he’d already called Neal, explained the situation, and told him he’d stay at the pier overnight. “Frankly, I feel safer here than I would driving back to the apartment,” he added. “There’s that blow-up bed in the conference room. Unless you’re planning to use it.”
“No. I’m living on pure adrenaline. I may never sleep again.”
After Ted went off to inflate the bed, I called Hy’s cell. He was still running a surveillance at a house on Potrero Hill where Dominguez might be staying.
After I explained about the shooting and reassured him that Mick was all right, he said, “The time frame fits. Subject who’s built like Dominguez left here and gave me the slip in time to get to S.F. General, siphon off most of Mick’s gas, and position himself at the pier. Hasn’t returned yet, but when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.”
“You can’t make a positive ID?”
“Too dark for that. But if he comes back, I will.”
“Let me know what happens.”
I replaced the receiver, only moderately optimistic. Dominguez was sly and moved through the city with a slippery ease. What were the chances that he’d return to the same place after the shooting? He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of places to hide.
The afternoon and early evening had been clear, but tonight the fog had returned. I switched off the office lights again and went to my armchair, stared out at the shifting white wall. The plainclothesmen to whom Adah had said she would show the notes and composite hadn’t bothered to talk with me. Patrick hadn’t called to report the results of his surveillance, and by now he’d be on his shift at his security job. As far as I knew, Craig was still in San Luis Obispo.
And here I was, at close to eleven. Waiting.
I got up, began pacing. I was exhausted but wired. Wanted to be doing something, needed motion, action.
I paced some more. Returned to the armchair. Stared at the fog. Again went over the details of what had happened from the day Reynaldo Dominguez had arrived in town to the events of a few hours ago. He was out there somewhere, and I—
Sudden jolting thought. I grabbed my bag and jacket and ran for the MG.
It was just what I’d feared: something had happened at my house. Every window was lit, and a car from Hollister Security sat in my driveway. On the sidewalk, two men in the company’s dark blue uniforms stood, talking with Michelle, who was tightly cradling Ralph.
I pulled up, blocking the driveway, jumped out of the MG, and hurried toward them. Michelle didn’t look upset, but the cat had his head burrowed into the crook of her elbow—the position he usually assumed when at the vet’s. Michelle waved to me, and the security men turned.
“I’m Sharon McCone, the owner,” I called. “What’s going on?”
“Prowler or Peeping Tom,” the older man said. “Your neighbor was inside feeding the cat and set off the panic button. We’ve checked the premises, and everything’s secure.”
Prowler or Peeping Tom, my ass. Reynaldo Dominguez.
I said to Michelle, “You see this prowler?”
“Yeah. Ugly dude. Scars, weird eyes, nose that looked like somebody’d taken an Allen wrench to it. He was staring in the kitchen window at me. Started laughing in this totally insane way when I shut off the lights and ran o
ut of the room. You really should think of putting up curtains in there.”
“Probably.” Motion at the window of a house across the street caught my eye. Mr. Winter, whose interest in what went on with the rest of us was enough for an entire neighborhood watch force. At least the silent alarm hadn’t alerted anyone else in the immediate vicinity.
The security man asked, “Do you want us to check around the neighborhood for him, Ms. McCone?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure he’s long gone by now.”
“We’ll say good night, then.”
They started back to their car, and I realized I’d have to move mine to let them out. That accomplished, I pulled into the drive and went over to where Michelle still stood.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course. It takes more than a face at the window to scare me.” She thrust out her chin defensively, but her lips quivered. I let her maintain the fiction; she wouldn’t want to know that her tough-kid facade was showing a few cracks.
When I patted Ralph’s side, I felt him trembling. “Why were you feeding him so late?” I asked.
“I wasn’t. I’ve been working on this term paper, and when my eyes started crossing, I took a break, saw you still hadn’t come home, and decided to come over and check on Ralphie. Thought I’d take a blood-sugar reading, and while I was getting set up, the dude appeared in the window.”
“Your parents know you’re out?”
The corner of her mouth twitched in annoyance. “No, Shar. I’m old enough to walk a few feet down the sidewalk by myself at night. My folks’re at a City Arts lecture.”
“Well, maybe you’d better stay with me till they get back. Just in case the guy’s still around. I could use the company.”
Now she grinned, seeing through my feeble attempt not to seem overprotective. “You’ll have Ralph’s company, and Allie’s—she’s under the sofa in the parlor. I need to get back to the paper I’m writing.” She handed me the cat and walked toward her house.
I waited till she was safely inside, then went up my front steps. Bolted the door and reactivated the alarm. And stood in the dark hallway until Ralph stopped trembling.