This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.
Mysterious Press books are published by Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.
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First eBook Edition: June 2002
ISBN: 978-0-446-54988-2
Contents
Monday: APRIL 9
Friday: APRIL 13
Monday: APRIL 16
Tuesday: APRIL 17
Wednesday: APRIL 18
Thursday: APRIL 19
Friday: APRIL 20
Saturday: APRIL 21
Sunday: APRIL 22
Monday: APRIL 23
Tuesday: APRIL 24
Wednesday: APRIL 25
Friday: APRIL 27
SHARON MCCONE MYSTERIES BY MARCIA MULLER
DEAD MIDNIGHT
LISTEN TO THE SILENCE
A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE
WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT
THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN
WOLF IN THE SHADOWS
PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES
WHERE ECHOES LIVE
TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS
THE SHAPE OF DREAD
THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY
EYE OF THE STORM
THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF DOUBLE (with Bill Pronzini)
LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE
GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY
THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE
ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
For Susan Richman,
One of my finest partners in crime
Many thanks to:
Suzette Lalime Davidson, for her dot-com expertise Jim Moen, for his tale of intrigue among the venture capitalists Mark Terry, for luring me into the twenty-first century Michael Terry, for getting me set up for same And, of course, the in-house editor and Title Master
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue, it is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh;
What do I fear? Myself?
Shakespeare, Richard III
Monday
APRIL 9
At one time or another, it happens to everyone. A call comes late at night, bringing news of the death of someone close, and with it a nightmarish sense of unreality. You entertain selfish thoughts: Why is this happening to me? Then you immediately feel ashamed because tragedy has not actually struck you. You, after all, are still alive, healthy, and reasonably sane.
Practicalities intrude, because they are a way of keeping the pain at bay. To whom to break the news, and how? What arrangements must be made? How badly will your life be disrupted? But in the end it all boils down to loss and finality—in my case, loss and finality heaped upon recent losses and betrayals.
My call came at eleven-twenty P.M., from a deputy sheriff in Humboldt County, some two hundred and seventy miles north of San Francisco. Deputy Steve Brouillette. I’d spoken with him several times over the past six months, but he’d never had any news for me. Now he did, and it was bad.
My brother Joey was dead at age forty-five. By his own hand.
Friday
APRIL 13
“I’d hate to think we’re going to be making a habit of this.”
My brother John’s remark, I knew, was intended to provide comic relief but, given the nature of the situation, it was destined to fail. I looked up at him, shielding my eyes against the afternoon sun, and saw his snub-nosed face was etched with pain. He slouched under the high wing of the Cessna 170B, one hand resting on its strut, his longish hair blowing in the breeze. With surprise I noted strands of white interwoven with the blond of his sideburns. Surely they hadn’t been there at Christmas time?
“Sorry,” he said, “but it’s a thought that must’ve occurred to you too.”
My gaze shifted across San Diego’s Lindbergh Field to the west, where we’d earlier scattered Joey’s ashes at sea. Joey, the family clown. Joey, whom we’d assumed had never entertained a somber thought in his life. The dumb but much loved one; the wanderer who was sorely missed at family gatherings; the worker who more often than not was fired from his low-end jobs but still managed to land on his feet.
Joey, a suicide.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s occurred to me. First Pa, now this.”
“And Ma and Melvin aren’t getting any younger.”
“Who is?” I moved away and began walking around the plane. A red taildragger with jaunty blue trim, Two-five-two-seven-Tango was my prize possession, co-owned with my longtime love, Hy Ripinsky. I ran my hand over the fuse-lage, checked the elevators and rudder—preflighting, because I felt a sudden urge to be away from there.
John followed me. “I keep trying to figure out why he did it.”
I went along the other side of the plane without responding.
As he gave me a boost up so I could check the fuel level in the left tank, he added, “What could’ve gone that wrong with his life? That he’d kill himself ?”
“I don’t know.”
John hadn’t wanted to talk about Joey when I’d arrived last night, and he’d been mostly silent on today’s flight over the Pacific and later at lunch in the terminal restaurant. Now, in the visitor tie-downs, he seemed determined to initiate a weighty discussion.
“I mean, he had a lot going for himself when he disappeared. A good job, a nice woman—”
“And a crappy trailer filled with empty booze and pill bottles.” I eased off the strut and continued my checks. “From what Humboldt County told me when they called, the shack where he offed himself had the same decor.”
John grunted; my harsh words had shocked him. Shocked me, too, because up till now I hadn’t been aware of how much anger I felt toward Joey.
I opened the engine cowling and stared blankly inside. One of those strange lapses, like walking into a room and not knowing what you went there for. Jesus, McCone, I thought, get a grip. I reached in to check the oil, distracted by memories of my search for Joey.
When Pa died early in the previous September, we hadn’t been able to reach Joey at his last address, and it wasn’t till the end of the month that John traced him to a run-down trailer park near the Mendocino County hamlet of Anchor Bay. By then he’d disappeared again, leaving behind all his possessions and a brokenhearted girlfriend. I immediately began a trace of my own, but gave up after two fruitless months, assuming that—in typical Joey fashion—he’d re-surface when he was good and ready. Then, this past Monday, the call from Deputy Brouillette. Joey had been found dead of an alcohol-and-barbiturate overdose in a shabby rental house in Samoa, a mill town northwest of Eureka. His handwritten note simply said, “I’m sorry.”
I shut the cowling and climbed up to check the right fuel tank. I was replacing its cap when John spoke again. “Shar, haven’t you wondered? Why he did it?”
“Of course I have.” I twisted the cap—hard, and not just for safety’s sake—and lowered myself to the ground. Why was he doing this now, when he knew I wanted to leave?
“We should’ve realized something was wrong. There must’ve been signs. We could’ve helped him.”
I wiped my oil-s
lick fingers on my jeans. “John, there was no way we could’ve known.”
“But we should’ve. He was our brother.”
“Look, you and I lived with Joey for what was actually a very short time. He was five years older than I, and for the most part we went our separate ways. I doubt I ever had a real conversation with him. And as far as I know, all the two of you ever did together was stick your noses under the hoods of cars, drink beer, and get in trouble with the cops. During the past fifteen years, Ma’s the only one who got so much as a card or a call from him. Half the time we didn’t know where he was living or what he was doing. So you tell me how we could’ve seen signs and known he needed help.”
John sighed, giving up the illusion. “I guess that’s what makes it so hard to deal with.”
“Yeah, it is.”
I took the keys to the plane from my pocket, and his eyes moved to them. “So where’re you headed?”
“Hy’s ranch for the Easter weekend, then back to San Francisco. I’ve got a new hire to bring up to speed at the agency, and a Monday lunch with an attorney who throws a lot of business my way.”
“Gonna keep yourself busy, keep your mind off Joey.”
“Is that so bad?”
He shook his head.
Not so bad to try to forget that sometimes people we love commit self-destructive acts that are enough to temporarily turn that love to hatred.
Monday
APRIL 16
Glenn Solomon, San Francisco’s most prominent criminal-defense attorney, and I were braving traffic—angling from Momo’s restaurant where we’d just had lunch toward the city’s handsome new baseball stadium. Pacific Bell Park struck me as a prefect combination of the old and new: red brick, with the form and intimate atmosphere of early urban ballparks, yet comfortable and equipped with every modern amenity. And, most important in this car-infested city, easily accessible by public transportation.
“You been to a game there yet?” Glenn asked me.
“Of course I’ve been to a game. You let me use your season tickets last June.”
“Ah, yes. Hottest temperatures for that day in the city’s history. You and your friends in the sun right behind third base. You greased up with SPF thirty, poured bottled water on your heads till it boiled, and left after the third inning. And to make matters worse, that game was the first time the Giants played well in the new park. You’ll never stop reminding me, will you?”
“Not till I get another crack at those great seats.”
“Mmm.” Glenn nodded noncommittally, his mind already having strayed from baseball.
Like the ballpark, Glenn Solomon was a perfect blend of old and new San Francisco. Over an unhurried lunch, his cell phone turned off, he’d wined and dined me without a word about business. As waiters hovered, eager to please a cornerstone of the local legal establishment, he’d flattered me by asking about Hy, about the home we’d recently had built on our Mendocino Coast property, about some recent startling developments in my personal life. But now his focus had shifted into high gear, and soon he would trot out all his persuasive skills in order to interest me in taking on a job that I gathered, from his reticence so far, was one I’d surely want to turn down.
But he wasn’t ready yet, and I walked along the Embarcadero beside him, content to enjoy the view of Treasure Island and the sailboats on the bay. When we reached Miranda’s, my favorite waterfront diner, and he still hadn’t spoken, I frowned and glanced at him. Glenn was a big man, silver-haired, rotund in a prosperous fashion, with a clean-shaven chin that looked strange to me because he’d worn a full beard the whole time I’d known him. In spite of his bulk he handled himself gracefully, and he cut an imposing figure, attracting many glances as we strolled along.
Glenn was known as a genial fellow among his golf and tennis partners; a kind and generous employer to his staff; a respected litigator among his fellow bar association members; a bulwark of strength to both clients and friends in need. And to his wife of twenty years, Bette Silver, he was a pussycat with a lion’s roar. But Glenn could also be devious and sly. His quick mind, sharp tongue, and caustic wit demolished those who opposed him; his attack mode both in and out of the courtroom was formidable. I’d stood up to some tough characters in my years as an investigator, but I’d long ago decided I would never want to get on the wrong side of Glenn Solomon.
He noticed me studying him and touched my elbow. “Let’s sit awhile.”
There was a bench in front of Miranda’s, flanked by planter boxes where tulips and daffodils bloomed. The flowers were evidence of the gentle side of the café’s owner, an often brusque former longshoreman nicknamed Carmen Miranda from his days offloading banana boats at China Basin. Glenn and I sat there, but only after he—with great ceremony—dusted it off with his crisp white handkerchief.
We were facing the waterfront boulevard, as wide as the average city lot, with a median strip where stately palms grew and vintage streetcars rattled along. A red one passed, its bell clanging. Directly opposite us was the condominium complex where my nephew and operative, Mick Savage, lived with another of my staff, Charlotte Keim. The condos were built of white stucco incorporating a great deal of glass block and chrome, and to either side of them were other complexes, with shops, delis, and restaurants on the street level—all evidence of the revitalization of our waterfront.
In 1989 this area was at the bottom of a steeply descending curve. Years before most of the shipping industry had fled to Oakland or other West Coast ports; factories and warehouses stood abandoned; many piers were vacant, run-down, and rat-infested; the torching of buildings for insurance money was not uncommon. Then, on October 17, the tectonic plates along the Loma Prieta Fault shifted, the earth heaved, and one of the ugliest structures in the city, the Embarcadero Freeway, crumbled. When its ruins were razed, bay vistas that hadn’t been seen for over thirty years were revealed, and we all realized that San Francisco could have a beautiful waterfront.
Now, with the redevelopment still continuing, the heart of the city has gradually moved from such traditional places as the financial district and Union Square to the water’s edge, where it pumps lifeblood into long moribund areas. New buildings rise, and old structures are being converted to offices or live-work lofts. Technology-related firms have relocated to the South of Market, and close on their heels have followed the upscale restaurants, clubs, and boutiques that their owners and employees require. Even the crash of the hot tech market hasn’t put too much of a damper on the vibrant ambience of South Beach, SoMa, and Mission Bay, and the future looks bright there. Of course, all change comes with its price, and in San Francisco’s case, it has been costly.
As if he knew what I was thinking, Glenn said, “Too much, too fast.”
“The changes in the city? Yes.”
“I don’t mind most of them. The Mission Bay complex, for instance, that’s exciting: six thousand more badly needed apartments, the new UCSF campus, all the open space. It’s good development. No, it’s the divisiveness that bothers me. The haves versus the have-nots. The old people who can’t afford to remain in the neighborhoods where they were born. Young families and working-class people who are being forced out by the high cost of living. The black community shrinking. It changes the face of the city, makes it a playground for rich people. What’s the average rent on a two-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood these days?”
“I’m not sure. I paid well under a hundred thousand for my house, but last year a smaller one down the street sold for five hundred to a couple from Silicon Valley—and it was advertised as a fixer-upper. Office rents’re coming down since the dot-com companies started failing; I’ve been watching them in case the Port Commission doesn’t renew my agency’s lease on the pier next year. But they were astronomical to begin with.”
Glenn waved to a man in blue spandex who was jogging by. “One of my young associates,” he said. “Top talent out of Columbia. I had to pony up a hundred and twenty-five thousand to
get him. All these baby nouveaux throwing money around as if it were confetti. If the dot-com fire hadn’t fizzled, we’d be ass-deep in them by now.” He sighed. “Don’t misunderstand me, my friend. I don’t begrudge those who’ve earned it. And I like the new vitality in the city, even if we do have the worst political machine west of Chicago. But I wish …”
“You wish the bucks were spread around more evenly. Or that the haves exercised some old-fashioned concern and charity.”
“Exactly. This isn’t an abstract conversation, you know. It’s leading up to the reason I asked to meet with you today.”
At last he was getting around to the matter at hand. I glanced at him, expecting to see the crafty expression— what he called his “wolf look”—that always accompanied his efforts to enlist my aid in a near impossible case. But instead l saw only deep melancholy.
He said, “I am about to ask a very personal favor of you.”
The matter he wanted me to investigate, Glenn explained, was atypical for his practice. A civil case, which he almost never took on. A wrongful-death suit against an online magazine called InSite.
InSite’s market niche was chronicling the new and the hip in the Bay Area: whatever restaurant the hordes were about to flock to; hot artists, authors, and celebrities; trendy products and fashions. In short, a W of the local wired set. I myself had visited their site a few times: to check out good shops for unusual Christmas presents; to read an interview with Mick’s father, Ricky Savage, whom they’d described as a “country-and-western icon”; to see what subjects my reporter friend, J.D. Smith, was currently delving into. The writing was lively and informative; the content changed frequently. InSite and a handful of other quality online publications such as Salon had survived the recent economic downturn.
I asked Glenn, “What’s the personal angle?”
“The suing family are people I count among my closest friends. The InSite employee who died was my godson.”
“And how was the company at fault?” Working at a magazine didn’t sound like particularly hazardous duty.
Dead Midnight Page 1