The Dangerous Hour (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  Some sound must have given me away. A voice called, “R. D., is that you?”

  A voice I remembered from my initial interview when he hired us to investigate the thefts here. Alex Aguilar was back in town.

  “Look, R. D.,” he added, footsteps coming toward the cubicle’s entrance, “this vendetta has got to stop. Johnny Duarte’s dead. Harriet Leonard has run off with the cash and merchandise he had on hand in his condo. Tracy blames me for everything and is threatening to go to the cops. And now my contact at SFPD tells me Julia Rafael’s been taken out. You’ve got to stop!”

  What now? Hide?

  No way.

  Confront him.

  I came around the corner, gun extended in both hands. “You bet it’s got to stop.”

  Aguilar’s face contorted in surprise, then paled. He took a few steps backward. “Christ, what’re you doing? Have you gone crazy?”

  I motioned him back into the office, indicated he should sit at the desk, stopped a safe distance from him. The chair was adjusted too high, and his feet didn’t quite reach the floor; he pointed his toes and they slid around, struggling for purchase. No charismatic smile now—his mouth pulled down, and his eyes were wide with fear.

  I said, “So you’re planning to meet your friend R. D. here tonight.”

  “He is not my friend.”

  “But he is coming here.”

  “. . . Yes. But he’s late.”

  “Why the meeting?”

  No reply. His eyes moved from side to side, looking for a way out.

  “Why?”

  “He . . . All right, he needs money.”

  “And even though he isn’t your friend, you’re going to give it to him?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, if you won’t tell me, I can reconstruct what went on between you two. Reynaldo Dominguez—yes, I know his name and why he’s out to ruin me—Dominguez has something on you. I assume it’s that you were dealing for him when you lived in San Diego.”

  Aguilar looked away from me, staring at the wall of the cubicle.

  I went on, “You were a pretty minor figure in the scheme of things down there, and my guess is that your dealing was simply a more lucrative means to earn tuition money than your restaurant jobs. And because you were minor, when Dominguez went to prison, you were able to escape, move to L.A., and take up a legitimate career in social work. Quite a switch, wasn’t it?”

  Silence.

  “I admit, some of my theory is guesswork. For instance, I believe that you genuinely care about furthering the lot of your people. This job-training center is testimony to that. But somewhere along the line you got seduced into gaining political power, and when the publicity machine about your future mayoral candidacy got going, your old boss Reynaldo Dominguez must’ve seen one of the articles and decided to come up here from San Luis Obispo to put the bite on you. And your old associate Johnny Duarte was already doing that.”

  Aguilar shook his head, lips compressed.

  “It’s tough being squeezed from two sides, isn’t it? Duarte forcing you into importing his drugs through your shop in Ghirardelli. And Dominguez demanding money and shelter. And when he found out you’d employed my agency to investigate the thefts here, Dominguez saw another way to use you.”

  More head shaking.

  “You helped Dominguez by setting up Julia Rafael, ordering all that merchandise in her name, using your own credit card and the center’s computers. But now you’re afraid, because Dominguez is out of control. He’s left a long string of casualties behind him: Johnny Duarte. Dominguez probably killed him so he could take control of his drug business—and exercise greater control over you. Dan Jeffers, one of your fellow dealers in San Diego. He’s missing, probably dead. Angela Batista, your neighbor. He beat her up last Friday. And now Julia. He didn’t take her out, but she may not live. And then there’s Scott Wagner, your former partner.”

  “Scott’s death was an accident. He fell—”

  “You don’t really believe that, and neither do I. According to Dan Jeffers, Scott was beaten to death and pushed into the ravine at Olompali by someone he—Dan—recognized. Now, who do you suppose that was?”

  Aguilar’s toes again strained to reach the floor, but they slipped and slammed the desk chair backwards into the workstation. His white-knuckled hands clenched the chair’s arms. “Why would R. D. kill Scott?”

  “My guess is, Scott somehow found out about his plans and decided to put a stop to them. I gather he was the kind of man who wouldn’t be afraid to stand up to Dominguez.”

  Momentarily, the fear in his eyes was overshadowed by anguish. “Scott,” he said, “oh, Jesus . . .”

  “What about Gene Santamaria?” I asked. “Is he aware of what’s been going on?”

  “Gene? No, he couldn’t suspect—”

  “Better be sure. You don’t want to lose another good administrator to Dominguez’s violence.”

  Aguilar’s head drooped, and he let his hands slip from the chair arms in a gesture of surrender. “All right, I’ll warn Gene. But I must know—what are you going to do about all this?”

  “Me? Nothing—yet. You, on the other hand, will go to Inspector Adah Joslyn at SFPD Homicide and tell her the full story. You will cooperate with the police investigation in every way you can.”

  “That’s impossible. My position, my career—”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Aguilar? All that is over. It was over from the minute Duarte and Dominguez walked back into your life. Write these numbers down.” I recited Adah’s home, office, and cell, watched him shakily scribble them onto a pad. “I’ll give you an hour to contact Inspector Joslyn. After that, I’ll go to her and then to the press.”

  I made him read the numbers back to me, then left the cubicle but not the center. When Dominguez showed, I’d be waiting for him.

  I positioned myself down the hall, in an alcove that led to the restrooms. Sound echoed off the unadorned walls and uncarpeted floors, and after a while I heard Aguilar dialing a number. The receiver slammed into the cradle; then he dialed again.

  “Is he there?” he asked the party who’d answered. “This is . . . a friend. He was supposed to meet with me at eleven. . . . Well, where the hell is he? . . . Great, just great! Shouldn’t the ball game be over by now? All right, listen, you tell him this when he gets home: call Alex, no matter what time it is. Tell him we’ve got serious trouble.”

  Aguilar again slammed down the receiver. After a few minutes I heard him leave the cubicle.

  So had Dominguez shot Julia, then casually strolled down the Embarcadero to Pac Bell Park? Or was the claim of taking in a Giants game an alibi to cover up for the shooting? And to whom had Aguilar been speaking?

  As soon as the sound of the supervisor’s steps faded, I came out of my hiding place and followed him. I’d felt as if I was being watched when I entered the building; possibly Dominguez was lying in wait outside, to ambush either Aguilar or me. But the supervisor moved safely from the steps to the fence, unlocked the gate, and drove the old white Datsun that was pulled close to the wall from the lot, relocking the gate behind him.

  I went back upstairs, located a window with a view of the parking area, and surveyed the scene below. Nothing moved down there except a ragged man who was picking through the trash bins on the opposite side of the street.

  I waited for what seemed a lot more than an hour. No Dominguez. By then it was obvious he wasn’t coming. Had he given up on extorting money from Aguilar and fled the city? Or had the supervisor’s phone call been a veiled warning?

  Either way, I was considerably more cautious than Aguilar had been when I finally left the building.

  My house was dark when I returned, and neither cat greeted me. No Hy, but the answering machine indicator was flashing. Seven messages. I bypassed it, went into the kitchen, and turned on the lights. A box labeled “Glucometer Elite” sat in the center of the table—the device for measuring Ralph’s blood-sugar levels. Michelle had
attached a Post-it note to the box; she’d gotten the meter for half price from the pet-sitting client on Chenery Street, whose cat had just died. Great—shades of the future.

  I poured a glass of wine, went to listen to my messages.

  Hang-up. Probably telemarketing.

  Mother One: “You never called back like Ted promised you would. Is everything all right?”

  No, Ma.

  Brother John: “Ma’s pissed because you forgot my birthday. I’m not, but just thought I should warn you.”

  Thanks, John.

  Ted: “My God, Shar, I just caught the late news. Is Jules going to be okay?”

  I honestly don’t know, Ted.

  Hy: “Hey, McCone, I’m wrapping things up here. Be back tomorrow.”

  Thank God, Ripinsky. I need you.

  Mick: “The doctor said they won’t know anything conclusive about Jules’s prognosis for hours. Sophia doesn’t want to leave the hospital, so I’m gonna stay with her. I’ll let you know more when I hear.”

  Please do, Mick, and let it be something good.

  Heavy breathing, and then a crazy, cackling laugh. Same laughter as on the answering-machine tape that had convinced the San Diego jury to convict Dominguez of staging an out-of-state duel resulting in a death.

  I was right: he didn’t care if I identified him.

  I looked at my watch. Well past the deadline I’d given Aguilar to contact Adah. I phoned her at home, got her out of bed.

  Aguilar hadn’t been in touch with her.

  “I gave him an hour,” I said. “I told him if he didn’t call you, I would, and then I’d go to the press.”

  “Kind of late to be calling a hardworking member of the third estate, don’t you think? Hardworking cop, for that matter.” Adah yawned loudly.

  “So what’re you going to do?”

  “Give him till noon tomorrow. He’s probably trying to contact his attorney, get advice on how to handle this. And if I were you, I wouldn’t go to the papers or the TV stations yet—it’s premature, could be actionable. You’ve got enough trouble as is.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “McCone.”

  “What!” I came fully awake from a bad dream where I was running through a labyrinth of dark alleyways in pursuit of a faceless man in a top hat and jogging suit. Flailed around and felt my elbow connect solidly with something.

  “Ow! Break my jaw, why don’t you?”

  The bedside table lamp flashed on, momentarily blinding me. Hy stood by the bed, rubbing his chin. I glanced at the clock: 4:15.

  He added, “You were lying spread out in the middle, and I was trying to move you over. Feeling romantic, till you bashed me.”

  “Sorry. Oh, God . . .” I flopped back against the pillows, covering my eyes with my forearm.

  He turned off the light, took off his clothes, and slipped in beside me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Give me a minute. How’d you get here? There aren’t any commercial flights at this hour.”

  “Buddy down at Lindbergh Field was ferrying a guy’s private jet to Seattle. He invited me along for the ride, provided I’d pay the landing fee at SFO.”

  “I swear you’ve got a buddy at every airport in the world.”

  “Most of them, anyway. Comes in handy. So you want to tell me about it?”

  I did, beginning with my identification of Reynaldo Dominguez and ending with the crazy laughter on the answering machine.

  “You know,” Hy said when I finished, “I’ve arranged to take some more time off from work. Back when we were on high alert against terrorism, I felt I ought to make myself available, but now I find I’m just playing shrink to a bunch of paranoid clients.”

  “Isn’t that part of the job?”

  “Part of the service we provide, yeah, but I’m not good at it. I told Dave and Gage that they should assign operatives who employ more tact and suffer fools better to the TLC detail. They agreed. If there’s a genuine crisis, I’ll be there, but otherwise . . .” I felt him shrug.

  “So I guess you’ll be off to the ranch or Touchstone.”

  “No way. I’m staying right here, with you. We’ll deal with this Dominguez character together, starting a few hours from now.”

  The Cash Cow, sandwiched between a Filipino travel agency and a Thai restaurant, had all the earmarks of its proprietor’s eccentricities. Red neon tubing spelled out the name, but the animal depicted beneath it was a bull. To further complicate matters, during business hours Darrin Boydston had taken to rolling out onto the sidewalk a stuffed camel and grizzly bear he’d accepted in some dubious transaction. The camel leered at me as I went inside.

  The pawnshop was also a curious hybrid: Boydston possessed possibly the largest stock of used vacuum cleaners in North America. Their sheer number was rivaled only by exercise equipment, VCRs, obsolete computers, and TVs. Every other imaginable type of merchandise was crammed into the small space, and guitars, bicycles, chandeliers, and chairs hung from the low ceiling. This morning Tommy Jones, a Eurasian boy whom Boydston had rescued from the streets, was in the process of hoisting a surfboard up there while his mother, Mae, dusted the jewelry case. She smiled when she saw me, and said the boss was in his office.

  The office was small, and Boydston, a chunky, bald man dressed in electric blue polyester, seemed to fill the space. He looked up from his cluttered desk as I came in, and said, “Hey, how ya doin’, little lady?”

  Boydston was an old-school Texan and, unlike Charlotte Keim, had never lost the accent—or his antiquated attitudes. Years before, when I’d given him a ride because his car had broken down and he told me I drove “right good, for a girl,” I’d decided it was useless to go on resenting his genial sexism.

  I removed a stack of files from the other chair and sat. “Not so good, Darrin.”

  His weathered face creased with concern. “I can make you a nice loan—”

  “It’s not about money.” I took the composite of Dominguez from my bag. “You know this man?”

  He squinted at it. “Looks familiar, but I see lots of people every day.”

  “Try last week. The Cowboy was here when this guy came in, asking about guns. Did he buy one?”

  “Give me his name, I’ll check my records. The application should still be pending.”

  “He wasn’t looking for a legal deal.”

  Boydston tried to act offended, then must have decided it was too much effort. He knew I was well aware of the illicit side of his operation. “Afraid I can’t comment on that, little lady.”

  “Darrin, I like you—in spite of the ‘little lady’ shit. I like what you’ve done for Tommy and Mae, and a lot of other folks in the neighborhood. But this is serious stuff. The gun you sold this man was probably used to shoot my employee Julia Rafael last night.”

  He blinked. “Little Jules? Goddamn! She’s not . . . ?”

  “As of a couple of hours ago, they say she’s going to make it.” Mick had called from the hospital at around seven o’clock. “But she almost didn’t, and she’s going to have one long recovery.”

  “Damn! I’ve known that little girl since she was turning tricks on Sixteenth Street. Not a bad girl, just poor and rebellious, and the Youth Authority turned her around. Folks in the neighborhood are proud of her, don’t believe any of this nonsense about the supervisor’s credit card. What’s this asshole”—he jabbed his finger at the composite—“got against her?”

  I played on his fondness for Julia, said, “I don’t know. But this is personal for me, and it should be for you, too. Tell me about the gun.”

  “Okay, but it goes no further. If it does, I’ll deny you ever talked with me, and Mae and Tommy’ll back me up. Was a Saturday night special I took off a young punk who came in here a couple of months ago, all drugged up and stupid, thinking to make a big score. What he got for his pains was a busted arm.”

  “And you didn’t turn the piece over to the cops.”

  “No cops involved. He split, yowli
n’ for his mama—no harm done, except to him.”

  “The guy who bought the piece is Reynaldo Dominguez. You know anything about him?”

  “Never seen him before or since. Never heard the name.”

  “I’m going to leave this drawing with you. Show it to people you trust. Ask around about him—discreetly. Let me know if you hear anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

  Boydston nodded and fingered the composite. “I’ll do it for little Jules. You, too. That law cooperative you used to work for, they were good to me over the years. By the by, how’s little Miss Kelleher?”

  “Rae’s fine.”

  “I sure do like her hubby’s music.”

  “And now she’s an artist in her own right—just published a novel.”

  “A novel. You don’t say.” Boydston shook his head. “Women these days—ain’t it amazin’.”

  Half an hour later I found Ted at his desk, staring morosely at several tall stacks of files. “What’s this, the stuff for Todd Baylis?” I asked.

  “Yes, except now his superior’s told him to put the investigation on hold.”

  Marguerite Hayley must have already laid out the facts for BSIS. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s good, until you consider that we’ve used up reams of paper and four ink cartridges creating duplicate files that we’ll probably end up shredding. And they’re taking up my whole goddamn desk.”

  “So ask Alison to find a temporary place for them.”

  “Alison quit.”

  “She was only here one day!”

  “There was an unfortunate incident this morning. What happened—”

  “I don’t want to know. Any messages?”

  “Claude Cardenas called with a couple of leads on places Dominguez has been frequenting. He said to tell you that you owe him another forty bucks.”

  I took the message slip he held out. On it Ted had scribbled an address on Nineteenth Street and the name of a bar on Mission, the Remedy Lounge. I knew the Remedy well; it was at the foot of Bernal Heights and had once been All Souls’ tavern of choice. I’d heard it had gone downhill in recent years, and the rumors must be true if the likes of Reynaldo Dominguez were hanging out there.