McCone and Friends

by Marcia Muller

  John scowled indignantly, like a proper big brother. “So what’s this underwear freak got to do with the Winslip case?”

  “Gary’s on Homicide with the SDPD now. It’s always best to check in with the local authorities when you’re working a case on their turf, so I’ll stop by his office in the morning, see what he’s got from the TJ police.”

  “Well, just don’t wear a short skirt. What should I do while you’re seeing him?”

  “Nothing. Afterward, I will visit Troy’s house, talk with the roommate, try to get a list of his friends and find out more about him. Plus go to State and see what I can dig up there.”

  “What about me?”

  “You will tend to Mr. Paint.” Mr. Paint was the contracting business he operated out of his home shop and office.

  John’s lower lip pushed out sulkily.

  I said, “How about dinner? I’m starving.”

  He brightened some. “Mexican?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll pay.”

  “John!”

  “Consider it a finder’s fee.”

  Gary Viner hadn’t changed since I’d seen him a couple of years earlier, but he was very different from the high school kid I remembered. Gaining weight and filling out had made him more attractive; he’d stopped hiding his keen intelligence and learned to tone down his ogling to subtle looks that actually flattered me. Unfortunately, he had no more information on the Winslip murder than what John had already told me.

  “Is it okay if I look into this for the parents?” I asked him.

  “Feel free. It’s not our case, anyway. You go down there”—he motioned in the general direction of Baja California—“you might want to check in with the TJ authorities.”

  “I won’t be going down unless I come up with something damned good up here.”

  “Well, good luck, and keep me posted.” As I started out of his cubicle, Gary added, “Hey, McCone—the last time I saw you, you never did answer my question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Can you still turn a cartwheel?”

  I grinned at him. “You bet I can. And my bikini pants are still the prettiest ever.”

  It made me feel god to see a tough homicide cop blush.

  My first surprise of the day was Troy Winslip’s house. It was enormous, sprawling over a double lot that commanded an impressive view of San Diego Bay and Coronado Island. Stucco and brick and half-timbers, with a terraced yard landscaped in brilliantly flowering iceplant, it must have been at least six thousand feet, give or take a few.

  A rich roommate? Many rich roommates? Whatever, it sure didn’t resemble the ramshackle brown-shingled house that I’d shared with what had seemed a cast of thousands when I was at UC Berkeley.

  I rang the bell several times and got no response, so I decided to canvass the neighbors. No one was at the houses to either side, but across the street I got luck. The stoop-shouldered man who came to the door was around seventy and proved to like the sound of his own voice.

  “Winslip? Sure, I know him. Nice young fellow. He’s owned the place for about a year now.”

  “You’re sure he owns it?”

  “Yes. I knew the former owners. Gene and Alice Farrar—nice people, too, but that big house was too much for them, so they sold it and bought one of those condos. They told me Winslip paid cash.”

  Cash? Such a place would go for many hundreds of thousands. “What about his roommate? Do you also know him?”

  The old man leered at me. “Roommate? Is that what you call them these days? Well, he’s a she. The ladies come and go over there, but none’re very permanent. This last one, I’d say she’s been there eight, nine weeks?”

  “Do you know her name?”

  He shook his head. “She’s a good-looking one, though—long red hair, kind of willowy.”

  “And do you know what either she or Mr. Winslip do for a living?”

  “Not her, no. and if he does anything, he’s never talked about it. I suspect he inherited his money. He’s home a lot, when he’s not sailing his boat.”

  “Where does he keep his boat?”

  “Glorietta Bay Marina, over on Coronado.” The man frowned now, wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s this about, anyway?”

  “Troy Winslip’s been murdered, and I’m investigating it.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t read about it in the paper?”

  “I don’t bother with the paper. Don’t watch TV either. With my arthritis, I’m miserable enough; I don’t need other humans’ misery heaped on top of that.”

  “You’re a wise man,” I told him, and hurried back to where I‘d left the Scout.

  Glorietta Bay Marina sits at the top of the Silver Strand, catty-corner from the Victorian towers of the Hotel Del Coronado. It took me more than half an hour to get there from Point Loma, and when I drove into the parking lot, I spotted John leaning against his motorcycle. He waved and started toward me.

  I pulled into a space and jumped out of the Scout. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Nice way to greet somebody who’s helping you out. While you were futzing around at the police department and Troy’s place, I went over to State. Talked with his adviser. She says he dropped out after one semester.”

  “So how did that lead you here?”

  “The adviser sails, and she sees him here off and on. He owns a boat, the Windsong.”

  “And I suppose you’ve already checked it out?”

  “No, but I did talk with the marina manager. He says he’ll let us go aboard if you show him your credentials and release from Bryce and Mari.”

  “Good work,” I said grudgingly. “You know,” I added as we started walking toward the manager’s office, “it’s odd that Troy would berth the boat here.”

  “Why?”

  “He lived on Point Loma, not far from the Shelter Island yacht basin. Why would he want to drive all the way around the bay and across the Coronado Bridge when he could have berthed her within walking distance of his house?”

  “No slips available over there? No, that can’t be - I’ve heard the marina’s going hungry in this economy.”

  “Interesting, huh? And wait till you hear what else—” I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “Dammit, you’ve done it again!”

  “Done what? I didn’t do anything! What did I do?”

  “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

  John’s smile was smug.

  I sighed. “All right, other half of the ‘detecting duo’—lead me to the manager.”

  My unwanted assistant and I walked along the outer pier toward the Windsong’s slip. The only sounds were the cries of seabirds and the rush of traffic on the Strand. Our footsteps echoed on the aluminum walkways and set them to bucking on a slight swell. No one was around this Wednesday morning except for a pair of artists sketching near the office; the boats were buttoned up tightly, their sails furled in the sea-blue covers. Troy Winslip’s yawl was a big one, some thirty feet. I crossed the plank and stepped aboard; John followed.

  “Wonder where he got his money,” he said. “Bryce and Mari’re well off, but not wealthy.”

  “I imagine he had his ways.” I tried the companionway door and found it locked.

  “What now?” my brother asked. “Standing around on deck isn’t going to tell us anything.”

  “No.” I felt through my bag and came up with my set of lock picks.

  John’s eyes widened. “Aren’t those illegal?”

  “Not strictly.” I selected one with a serpentine tip and began probing the lock. “It’s a misdemeanor to posses lock picks with intent to feloniously break and enter. However, since I intend to break and enter with permission from the deceased owner’s next of kin, we’re in kind of a gray area here.”

  John looked nervously over his shoulder. “I don’t think cops recognize gray areas.”

 
; “For God’s sake, do you see any cops?” I selected a more straight-topped pick and resumed probing.

  “Where’d you get those?” John asked.

  “An informant of mine made them for me; he even etched my initials on the finger holds. Wiley ‘the Pick’ Pulaski. He’s currently doing four-to-six for burglary.”

  “My little sister, consorting with known criminals.”

  “Well, Wiley wasn’t exactly known when I was consorting with him. Good informants can’t keep a high profile, you know.” I turned the lock with a quick flick of my wrist. It yielded, and I removed the pick and opened the door. “After you, big brother.”

  The companionway opened into the main cabin—a compactly arranged space with a galley along the right bulkhead and a seating area along the left. I began a systematic search of the lockers but came up with nothing interesting. When I turned, I found John sitting at the navigator’s station, studying the instruments.

  “Big help you are,” I told him. “Get up; you’re blocking the door to the rear cabin.”

  He stood, and I squeezed around him and went inside.

  The rear cabin had none of the teak-and-brass accoutrements of the main; in fact, it was mostly unfinished. The portholes were masked with heavy fabric, and the distinctive odor of marijuana was enough to give me a contact high. I hadn’t experienced its like since the dope-saturated seventies in Berkeley.

  John, who cultivated a small crop in his backyard, smelled it, too. “So, that’s what pays the mortgage!”

  “Uh-huh.” My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, but not fast enough. “You see a flashlight anyplace?”

  He went away and came back with one. I flicked it on and shined it around. The cabin was tidy, the smell merely a residue of the marijuana that had been stored there, but crumbled bits of grass littered the floor. I handed John the flashlight, pulled an envelope from my bag, and scraped some of the waste matter into it. Then I moved forward, scrutinizing every surface. Toward the rear under the sharp cant of the bulkhead, I found a dusting of white powder. After I tasted it, I scraped it into a second envelope.

  “Coke, too?” John asked.

  “You got it.”

  “Mari and Bryce aren’t going to like this. They thought he’d kicked his habit.”

  “He wasn’t just feeding a habit here, John. Or dealing on a small scale. He was distributing, bringing it in on this boat in a major way.”

  “Yeah.” He fell silent, staring grimly at the littered floor. “So what’re you going to do—call the cops?”

  “They’ll have to know eventually, but not yet. The dealing in itself isn’t important anymore; its bearing on Troy’s murder is.”

  Back on Point Loma, I waited just out of sight of Troy Winslip’s house in the Scout. John had wanted to come along and help me stake the place out, so in order to otherwise occupy him, I’d sent him off on what I considered a time-consuming errand. The afternoon waned. Behind me, the sky’s blue deepened and the lowering sun grew bright gold in contrast. Tall palms bordering the Winslip property cast long easterly shadows. At around six, a white Dodge van rounded the corner and pulled into Troy’s driveway. A young woman—red-haired, willowy, clad in jeans and a black-and-white African print cape—jumped out and hurried into the house. By the time I got to the front door, she was already returning, arms full of clothing on hangers. She started when she saw me.

  I had my identification and the release from Troy’s parents ready. As I explained what I was after, the woman barely glanced at them. “All I want is my things,” she said. “After I get them out of here, I don’t care what the hell you do.”

  I followed her, picking up a purple silk tunic that had slipped from its hanger. “Please come inside. We’ll talk. You lived with Troy; don’t you care that he was killed?”

  She laughed bitterly, tossed the armload of clothing into the back of the van, and took the tunic from my outstretched hand. “I care. But I also care about myself. I don’t want to be around here any longer than necessary.”

  “You feel you’re in danger?”

  “I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” She pushed around me and hurried up the walk. “Those people don’t mess around, you know?”

  I followed here. “What people?”

  She rushed through the door, skidding on the polished marble of the foyer. A few suitcases and cartons were lined up at the foot of a curving staircase. “You want to talk?” the woman said. “We’ll talk, but you’ll have to help me with this stuff.”

  I nodded, picked up the nearest box, and followed her back to the van. “I know that Troy was dealing.”

  “Dealing?” she snorted. “He was supplying half the county. He and Daniel were taking the boat down to Baja three, four nights a week.”

  “Who’s Daniel?”

  “Daniel Pope, Troy’s partner.” She took the box from my hands, shoved it into the back of the van, and started up the walk.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “His legit business is a surf shop on Coronado—Danny P’s.”

  “And the people who don’t mess around—who are they?”

  We went back in the foyer now. She thrust two suitcases at me. “Oh, no, you’re not getting me involved in that.”

  “Look—what’s your name?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.” She hefted the last carton, took a final look around, and tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m out of here.”

  Once again, we were off at a trot toward the van. “You may be out of here,” I said, ‘but you’re still afraid. Let me help you.”

  She stowed the carton, took the suitcases from me, and shook her head. “Nobody can help me. It’s only a matter of time. I know too much.”

  “Then share it.”

  “No!” She slammed the van’s side door, slipped quickly into the driver’s seat, and locked the door behind her. For a moment, she sat with her head bowed, her hands on the wheel; then she relented and rolled down the window a few turns. “Why don’t you go talk to Daniel?” If he’s not at the surf shop, he’ll be at home; he’s the only Pope on C Street in Coronado. Ask him…” She hesitated, looking around as if someone could hear her. “Ask him about Renny D.”

  “Ronny D?”

  “No, Renny, with an e, it’s short for Reynaldo.” Quickly, she cranked up the window and started the van. I stepped back in time to keep from getting my toes squashed.

  The woman had left the front door of the house open and the keys in the lock. For a moment, I considered searching the place, then concluded it was more important to talk to Daniel Pope. I went back up the walk, closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and pocketed the keys for future use.

  Daniel Pope wasn’t at his surf shop, and he wasn’t at this home on C Street. But John was waiting two houses down, perched on his cycle in the shade of a jacaranda tree.

  I raised my eyes to the heavens and whispered to the Lord, “Please, not again!”

  The Lord, who in recent years had been refusing to listen to my pleas, failed to eradicate my brother’s presence.

  I parked the Scout behind the cycle. John sauntered back and leaned on the open window beside me. “Daniel Pope owns a half interest in the Windsong,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes casing the house like an experienced thief.

  I’d assigned him to check into the yawl’s registry, but I hadn’t expected him to come up with anything this quickly.

  John went on, “He and Troy bought the boat two years ago for 90,000 dollars cash from the yacht broker at Glorietta Bay. They took her out three or four times a week for about eight hours a stretch. In between, they partied. Men would come and go, carrying luggage. Some of the more conservative—read that ‘bigoted’—slip holders complained that they were throwing ‘fag parties.’”

  “But we know they were holding sales meetings.”

  “Right.”

  “Where’d you get all that?”

  “The yacht broker. I pretended I was interested in bu
ying the Windsong. He’s probably got the commission spent already. Shit, I feel really guilty about it.”

  A blue Mercedes was approaching. It went past us, slowed, and turned into the driveway of the white Italianate house we’d been watching. I unbuckled my seat belt and said, “Ease your guilt by telling yourself that if you ever do buy a boat, you’ll use that broker.”

  He ignored me, straightening and watching the car pull into an attached garage.

  “Daniel Pope?”

  “Probably.”

  “So now what do we do?”

  Thoughtfully, I looked him over. My brother is a former bar brawler and can be intimidating to those who don’t know him for the pussycat he is. And at the moment, he was in exceptionally good shape.

  “We,” I said, “are going in there and talk with Pope about somebody called Renny D.”

  Daniel Pope was suffering from a bad case of the nerves, his bony, angular body twitched, and a severe tic marred his ruggedly handsome features. When we’d first come to the door, he’d tried to shut it in our faces; now that he was reasonably assured that we weren’t going to kill him, he wanted a drink. John and I sat on the edge of a leather sofa in a living room filled with sophisticated sound equipment while he poured three fingers of single-malt Scotch. Then I began questioning him.

  “Who’s Renny D?”

  “Where’d you get that name?”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t have to talk about—”

  “Look, Pope, we know all about the Windsong and your trips to Baja. And about the dealers who come to the yawl in between. The rear cabin is littered with grass and coke; I can have the police there in –”

  “Jesus! I thought you were working for Troy’s parents.”

  “I am, but Troy’s dead, and they’re more interested in finding out who killed him than in covering up your illegal activities.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” He took a big drink of whiskey.

  I repeated, “Who’s Renny D?”

  Silence.

  “I’m not going to ask again.” I moved my hand toward a phone on the table beside me. John grinned evilly at Pope.