The Dangerous Hour Page 14

  Suddenly I wanted to insulate the two of us in a warm cocoon where no problems—his or mine—could touch us.

  “Talking can wait. I have a better idea.” I got up and reached for his hand.

  He said, “I like your way of thinking.”

  We were lying in bed, and I’d just finished outlining the events of the past nine days, when Alice shot through the partly open glass door from the deck, launched herself through the air, and landed on Hy’s chest, where she industriously proceeded to groom his thick, dark-blond mustache.

  “McCone, this cat is weird.”

  “She doesn’t get it from me.”

  “Or me. I’m only a potential stepdaddy.”

  I tensed, and he must have felt it, because he said, “I didn’t come down here this weekend to force the issue. I’ve said my piece, told you what would please me; and in time you’ll say your piece, tell me what would please you.”

  “And if they’re not the same?”

  “McCone, we love each other. We’ll negotiate something.”

  Relief washed over me; at least he wasn’t taking the all-or-nothing stance I’d feared.

  “But remember,” he added with a wicked grin, “I’ve negotiated successfully in four different languages with guys carrying semiautomatic weapons, who didn’t at all mind dying. Can you top that?”

  “No. But right now I’m only interested in negotiating one thing—which one of us gets up and calls out for a pizza?”

  Sunday

  JULY 20

  Rae signed another copy of Blue Lonesome with a flourish and smiled as she handed it to the customer. A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books, in the Opera Plaza complex, was mobbed with her friends, Ricky’s music industry associates, three of his six children, and, apparently, strangers who had read the glowing review of her novel in that morning’s paper. During the time she’d been with Ricky, Rae had acquired ease in dealing with the public, and she was clearly enjoying her moment in the limelight. He, on the other hand, held back, maintaining a low-key presence, eyes glowing as he savored her triumph. Ricky had come a long way from the self-absorbed young man who had married my younger sister, just as Rae had come a long way from the insecure young woman whom I’d hired as my assistant at All Souls.

  I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and turned. Greg Marcus, holding his copy of the book.

  I motioned at it and said, “Hey, I didn’t know you cared.” For some reason, Rae had always irritated Greg, and long ago he’d coined a nickname for her—“TPA,” for “the pain in the ass.”

  He shrugged. “The kid’s all right, and Blue Lonesome is one hell of an achievement.” His gaze moved about the room. “Hy here?”

  “Somewhere.” I’d last seen him talking flying with one of the members of Ricky’s band, who was also a pilot, hands swooping through the air as he described an aerobatic maneuver.

  “Come outside with me,” Greg said. “I’m feeling claustrophobic.”

  I followed as he shouldered his way through the crowd to the door and into the courtyard. The afternoon had been sunny and clear, but now a high fog was blowing in.

  I said, “Nothing yet on that inquiry to the San Diego PD, I suppose?”

  “No, not as of this morning.”

  I studied Greg, noting that his eyes were red-rimmed and deeply shadowed. Always a big man, he had put on weight since I’d last seen him, and his face was puffy, his blond hair streaked with gray.

  I said, “I didn’t want to ask the other day, because I was calling you at work, but how’re you dealing with all the stuff that’s been going down at the department?”

  “Not very well. I wasn’t directly involved in any of it, but SFPD isn’t a good place for me anymore. I’m thinking of taking early retirement.”

  “Oh? What would you do?”

  “A year ago I bought a place up in Amador County. Vineyard land that I lease to a winery. Small house, but we like it.”

  “We?”

  He grinned shyly. “Yeah. I’m getting married again.”

  Now, that was a surprise. Greg’s one and only marriage had been a somewhat tepid union that ended in divorce; since then he’d seemed content with bachelorhood. “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Her name’s Jo Martin. She’s an illustrator of children’s books. Pretty lady, about your age, great cook. You’d like her.”

  “Congratulations.” I hugged him, then said, “How’d you decide to . . . you know . . . ?”

  “Take a second chance? I don’t know. One day you wake up, and it seems like a natural step.”

  Then how come I don’t wake up and feel it’s natural?

  “Shar? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  He put his index finger under my chin and tipped my face up so he could look into my eyes. “Hy wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”

  “. . . Well, yes.”

  “And you . . . ?”

  “It’s not something I ever thought I’d do.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, marriage isn’t what the McCone family does best. My parents divorced; my brother John divorced; my brother Joey never even got close to marrying. Charlene and Ricky broke up; my youngest sister, Patsy, has three kids by three different fathers, none of whom she considered tying the knot with. Bad track record, all around.”

  “Your mother and Charlene and Patsy are happy with their present husbands, aren’t they?”

  “For now.”

  “And what about your birth parents?”

  That gave me pause. “Saskia had a happy marriage. So did Elwood.”

  “Heredity’s as important as environment. So what are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Greg patted my shoulder. “Well, think about it, Shar. You’re pretty self-aware, when you allow yourself to be.”

  After Greg left me, I wandered back into the bookstore, spotted Hy, and was about to motion that it was time to leave when Mick came up, flanked by Lisa and Molly. The older Mick got, the more I was struck by his resemblance to his father; his hair was blond, while Ricky’s was chestnut, but they had the same tall, strong build and handsome features. The major difference between them was in their abilities: Ricky couldn’t have operated a computer to save his life, and Mick was tone-deaf.

  He looked down at his sisters and said, “I need to talk to Aunt Shar for a few minutes. Why don’t you guys check out the children’s section.”

  Lisa nodded, but Molly, the elder, frowned and said, “Young adult section.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re not babies, you know. Dad’s even gonna let us read Rae’s book, although he says there’re parts we won’t understand.”

  “I’ll understand them.” Lisa smiled smugly.

  “She probably will, too,” Mick said as the girls ran off through the crowd. “Kids grow up too fast nowadays.”

  “I can recall a time not too long ago when I was lecturing you about birth control, and you informed me you’d been sexually active and prepared since you were fourteen.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why? Because Lisa and Molly are girls?”

  “No. Because . . . well, because they’re my sisters.”

  “And you’re a good big brother. So what d’you want to talk about?”

  “That guy on Aguilar’s staff, the one you nailed for leaking information from the mayor’s office—Aguilar fired him two weeks ago, and he’s moved to Seattle. Is it worth following up on?”

  I considered. “Probably, at least to find out the circumstances of his being fired. What about Tony Kennett, the architect who tried to steal the disk containing my report?”

  “He moved to Sacramento, got on as a draftsman with a firm there.”

  “Then I think we can discount him. Anything on this R. D.?”

  “Not yet, but I’m pursuing it. And Sweet Charlotte said to tell you she’s working the Tracy Escobar angle.” Mick looked aroun
d the crowded bookstore. “I’d be enjoying this party a hell of a lot more if I wasn’t worried about the loss of my livelihood.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I promise you,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “It will not happen.”

  Hy and I had planned a quiet dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant, but when we got back to my house, there was a message on the machine from Patrick Neilan. When I called him back, he said one of the tenants of his building had something to tell me and wanted to meet in person.

  “Sorry,” I said to Hy, who was coming back from moving his car so it wouldn’t be ticketed in the morning, tomorrow being street-cleaning day. “I’ve got to go out, and I don’t know how long it’ll take, so dinner’s probably off.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I noshed plenty at the book signing, and I’m not very hungry. If you want, pick up some takeout on the way back.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay? You look annoyed.”

  “At the goddamn Morgan, not you. It’s crapped out again. Tomorrow I’m having it towed and sold for scrap.”

  “Too bad, but it really is in rotten shape. I’ll be happy to give you a ride back to North Field afterward.”

  “Not necessary. I’m staying on for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “While we were at the bookstore, I had a call from Gage.” Gage Renshaw, one of his partners in RKI. “A situation’s heating up, and they may need me down south at world headquarters. Besides, I don’t feel right, leaving you in the middle of this mess. I’m still hoping to come up with some angle that might be helpful.” He held his hand up, forestalling discussion. “Remember what I said, McCone—no pressure on the personal front.”

  God, he was a good man! When I compared him to most of my much-loved but problematic relatives, I couldn’t understand why I hesitated to allow him into my family.

  Because you can’t lose your family. Them, you’re stuck with for life. But if a marriage doesn’t work out, you could very well lose Hy.

  Of course, you could very well lose him anyway. . . .

  It was dark in Patrick Neilan’s small apartment; a pillar-type candle flickered on the counter that separated the kitchen from the main room, and Angela Batista sat in shadow. When I suggested we turn on a light, she said, “No. I don’t want you to see me like this. Sit down, please, and we’ll talk.”

  I glanced at Neilan. He nodded, so I sat on the sofa; its fabric was shredded as if by cats’ claws, and it smelled musty.

  Batista said, “I didn’t tell you everything about Alex Aguilar when you came to my apartment, but Patrick has convinced me I can trust you. And after what has happened to me, I want you to know everything.”

  “I promise you can trust me, Ms. Batista. What happened?”

  “Back when that R. D. was staying in Aguilar’s apartment, I looked over my lease, to see if there was a legal way to get him out of there. And there was—a clause prohibiting overnight guests for more than forty-eight hours, without written permission from the management company. I called Aguilar and told him he could either tell that R. D. to leave or I would report him. And he threatened me.”

  “With what?”

  “He said he would send R. D. to see me; the two of us could settle the problem. Then he added, ‘My friend has a temper. I can’t be responsible for what he might do.’”

  “Did you complain to the management company? Consult an attorney?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I knew what kind of a temper that R. D. had. I’d heard the arguments, the stuff breaking in that apartment. I was afraid, so I kept silent.”

  “And what happened to change your mind?”

  “R. D. came back. Two nights ago. He waited for me in the hallway while I was taking down the garbage, and dragged me into my apartment. He said he knew I’d been talking to you about him and Aguilar. And then he”—her voice broke—“he beat me. Broke my nose, gave me two black eyes. Broke a rib, too. When he left, he said if I ever mentioned either him or Aguilar to anybody again, he’d kill me. I could tell he meant it.”

  The fear in her voice was palpable; it put a chill on me. “I’m so sorry. Did you call the police?”

  “No. I had a friend drive me to the hospital. I said I was mugged and couldn’t describe who did it. The police came and took a report, of course; they have to do that. But I didn’t tell them anything, either.”

  “And R. D.? Where did he go afterward?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not in that apartment, though.” Angela Batista was crying softly now. “I can’t go to work at my restaurant. I’m a mess, what would my customers think? I’m afraid to stay here; I haven’t slept more than a few minutes at a time since it happened. I can’t go to a motel, not looking like this; no respectable place would take me.”

  I thought for a moment. “I know a place—an apartment where you’ll have twenty-four-hour security.” Last year RKI had purchased a building on Twenty-eighth Avenue in the outer Sunset district, to house clients with serious safety issues; I’d stayed there myself one time. “If a unit is available, you can move in tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But why . . . ?”

  “I’m glad to help. And you can help me. You’ve seen this R. D. up close and personal. Maybe together we can identify him.”

  After Hy had okayed it for Angela Batista to stay at the RKI safe house, Patrick and I escorted her to her apartment so she could pack. In the light from the hallway fixtures, I glimpsed the extent of the damage R. D. had done. In addition to the fear she was experiencing, the pain must be severe. Psychological pain, too: her self-image as a strong, confident woman had been shattered as surely as her rib and nose, and would take much longer to heal.

  I offered to help her gather her things, but she declined and told Patrick and me to be seated in the living room. After she left us, he said, “So what d’you think?”

  “According to one of my operatives, Aguilar has a habit of sending thugs to intimidate people who oppose or threaten him. R. D.’s obviously one of them. He must’ve been hanging around the building the night I talked with Angela and—oh, God!”

  “What?”

  “You stay here with Angela. I’ve got to check on Vanessa Lu.”

  The preschool teacher didn’t answer her bell. I knocked. Still no answer. No light shone from beneath the door, as it had the night I’d talked with her.

  Maybe she simply wasn’t home. Maybe.

  I rushed back upstairs, confided my fears in Patrick. “What if R. D. got to her and she’s lying in there dead or injured?”

  He thought, raking his fingers through his curly red hair. “Angela said R. D. worked her over two nights ago—that was Friday. Around five o’clock that afternoon I saw Vanessa and her boyfriend getting into his car; she had an overnight bag. They must’ve gone away for the weekend, aren’t back yet.”

  “Still, I should warn her about R. D.”

  “I’ll wait around for her, take care of it. Once she knows to watch out, Vanessa’ll be okay; she’s into karate. And I may be skinny, but I’m tough enough to protect everybody in this building.”

  On the way to Twenty-eighth Avenue, Angela Batista and I exchanged only a few words.

  “Ms. McCone, how do you think I can help you find out who that R. D. is?”

  “I have a friend who’s a graphic artist. I’m going to ask her to work with you on a picture of R. D. With Vanessa Lu and Patrick, as well.”

  “But I only saw him a few times, and when he was beating me I didn’t notice anything but his fists.”

  “My friend will work on it with you, help you recall.”

  “Like the police, on the TV shows?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you know who he is, what will you do?”

  “Nothing that will put you in any more danger.”

  “But you will do something?”

  “O
h, yes, I’ll do something. R. D. will never hurt anybody again.”

  Monday

  JULY 21

  By the time I poured my first cup of coffee, Hy was already on the phone to a towing company, arranging for them to remove the Morgan. Then he went outside and pushed it onto the sidewalk in front of the house so he wouldn’t be ticketed for blocking the street cleaners. Because he also could be ticketed for parking on the sidewalk, he stuck a note of explanation under the windshield wiper.

  When he came back to the kitchen, Michelle was with him. She prepared the syringe for Ralph, who was at his food bowl, and as she administered the shot, I heard the cat purr. This, from an animal that seemed determined to ignore me!

  Maybe it was going to be another of those Mondays. . . .

  Things began looking up, however, when I called my friend Daphne Ashford at her graphic arts studio.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ve got software similar to what the police use to create a portrait of a suspect. The technology’s very sophisticated—and accurate. I’ve used it to create images for posters and the like.”

  “I thought you’d mentioned that. Are you available to take on a job for me today?”

  “You’ve caught me in a forty-eight-hour window between projects. I was planning to clean the flat, but what the hell. Clean flat? Make money? No contest.”

  “Is two o’clock okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll bring the first witness by the studio then.”

  Ted looked somber when he handed me my phone messages, and the top one told me why. Todd Baylis from DCA was requesting additional documents from the agency files and also wished to set up a meeting with Julia and me at our earliest convenience.

  I thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll phone him. And here’s what I’d like you to do: give him everything he wants, and then some. Load him up with documents, relevant or irrevelant, so long as there’s nothing sensitive in them. That’ll buy us time while he reads them.”