The Dangerous Hour Page 5

  “And in what publication will the article appear?”

  “I’m writing it on spec, but I hope to place it in the Chronicle’s Sunday magazine. Other newspaper magazines as well.”

  He considered that, then nodded. “I happen to have a half hour free. Let me show you around, and later we’ll talk in my office.”

  Santamaria led me through the door at the rear of the reception area. From the right came the strident voice I’d noted earlier, interspersed with thumps and groans. “Aerobics class?” I asked.

  “Yes. The purpose of our center is to produce applicants who are fully employable in every sense of the term—and that means being attractive and physically fit. Now, over here”—he motioned to the left—“is our language lab. Clients study English using workbooks and tapes—supplemented, of course, by classwork.”

  A child wailed in the next room. “Our day care center.”

  I peered through the open door, saw a roomful of toddlers playing with colorful toys. Cribs were lined up along the far wall. A woman was squatting on the floor, comforting the crying child, who was gesturing wildly at a little girl who possessively clutched a Tonka truck.

  Santamaria shrugged, smiling. “I’m a father myself, but I don’t know how our volunteers manage. Now, over here to our right is the computer room. An invaluable skill today. Apple and Hewlett-Packard donated the machines.”

  I started to look inside, but my guide pressed onward. “Classrooms. The courses being conducted at the moment are ‘Getting Along’—basic business etiquette—and bookkeeping. In addition to regular classroom work, we’ve made arrangements with a large auto repair shop, an electrical contractor, and a major insurance company to take on clients as apprentices. And here is the cafeteria; clients interested in the food service industry work with volunteers to provide free breakfasts and lunches five days a week. We’ll go to my office now.”

  He led me down a narrow hallway to a series of modular cubicles. “These cubicles were donated by a dot-com firm that closed its San Francisco branch last year. No high administrative overhead here; we take what’s offered to us, and eighty-two percent of every cash donation goes directly to servicing our clients.”

  Santamaria’s cubicle was small and spartan: desk, computer workstation, file cabinets, one chair. He motioned me into the chair, picked up the phone and said to hold all his calls, then sat behind the desk, hands folded. “What else can I tell you about the center, Ms. Blackhawk?”

  I took out my voice-activated tape recorder. “Do you mind?”

  “Feel free.”

  “Thank you. First, I’d like to get some background on Trabajo por Todos. I understand it was founded by Supervisor Alex Aguilar and a grant writer named Scott Wagner.”

  “That’s correct. Supervisor Aguilar was a social worker in Southern California. When he moved north, he contacted Mr. Wagner on the advice of one of his colleagues. It was an effective and productive association.”

  “And Mr. Wagner is now deceased?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Two months ago he died in a hiking accident up in Marin County.”

  “And then Supervisor Aguilar hired you?”

  “Yes. I oversee fiscal matters and fund-raising, as well as the day-to-day operations of the center.”

  “A large responsibility.”

  “I have good support staff, both paid and volunteer.”

  “I understand Alex Aguilar is not so active in the organization.”

  “Also correct. Alex has his duties on the board of supervisors, as well as an importing business that brings revenues our way.”

  “Is it possible I could talk with him?”

  “Sorry, no. Alex is out of town. Perhaps when he returns.”

  “What about your clients? I’d like to use a few personal success stories in the article.”

  “Ah, I can certainly provide you with that.” He opened his desk drawer and extracted a file folder. “Testimonials to our success.”

  I glanced through it. Computer-generated text, along with smiling photographs. “Would it be possible for me to talk personally with some of these people?”

  “Of course, Ms. Blackhawk. Read through the file, then call me. I’ll be glad to put you in touch with whoever you wish.”

  I reached for my tape recorder and stood, but didn’t turn it off. “By the way, Mr. Santamaria, I noticed an article in the paper last weekend about Mr. Aguilar. Apparently he’s been the victim of credit-card fraud?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. However, it doesn’t apply to our organization. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious. I myself was once a victim of identity theft.”

  Gene Santamaria rose from his chair. “That must have been a nightmare, Ms. Blackhawk. I know that Alex has been very troubled by the situation.”

  I started to speak, but he looked at his watch. “Did I say I had half an hour? I’ve enjoyed our conversation so much that I’ve run fifteen minutes over.”

  Santamaria hadn’t once glanced at the time since we’d begun talking, but now that I’d mentioned the fraud case, our interview was ended.

  From the car I called Ted to ask what time he’d been able to set for the agency meeting. Owing to everybody’s conflicting schedules, he told me, it would have to run over the noon hour.

  “Fine,” I said. “Why don’t you order in food—”

  “I’ve got it covered. The consensus was pizza.”

  “Coffee and—”

  “The carafes’re full of freshly brewed caf and decaf. Sodas’re in the cooler.”

  It was five after eleven, time for one more stop. I took the Aguilar file from my briefcase and looked up the supervisor’s home address. It was on San Jose Street between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth, not much of a detour.

  The apartment building was one of those bland types constructed in the sixties: three stories of dirty white stucco with rectangular picture windows facing the street; the windows were framed above and below by decorative panels that probably once had been turquoise but now were a peculiar shade of blue. Rust stains had accumulated at their corners. The curtains on all the windows were closed against the decidedly unscenic view of a utility pole and a hideous orange house across the pavement, but one of the three garage doors on the ground level was open, and a talk radio show was playing. I left my car blocking the driveway, went over, and stuck my head inside.

  A red-haired man in dirty jeans and a grease-streaked T-shirt stood with his hands on his hips, staring angrily into the engine compartment of a battered old Ford Falcon. “Piece of shit,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me,” I called.

  He started. “Excuse me, lady. Didn’t know anybody was there. But this thing is a piece of shit, you know?” He wrinkled his freckled nose.

  “I know.” I motioned outside at the MG.

  “That one looks like a real classic car. Mine . . . Well, that’s what I get for trusting my cousin Joey. He works for Xavier Motors, used-car joint over on South Van Ness. This thing comes in—God knows how they drove it onto the lot. Joey gets it cheap, sells it to me at cost. He’s gonna help me fix it up, my great mechanic cousin. Sure, he is. I ain’t seen him since. Let me ask you this: why’re all guys called Joey fuckups?”

  With a flash of sadness, I thought of my brother Joey, who had committed suicide with an overdose of drugs and alcohol. Yes, he’d been a fuckup. A lovable one, but a fuckup nonetheless. . . .

  “Ah, hell,” the man said, tossing the filthy rag he held into the Falcon’s engine compartment, “you don’t wanna hear about it; I don’t wanna hear about it. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for information on your fellow tenant Alex Aguilar.”

  The man scowled. “Aguilar? What’s the bastard done now?”

  “What did he do to make you call him a bastard?”

  He took a step back, held up his hands. “Whoa, lady. I don’t even know who you are.”

  No need to conceal my identity; this guy wo
uldn’t tell Aguilar about my visit. I gave him one of my cards.

  He studied it, looked up with a gleam in his eye. “He in trouble?”

  “Could be.”

  “Good. I’m Patrick Neilan, by the way. Live downstairs from Aguilar. What d’you wanna know?”

  “Start with my original question: why’s Aguilar a bastard?”

  “He’s lived here for eight, nine years, right? So he thinks he owns the place. Polices everybody. Don’t put your recycle bins there; don’t put out your garbage till the morning of pickup; don’t leave your junk mail in the lobby. You have a party, make a little noise, he doesn’t warn you; instead he calls the cops. He’s got an in, see, on account of being a supervisor, so you can’t complain to them. I tried complaining to the landlord once, but a lot of good it did me.”

  “What about consulting an attorney? The guy’s violating your rights.”

  “Lady, I could barely afford this car. How can I afford a lawyer? Nah, it’s just easier to tone down the noise at the parties.”

  “Does Aguilar have parties?”

  “Shit, no. He’s too busy saving the world.”

  “What about women friends?”

  “Some, but they don’t last.”

  “Last month, did you see him with a tall Hispanic woman? Strong looking, multiple ear-piercings, cropped hair?”

  He thought, shook his head.

  “Maybe if I brought a picture around . . . ?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The other tenants—how many apartments are there?”

  “Six, but only four’re occupied.”

  “How do the others feel about Aguilar?”

  “About the same as I do. Angela Batista, woman who lives across from him, says if he had a vicious dog—like the one attacked and killed that woman in Pacific Heights a couple years ago—she’d take her chances with the dog.”

  A very different portrait of the supervisor than what had appeared in the press and his campaign literature. I told Patrick Neilan that I’d be back that evening to talk with his fellow tenants.

  Mick glanced covetously at my untouched slice of pepperoni pizza. I motioned for him to take it. I’d just finished explaining the current situation to my staff, and had no appetite whatsoever.

  “So that’s how it stands at present,” I concluded. “We’ll know late this afternoon whether the D.A. is planning to go forward with the case against Julia. If he does, we’ll also know what evidence they have against her. But, regardless of what he decides, BSIS may still pursue the complaint against me.”

  Craig asked, “What’s the likelihood they’d do that?”

  “I don’t have a clue. As we all know, state budgets for the various administrative departments have been drastically slashed. That could work in our favor. Why pursue a specious complaint when there’s no funding for pursuing the serious ones? On the other hand, we’re a high-profile agency and the complainant is also high-profile. BSIS was created to enforce the standards set for our industry, and if Alex Aguilar decides to make a commotion, they’ve really no choice but to pursue and resolve it. Private investigators have taken some bad hits in the press lately, and you can’t blame BSIS for taking aggressive action. Tomorrow I’m seeing an attorney who specializes in this area—someone Glenn Solomon recommended. Maybe then I’ll have a better feel for what might happen.”

  “So as for now, Shar?” Ted asked.

  “We ought to be prepared for the worst, on all fronts. Friday, it looked as if we’d be expanding. Today we’re in a holding pattern. Your paragon of the paper clips will have to wait.” I turned to Mick. “I’ve gone over the résumés you gave me, and I like all three of the candidates, but I think we should hold off on offering employment to any of them.”

  “Shar, these people are the cream of the crop, and they’re going cheap because of the rotten economy. If we wait, we’ll lose them. One in particular, Derek Ford—”

  “We’ll talk later, in my office. Charlotte, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to hold off on your assistants as well.”

  The petite brunette’s mouth pulled down with disappointment, but she only nodded.

  “And,” I added, “we’ll have to tighten our belts all around. Take good care of our current clients, but in a way that doesn’t strain the budget.”

  “Well,” Ted said, “we can all chip in for the next batch of pizzas.”

  “I don’t think it’s that dire yet”—I flashed Mick a mock glare—“provided this one goes on a diet.”

  Mick grinned sheepishly. He was tall, but lately—because cooking and dining out were hobbies of Charlotte’s and his—he’d entered love-handles territory.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’re out of here. Craig, I want to see you in my office right away. Mick, I’ll buzz you later.”

  “Alex Aguilar,” Craig said, opening his file. “Born, Long Beach, thirty-six years old. Father, Hector, worked the docks at Terminal Island, is retired now. Mother, Celia, held various service industry jobs and is also retired. Alex is the youngest of four children. A sister, Teresa, is a housewife in Crescent City; another, Maria, has a beauty salon in Modesto. The brother, Jim, manages a Denny’s in Grass Valley.”

  “Average middle-class family, then.”

  “Middle class, yes. But not so average.”

  “How so?”

  “The Aguilars have a tradition of activism within the Hispanic community. Now that they’re retired, the parents work with various nonprofit organizations in the L.A. area. One sister currently volunteers with a literacy program, the other with a battered-women’s shelter. The brother is on his county’s board of supervisors.”

  “And now Alex has built on his own record of community service to a potential mayoral bid.”

  “Right. Aguilar graduated high school in Long Beach, enrolled at San Diego State the next fall, majoring in political science. Dropped out after three semesters—money was short—but remained in the area, working as a waiter. Rematriculated a year and a half later, received his B.A. after another six semesters. Took a job as a social worker for L.A. County immediately upon graduation.”

  “Don’t most social workers have at least a master’s degree?”

  “Apparently Aguilar did volunteer work during college that qualified him. And L.A. County wasn’t paying enough then to hire fully credentialed people. Aguilar quit and came up here eleven years ago.”

  “Okay, that’s bare-bones background. What about the personal stuff? Who is this man, aside from what his campaign literature and press releases claim? Was it political ambition that prompted him to give up a secure job as a social worker and come up here to start a job-training center? What romantic relationships has he had? What do his old friends say about him? His enemies? His barber? His bank teller?”

  Craig frowned. “Shar, forgive me for saying so, but it sounds as if you’re launching a vendetta against the guy.”

  “Well, Aguilar’s already launched a vendetta against this agency. Having Julia arrested was one thing, but he didn’t have to file a complaint with DCA. He could just as easily have come to me and asked if I had knowledge of her actions. He could have taken a respectful and professional approach, but he chose not to.”

  “Now that you mention it, his reaction was somewhat extreme.”

  “And that’s not all. I’ve found out Supervisor Aguilar’s private persona does not mesh with the public image.” I related what Patrick Neilan, Aguilar’s cotenant, had told me. “I’ll find out more this evening when I talk with the other tenants of the building. And in the meantime, I want you to keep digging.”

  “Right. But what about this belt-tightening you were talking about? I’ll have to fly down south, or co-opt people at other agencies there. I’ve already farmed out two clients to Tamara Corbin—”

  “Do what you have to.”

  “Shar, this is Derek Ford.”

  Derek Ford was tall, lean, bespectacled, and clad in a black leather cap and a long black leather coat.
His smooth facial features looked Eurasian. A tattoo of linked scorpions showed above the vee neckline of his black silk shirt. My first take on him was of affluence and confidence. From his résumé, I already knew that he was highly intelligent.

  And he wasn’t supposed to be here. I’d told Mick to hold off on hiring anyone for his department.

  I contained my displeasure with my nephew and said, “Mr. Ford, I’m glad to meet you, and I’m very impressed with your résumé. But Mick should have explained our situation. We’ve had to impose a hiring freeze—”

  “Call me Derek,” he said, taking my offered hand. “Mick’s explained everything, and it doesn’t matter to me. I really want this job, and I’m here to offer my services, free of charge.”

  “. . . Free of charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a first. Please, sit down, Derek. You too, Mick.” When we were settled, I added, “I’m not used to people volunteering to work for me. Will you explain why you are?”

  “Because, until your problems are resolved, I can afford to. I made a fair amount of money in the dot-com boom, and unlike many of my colleagues, I didn’t spend it on ten-buck martinis, fast cars, and cocaine. I grew up in a home where frugality was considered a virtue; both of my parents are college professors, but there were five of us kids, and they were determined we’d all get at least an undergraduate education, so everyone pulled his own weight. You flip burgers after school or bus dishes on weekends, you learn the value of a dollar pretty quick.”

  I liked what he said, liked the way he looked me in the eye as he spoke. “And exactly why do you want the job so badly?”

  He grinned, glanced at Mick. “Because I can learn a lot from this guy.”

  “Your résumé says you have a degree from Cal Poly. You didn’t learn enough there?”

  “I’m well educated, yes. And like I said, I profited from my early job experience, even though the company I was with crashed and burned. But I’ve got enough sense to realize I’m only competent in my field. Mick is a genius at what he does. Some of the advanced concepts he’s working on . . . well, I want to help him develop them.”