Dead Midnight (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  Nothing about these messages or the others in the Project ’Zine file gave any indication of why Roger killed himself or what he’d done that he didn’t want made public unless necessary to protect Jody Houston. Nor did they hint at whom or what she needed protection from. His final messages to his brothers Eddie—happyhacker—and Harry—rx—were filled with guilt and remorse. And it appeared that when I’d talked with Eddie he’d distanced himself from Roger, as his older brother had instructed him. His anger was probably genuine—I could recognize that from my own recent emotional state—but his statement that they weren’t close was a lie. As for Harry, I suspected that Roger was the one who had put him up to accessing confidential hospital records, but for what reason I hadn’t a clue.

  I checked my watch. Almost midnight, too late to call Eddie or Harry. Then I remembered I wanted to assign Julia to conduct a surveillance on Harry tomorrow. If I could get a handle on his activities, I might acquire the leverage to make him open up. For a moment I hesitated at phoning a single mother with a young son at this hour, but Julia knew she’d signed on for an irregular schedule, and would resent being given special treatment. I picked up the receiver and made a nuisance of myself for the last time that day.

  Monday

  APRIL 23

  The phone rang as I was lying in bed contemplating my plan for the day. I regarded it warily. A reporter? No. By now, with no new developments, press interest in both J.D.’s murder and me would be on the wane. Besides, all calls to this number were prescreened by the command post downstairs, and I’d given them only a limited list of names to be put through. I picked up.

  “So how do you like your home away from home?”

  “Ripinsky! You must’ve talked with Green Street.”

  “Yeah, they told me I’d authorized your using the apartment. I’m curious as to why I had to do that.”

  I explained, heard the pain in his voice when he reacted to the news of J.D.’s death. Hy had seen entirely too many people die before their time, including his wife, environmentalist Julie Spaulding, whom he’d watched waste away from multiple sclerosis. Such experiences had molded him into a man who regularly needed reassurance that those he cared about were all right—the reason why, in spite of an uncanny emotional connection that allowed us to tap into each other’s feelings over time and distance, we spoke frequently when apart.

  “I suppose you’re feeling guilty because J.D. went up there while he was helping you with your case,” he said.

  “Not really. He was a reporter to the bone. I couldn’t’ve stopped him even if I’d known he was going. I just wish I’d gotten there sooner. Maybe I could have prevented the murder. And, of course, I’m going to miss him.”

  “Me too.”

  “So when are you coming home?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I called.” Now his voice took on a familiar tone, a formality and remoteness that said he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “I have to go to Manila. A situation’s brewing with one of our clients.”

  “The Philippines? Didn’t they just have a ‘situation’ there?”

  “Well, it’s a volatile political climate.”

  I’d get no more details from him. Need-to-know again, and even I was excluded.

  “McCone? You’re not angry? Or afraid for me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re in a bad place right now, and I’m not there for you again. Is that it?”

  “I can handle this.”

  “You can. But should you always have to?”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “The job is just something I do. I’m good at it, and it makes me feel valuable, but it doesn’t define me. You say the word and I’ll let Gage and Dan buy me out.”

  “You’d do that? For me?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  Knowing that he’d make such a sacrifice was all I really needed.

  I said, “You’re with me, no matter where you are. Go on, get yourself packed and on your flight to Manila. You’re the best man to handle any ‘situation.’ ”

  Charlotte Keim, a restaurant snob if I’d ever met one, looked around the linoleum-and-vinyl interior of the Koffee Kup and wrinkled her nose. “Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why’re we meeting way out here in the Avenues?”

  Despite its appearance, the coffee shop had redeeming qualities—among them its location near RKI’s building, and the presence of corned-beef hash and eggs on its menu. I frowned at Keim, waited for the waitress to take our orders and depart before I replied.

  “I’m here because I’m staying close by,” I said. “And you’re here because I need to ask you how venture capital works.”

  Keim, a former RKI operative whom I’d lured away with the promise of more interesting work and a less paranoid atmosphere, was an expert in the financial area. Now she forgot her displeasure at what she considered a substandard eatery. “How much detail do you want?”

  “The basics will do for now.”

  “Okay, that’s easy. You have a venture capital firm. X Company. They establish what’s called a start-up fund and solicit signed commitments from investors—called limited partners—to come up with a certain amount of cash when it’s needed. When the VC find a likely company to invest in, they put out a capital call, requesting the promised bucks from the partners. The fund remains in existence till the start-up company is sold or goes public—or folds, the scenario we’re seeing more frequently these days. But if all goes well, when the fund closes, the limited partners realize their return on investment.”

  “And what’s in it for the VC?”

  “Most invest their own capital as well, so they realize the same kind of return as the limited partners. And they charge the fund management fees, usually in the neighborhood of two or three percent of total assets. That probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but we’re talking many millions per fund, and most VC oversee several.”

  “A high-risk way to get rich, then. I would think the volume of investing would be down nowadays.”

  Keim waited while the waitress put a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of her. From the look on her face as she sniffed them, I could tell that the Koffee Kup was about to triumph over its shabby appearance and unfortunate locale. My corned-beef hash looked to be classic—sliced right out of the can and slapped on the grill—nothing fancy, just the way I like it.

  As she poured syrup, Charlotte went on, “VC investment was down about forty percent first quarter of this year, but rich people and pension funds’re still reaching for their checkbooks. Historically, venture capital investing has produced a return of around twenty percent. Where else can you realize that much in this market?”

  “I guess the VC are steering away from the dot-com firms, though.”

  “Definitely. They’re waiting to see what the market trends will be before they choose which companies to finance. I read in the Wall Street Journal that overall there’s thirty to forty billion dollars in unexercised capital commitments out there.”

  I considered that, sipping coffee. “All right, you have a capital call when the initial investment is made. Then there’s what I’ve heard called mezzanine financing.”

  “Right. It happens at various stages before they go to IPO.”

  “And the fund manager is the one who decides when they’ll be made. What factors enter into that?”

  “How the company’s growing is one. If it’s going too fast for the timetable they’ve set up, they may opt to slow growth. Or if it’s in trouble, a big infusion of cash at the right point can help. Companies are like individuals in a lot of ways; you’ve got to treat each one differently in order to maximize performance.”

  Like my employees, I thought. “So if a company’s in trouble an infusion of cash is considered the proper solution.”

  “Another round of financing would be in the VC’s best interests, yes. But there’s also the scenario of cutting their losses and running. The firm might have v
aluable assets that could be sold at a profit. Or they might come up with a buyer who would be willing to take it off their hands. I’ve even heard of cases where the VC wanted to cover up some irregularity, so they just let the companies fail. Almost anything could be a reason for not coming up with the needed capital.”

  Almost anything—including a sudden disappearance.

  My phone rang as I was crossing Mission on Tenth Street, heading toward the pier. I picked it up from the passenger’s seat and answered.

  “Sharon?” Julia Rafael, calling during her surveillance on Harry Nagasawa. “The subject left his home at nine-thirty-two. I followed him across town to a bar on Sixteenth Street near Folsom, where he had a couple of pops and made a drug buy. Apparently he used some of the merchandise in the car before he left his parking space. Now we’re heading northeast on Market and, man, is he driving crazy.”

  “Stay on him and keep me posted.” I made a left turn and doubled back on Ninth.

  “He drove along Franklin and turned left on Lombard. Could be headed for the bridge.”

  Or he’d spotted her and would turn toward home.

  “I’m right behind you. Stay on the line.”

  “We’re in Seacliff now. EI Camino del Mar. He’s turning … You know that short block that dead-ends before you get to the recreation area? He’s pulling over by McKittridge Park.”

  I knew that block all too well.

  “Maintain surveillance, but don’t approach him. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  In the 1950s, when the three-acre bluff-top land near the Golden Gate National Recreation Area was occupied by a conservative think tank, an infamous murder had been committed in a dovecote on the property. A few years ago my own investigation on behalf of the woman who was convicted of the crime revealed the true identity of the killer. The think tank, which by then had moved to other quarters, donated the land to the city, with the stipulation that it be named Cordelia McKittridge Park, in memory of the young debutante who had been brutally murdered. What was then an overgrown tract occupied by a decaying mansion is now beautifully landscaped, with benches and a gazebo; a series of three large decks connected by staircases lead down to the bluff’s edge, commanding views from the Golden Gate to the open sea. Old San Franciscans know where to look for the foundations of the razed mansion and dovecote, but many visitors to the park have no idea of its bloody history or who Cordelia McKittridge was.

  The evil of years past still lingers in the park, however: a rape and a stabbing have occurred there since its establishment, and two people—both suicides—have plunged to their deaths from the bluff top. It’s as if the place is infected by an ineradicable virus that can be contracted by susceptible visitors.

  I pulled my car up behind Julia’s shabby orange van, noted Harry’s Porsche three spaces ahead of it. Julia wasn’t in her vehicle, but as I entered the park I spotted her sitting on a bench on the first deck. She saw me and pointed down at the far platform; Harry leaned on the railing at the bluff’s edge, staring at the roiling surf and jagged rocks below.

  Unease gripped me as I hurried past Julia to the steps. A woman with two large dogs was ascending, blocking my way. I squeezed around them, heard a growl and the words “Watch it, asshole.”

  An artist had set up his easel on the middle deck and was daubing his canvas with colors that reflected the brilliance of the morning, but nighttime memories of this place flashed through my mind: thick mist hanging in the trees, the groan of foghorns, the glitter of light on a handgun …

  Harry had straightened, his palms braced flat against the railing. His stance bothered me—resolute, intense. Just as I started across the deck, he climbed over the rail onto the sloping ground behind.

  “Oh my God!” I ran toward him.

  He turned, threw me a glance that showed no recognition. Then he looked around as if surprised to find himself there. His foot slipped, and he fell heavily; the ground at the cliff’s edge began to crumble.

  I vaulted the railing and grasped him by the shoulders, frantically digging my heels into the ground. He lay limp, unresisting as he slid, pulling me behind him. The crash of the surf on the rocks below was deafening. I could smell brine and Harry’s alcohol-laced sweat. I dug my heels in harder, straining my calf and thigh muscles, and finally managed to arrest our slide. Harry’s head flopped back against my chest; his eyes were dull, blank—empty even of fear.

  My heart was pounding erratically and I drew short, ragged breaths. Behind me I heard shouting and running, and then hands were reaching for us—Julia’s and a male stranger’s. I kept a firm grip on Harry, allowed them to pull both of us to safety.

  Another suicide.

  But this time it didn’t happen.

  This time I prevented it….

  “… and on the local news this evening, we’ll have more about that San Francisco private investigator who keeps turning up when tragic things happen—or almost happen— to people—”

  “Dammit!” I shut the TV off. After a brief hiatus when I’d thought press interest in me had died down, I was once again a hot news item. Thank God Julia and I had retreated to RKI’s well-guarded fortress as soon as the police finished with us at McKittridge Park.

  I glanced at her. She’d been uncharacteristically silent as I surfed the channels for one of the stations’ noon-hour trailers for its newscasts, and from her rounded shoulders and drooping head I could see she was depressed. She felt the pull of my gaze and looked up.

  “He totally weirded out, didn’t he?” she said.

  “Yeah, he did.” When the paramedics had loaded Harry onto an ambulance, he’d appeared catatonic. “Maybe now his parents will get him the help he needs.”

  “Does shit like this happen to you a lot? Almost getting killed saving some asshole?”

  Or defending myself from same. “It’s happened. But most of the time the upsetting events in my business aren’t anything worse than a client stiffing me on a fee.”

  Julia didn’t look convinced. “I guess today wasn’t really so bad, was it? I mean, it turned out all right.”

  “Right.”

  “But sometimes it doesn’t. You’ve seen people killed, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the first time?”

  “A while after I started at All Souls Legal Cooperative. One of Hank Zahn’s clients was murdered.”

  “How long had you been an investigator when that happened?”

  “I was around thirty, and I’d been in security off and on since I graduated high school.”

  “But how long had you actually been an investigator?”

  “Three years. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out the odds.”

  “Of what?”

  “How many times shit like that will happen to me if I stay in this line of work.”

  Was she thinking of quitting? I couldn’t believe that. Julia was a tough woman and, while she’d witnessed Harry’s attempted suicide, she hadn’t been the one he almost took with him. The images I’d be carrying for the rest of my life were not hers. Still, I had to reassure her, help her deal with the situation.

  Carefully I said, “You may never see something like that again. Not all investigators work in the field. If you build your computer skills and opt for a desk job—”

  “No way. Not me.”

  “Well, it’s one possibility.”

  “Not for this woman. I get half crazy when I spend more than a couple of hours sitting in that office. I’m always having to get out, take a walk. Craig’s the same way. That’s why he’s always lying around on the floor exercising. We’re action people, like you.”

  “Then you’d better find a way to deal with the unpleasant things that’ll come along. I can recommend one method: compartmentalize.”

  “Say what?”

  “You picture a compartment in your mind. One that locks. Then you put the memory in there and close it.”

  She frowned. “You must ha
ve one hell of a huge compartment.”

  “The size of a bank vault, now. But you can start small. Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky people.”

  “You’ve seen my résumé. Luck doesn’t figure.”

  “That’s already changing. For starters, I’d suggest a compartment the size of a safe-deposit box.”

  Julia smiled. Of course, she hadn’t yet thought of the obvious: any self-created mental compartment comes with an easily pickable lock.

  “Ms. McCone, this is Eddie Nagasawa. Glenn Solomon gave me your number.” His voice was rough with emotion. “I want to thank you for saving my brother’s life.”

  “You’re welcome, Eddie. I’m glad I could get to him on time.”

  “D’you suppose … Could we get together, talk in person?”

  I’d wanted to ask him some questions anyway. “Name the time and place.”

  A pause. “I’m on my way up from Palo Alto to be with my folks, but I’d rather not do this at the house. D’you know where Roger’s flat is?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I have a set of keys to it.”

  “So do I. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  When I arrived Eddie was drinking wine—an inexpensive red that he’d brought with him. He offered me some, and I didn’t refuse. We sat across from each other at the glass table in the dining area and, at his request, I described the circumstances of his brother’s attempted suicide.

  “Are you sure he intended to jump?” he asked.

  “Well, he didn’t leave a note in his car, if that’s what you mean. He’d been drinking, and my operative thought he’d also done some drugs. He may have been thinking of suicide, climbed over the railing to test his limits, and fell because he became disoriented.”

  “But there’s no way to know for sure.”

  “No.”

  “God, I wish I could believe he would’ve climbed back over. I keep thinking … I’ve got this life, you know, and up until Rog died it was a good one. Four-point GPA, great friends, great girlfriend, all that stuff. But now it’s screwed because it looks like there’s this suicide gene in my family. How do I know I won’t go nuts and try to kill myself too?”