The Dangerous Hour

by Marcia Muller

  I said, “So you’re suggesting she set her sights on Alex Aguilar?”

  “Might’ve. I know she was excited when he asked her out to dinner. And she did say she might not come home that night, so I should watch out for Tonio. Not that I’m complaining. Jules has her needs.”

  I pictured Sophia: a plain woman in her early forties whose two children and husband were long gone from her life. She clerked at Safeway, played bingo at her church on Wednesday nights, and cared for Tonio. That was it, as far as I knew. But she was still young. Didn’t she have needs, too?

  “Well,” I said, “I guess Tonio’s your responsibility until bail can be arranged. Are you supposed to work tonight?”

  “Yeah, but there’s an old lady upstairs can take him.”

  Tonio was a bright, cheerful eight-year-old who did well in school and didn’t seem to suffer from being shuffled off to the various caretakers who helped Julia and Sophia juggle their complicated schedules. All of us at the agency were fond of him and encouraged Julia to bring him to the pier when no one else was available to look after him. “If I can help in any way—”

  “No, no. I got it under control.”

  After I replaced the receiver, I looked at my watch. The wheels at the Hall of Justice turned slowly. It might be hours till Glenn returned to tell me what he’d found out. I could read the Aguilar file. I could start plowing through the week’s paperwork.

  I could visit the mail room.

  Because of the size of the pier and the number of tenants, a mail room had been established near the front entrance, to which the post office and parcel service delivery people had keys. Only one person from each firm had access to the room and made pickups. In our case, it was Ted.

  I went along the catwalk to his bailiwick and found him seated behind his desk, working on a crossword puzzle. As long as I’d known him—going back to the days when he ruled the front office at All Souls Legal Cooperative—he’d been a crossword enthusiast, and now I wondered how many words he’d fitted into the little squares over the years.

  “Why’re you still here?” I asked. “It’s Friday night.”

  “I’m waiting for Neal to pick me up for a weekend getaway to Monterey.” Neal Osborn was Ted’s life partner. “I’ve also been waiting for you to ask for the key to the mail room.”

  “Julia’s sister said the police seized a lot of merchandise at their building. I have to know if there’s more here.”

  “I understand. I’ve had a hard time resisting going down there myself.” He stabbed his pen—the showoff always did his puzzles in ink—at the newsprint, then dropped it. “Let’s see what’s what.”

  The pier was Friday-night quiet. A light glowed in the offices of the architects on the opposite catwalk, but all the others were dark. Ted and I walked silently toward the mail room—actually a chain-link cage to the left of the pier’s arching entrance. He worked the lock, opened the door, and flicked on the overhead light.

  The room was divided into bins with shelves above them. Most of the bins were empty. Beside ours sat a couple of cases from Viking Office Supply. “Copy paper,” Ted said. He leaned over them, reached into our bin, and grunted in surprise as he pulled out a Jiffy bag.

  “What?” I asked.

  He held out the bag so I could see. The return address was Coach Leatherworks. The recipient was Ms. Julia Rafael, c/o McCone Investigations.

  “What should we do?” Ted whispered, in spite of there being no one to hear us.

  “Put it back. That’s all we can do. It’s evidence. Put it back—and leave it there.”

  In the three hours before Glenn Solomon arrived at the pier, I read through the Aguilar file and completed my paperwork for the week, but my concentration wasn’t all it should have been, and my thoughts kept turning to Julia.

  Last year she’d responded to an ad I’d placed in the Chronicle for an investigative trainee, no experience necessary—the idea being that I could mold said individual to my own standards while paying a modest starting salary. The application she presented me was the most off-putting I’d ever seen, listing two incarcerations by the California Youth Authority for drug-related offenses and two firings from subsequent jobs, one by a close relative. On the plus side, she’d gotten her GED during her second stint with the Youth Authority and had a solid recommendation from the former director of a federally funded neighborhood outreach program where she’d worked for four years until the government pulled the plug on it.

  In California, juvenile records are sealed in order to give the offender a fresh start, and it seemed strange that Julia would choose to reveal hers. When I questioned her about that, she said she feared her history might come out somewhere down the line, and thought it was best to be honest. During the rest of the interview I’d found her honesty to be brutal in the extreme, so brutal that I suspected she was working the angles. But jail time, even in a juvenile facility, teaches you a certain slyness, and it was an ability that would stand her in good stead as an investigator. In the end, mainly because none of my other applicants had standout qualifications, I hired her; she’d proved a fast learner and was also picking up on the interpersonal skills that would make her an asset to the agency. During the time she’d been a member of our little family—as we often referred to ourselves—she’d opened up, begun to trust in her growing friendships with us, become more confident. Now—

  Glenn knocked on the door frame and came in. As he sat on one of the clients’ chairs—which creaked under his weight—the set of his mouth was grim.

  “It’s bad?” I asked.

  “It’s bad.”

  Normally Glenn cut an imposing figure: tall and heavyset, with a lion’s mane of silver-gray hair, he was always impeccably and expensively tailored, even in his most casual clothes. Although generous and kind to those close to him, he was capable of unleashing scathing sarcasm upon his opponents, and had a cobra’s sense of when and how hard to strike. A man you would want as a friend, never as an enemy, and during the years he’d been throwing business my way, I’d learned to walk a fine line with him. Tonight, however, he was tired and looked nothing like the aggressive defense attorney whose thundering voice could quail prosecutors and their witnesses.

  He slouched in the chair and ran his hand over his reddened eyes, then over the stubble on his chin. “God, I’d forgotten how much that jail depresses me,” he said. “Normally I send one of my associates to handle the preliminaries.”

  “But you went for Julia.”

  “As I said on the phone, she interests me. Or maybe she reminds me that I come from humble roots, which is not a bad thing. And, of course, I’m concerned for you, my friend.”

  His words touched me. “Thank you.”

  “No need for thanks. Anyway, your Ms. Rafael: They’re housing her in Jail Two, on the seventh floor of the Hall. High security, no bail until arraignment, and no visitors allowed except me, as her attorney.”

  “Why high security?”

  “Because it’s a high-profile case—involving a city supe—and because of ‘behavioral problems.’ Meaning she resisted arrest and is considered a flight risk.”

  “You speak with her?”

  “Briefly. She claims that the arrest came as a total surprise. Says Aguilar took her to dinner at the conclusion of the investigation, and they parted on amicable terms. Denies making any sort of pass at him, or taking his credit card.”

  “You believe her?”

  “I do. I’ve got a damned good internal shit detector. She strikes me as a very straightforward young woman.”

  “Maybe not as straightforward as she appears.” I told him about the search and seizure at Sophia Cruz’s apartment, and the package in our mail room.

  He frowned. “Something’s not right. I’ve never known my shit detector to go on the fritz. She claims she and her sister haven’t gone into their storage bin at the apartment building in at least three months. I believe her. But by all indications the D.A.’s got a strong case
. I’ll know a little more tomorrow, after she’s processed and I can take a look at the paperwork, but you’d better be prepared: a source close to the investigation, whom I happened to encounter in the men’s room, tells me they have plenty of evidence—and that it leads straight back to your firm.”

  “Jesus. Because the packages they seized at her apartment house were sent here?”

  “That’s what I’d guess. Who brings them up from the mail room?”

  “Ted.”

  “He still here?”

  “No. He and his partner, Neal Osborn—”

  “I know Neal. I’ve bought books from him.” Neal was a secondhand bookseller, dealing on the Internet; Glenn was in the process of amassing a collection of out-of-print volumes dealing with criminal law.

  “Well, by now they’re on their way to Monterey for the weekend. I don’t know where they’re staying, and neither of them has a cellular. They won’t be back till Monday morning.”

  “Too bad. I wonder if Ted’s noticed an unusual number of packages arriving for Julia.”

  “He said the one we found in our bin tonight was the first he’s seen, and I’m sure that’s correct. What about Aguilar’s credit card? Did it turn up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I go over the paperwork when it’s available tomorrow, and then we wait till she’s arraigned.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tuesday morning.”

  “Tuesday!”

  “It could be worse. Because she was arrested before four o’clock this afternoon, the case has to go to the D.A. by four p.m. on Monday. If he decides to go ahead with it, it’s a Tuesday arraignment. If they’d come for her after four, the arraignment wouldn’t’ve been until Wednesday.”

  “Poor Jules. So I can’t visit her over the weekend?”

  “No.”

  “That’s outrageous!”

  He shrugged. “Sheriff’s department runs the jail and makes the rules. Frankly, they’re more generous than most; as you may recall, the sheriff used to be a prisoners’ rights attorney. But Julia made a bad mistake when she resisted the arresting officer—even though it wasn’t much resistance.”

  This was going to be a very long weekend—for all concerned.

  Half an hour later, when I arrived at my house in the Glen Park district, I left my car in the driveway, illegally blocking the sidewalk, as everyone else did on this congested tail-end segment of Church Street. Parking control understood that we residents settled our disputes privately and politely, and seldom ticketed anyone.

  As I hurried up the front steps, I heard the patter of paws behind me and then a yowl. Alice, my calico cat. She nosed frantically at the front door while I unlocked it: Food! I need food!

  “Hold on, will you?” She streaked down the hallway. I dealt with the alarm system, hung my jacket on the wall rack, and dumped my briefcase and purse on the chair in the sitting room. When I went into the kitchen, Allie was pacing impatiently in front of her food bowl.

  “Where’s your brother?” I asked her.

  For the past few months, Ralph, my orange tabby, had done poorly—weight loss coupled with a huge appetite for both food and water, listlessness, back legs so shaky that he had difficulty climbing up onto the couch. He and his robustly healthy littermate were getting on up there in years, and this sudden decline worried me. We had an appointment at the vet’s tomorrow morning.

  Hearing his name, Ralph crept tentatively from under the table. This was the cat who once could top the back fence in a single leap, who would run to greet me, tail wagging like a little dog’s. Now his tail drooped to the floor. My spirits drooped in a similar fashion, but I patted both cats and babbled with false cheer as I filled their bowls.

  In the sitting room I checked the answering machine. A couple of routine calls—I was three weeks overdue picking up my dry cleaning, and even more overdue for my MG’s servicing. Nothing from Hy.

  My longtime love’s silence was another reminder of a troublesome issue, and one I didn’t want to dwell on just now. I went back to the kitchen, stuck a frozen lasagna in the microwave, and when it was ready, took it and a glass of Chianti to the table, where I ate as I read my mail. A postcard from my mother and stepfather, mailed at the end of an Alaskan cruise from which they’d now returned. A note and sample menu from my sister Patsy, who, in partnership with her husband, Evans Newhouse, had just opened their third restaurant in the Sonoma Valley. A weird, scribbled card from my half brother, Darcy Blackhawk, in Boise, Idaho. Catalogs and other junk mail that I took to the recycle bin. On the way back, I detoured to my briefcase and extracted the file on the Aguilar case. Went over it again while I finished eating.

  As before, I noted nothing unusual. The investigation had proceeded in a straightforward manner. Computers and other equipment had disappeared from the Mission district job-training center Alex Aguilar and a partner had founded. Julia went undercover there, posing as a new client. She studied the dynamics of the other clients for a week, identified a pair of brothers as the probable thieves. Maintained a surveillance at night and photographed them exiting the premises with stolen goods. Followed them and photographed them turning the goods over to a third brother. Called the SFPD Burglary detail, who had arrested the brothers and seized the goods. The trial was scheduled for August, barring a complete breakdown in our overcrowded legal system. End of case.

  Until today.

  Saturday

  JULY 12

  After dropping off Ralph at the veterinary hospital on Ocean Avenue, where he would undergo a series of tests, I called Craig Morland. His time, I knew, would be somewhat free this weekend, as his significant other, Homicide Inspector Adah Joslyn, was in Las Vegas attending a forensics seminar and undoubtedly indulging her fondness for blackjack. Given the current situation, Craig was the employee whose expertise I most needed to tap into.

  But Craig had plans. “I was about to go for my run and then stop by the Friends of the Library bookshop at Fort Mason,” he told me.

  “Can we meet later, at the office?”

  “The office? I don’t know, Shar. It’s such a beautiful day, I hate to waste it sitting around inside.”

  It was beautiful: clear blue sky, a light breeze, the warm sun making the city shine clean, as if all its buildings were freshly painted. The sort of day we residents hunger for during the fogbound summer months.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t I meet you at Fort Mason? I’ll pick up deli sandwiches, and we can picnic and talk on one of the piers.”

  “Throw in a few bottles of Sierra Nevada, and you’re on.”

  After a quick stop at the Marina Safeway, I drove past the boats moored at the eastern end of the yacht harbor and through the gates of Fort Mason. The former military base, from which troops and supplies were deployed by ship during World War II, seemed strangely deserted today, and I had no difficulty finding a parking space. That was a surprise, because the facility, now a part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, houses forty-some nonprofit organizations, four museums, a nationally renowned vegetarian restaurant, and five theaters, and plays host to thousands of special events yearly. So where was everyone? Out enjoying the beaches and parks, presumably.

  I locked the MG and walked over to one of four long beige stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs—former storage depots—where the Friends of the San Francisco Public Library had their bargain bookshop. Craig was seated at a picnic bench in front of it, leafing through an illustrated copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales.

  “Trying to scare yourself?” I asked.

  He looked up and smiled, lines crinkling around his mouth and eyes. “Adah’s taken to collecting kids’ books. I don’t know much about them, but this struck me as a pretty one—although there are an alarming number of hairy, fanged beasts in the pictures.”

  “The Brothers Grimm were well named.”

  Craig stood, stuffing the volume into a tote bag that co
ntained several other books, and said, “Let’s eat. Not much going on here today, so we should be able to find a good place.”

  We turned toward the three piers that extended into the bay, passing spaces belonging to such eclectic organizations as the Children’s Art Center, the African American Historical and Cultural Society, and Friends of the River. At the middle pier, housing Herbst Pavilion and the Cowell Theater, Craig motioned to the right, then to the left, eyebrows raised questioningly. I pointed to the left, the sunny side at this time of day.

  We walked along past rust red stanchions, some still draped in the huge chains that had tethered the military transport ships. A trio of old fishermen leaned on the railing halfway out, and they nodded cordially as we went by. After they could no longer hear us, Craig said, “I don’t think I’d want to eat anything they’d catch there.”

  I glanced at the murky, brownish water and shrugged. “They’ve probably been fishing here for decades, and they’re still above ground.”

  At the far end of the pier we chose a spot in the sun and sat cross-legged on the warm concrete. I paused to take in the view from the Golden Gate to Alcatraz, watched a sailboat that resembled a Chinese junk glide by. Craig immediately burrowed into the bag of food I’d brought.

  “Hungry, are we?” I asked.

  “Starved. I’m not much of a cook, and when Adah’s gone, I don’t eat very well.”

  Craig was slender, with longish brown hair and a thick mustache. Today he wore shorts, running shoes, and an FBI Academy sweatshirt that was one wash short of the ragbag. A far cry from the buttoned-down, tightly wound agent who had descended upon San Francisco several years ago, determined to nail a lunatic who seemed intent on blowing up every individual in the country who held diplomatic immunity. That case—which I’d eventually solved—had changed Craig, made him doubt much of what he’d previously believed about the Bureau, and in the course of it he’d also met Adah, who had been temporarily assigned to the FBI detail. A year or so later, he resigned and moved west to be with her, and I brought him on board at the agency. A good man, a good operative.