Craig stood in the doorway, laptop in hand, travel bag slung over his shoulder. “You know him, Jules?” he added. “Do you?”
Julia paled and pressed a hand to her lips. In the silence that followed, the traffic on the Bay Bridge sounded louder than normal.
I said, “Well, Julia?”
She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Johnny . . . He’s, you know, the guy I was dating last winter.”
I hadn’t met him, but I’d heard plenty. For a while they’d been quite an item. On Valentine’s Day he’d sent her a dozen roses and a box of Godiva chocolates. Then, a few weeks later, the romance was over. “You were dating a drug pusher?”
My tone made her shrink into her chair. “I didn’t know he was one; I swear it. I met him at this club on Eighteenth Street in January. He told me he worked for a marketing company whose accounts were in the telecommunications field. I didn’t have any reason not to believe him. He dressed well, not flashy or anything, had a nice car, a nice condo, always had money to spend.”
“Didn’t it occur to you to check him out? You have the resources.”
Julia’s eyes flashed. “Yeah? Is that what you would’ve done? I’ve heard those stories about Hy keeping his past a secret from you.”
Her reaction was one she’d displayed before—a quick, defensive segue from fear to anger—and it brought out anger in me, too. What she’d said displayed little understanding of my relationship with Hy, past or present.
I said, “We’re not talking about me here. When did you find out Johnny Duarte was a drug trafficker?”
Julia’s eyes moved from side to side, like a cornered animal’s. For a moment I thought she might bolt from the office. Finally she slumped forward, covering her face with her hands.
“When, Julia?”
“Last week in February. There’s this narc I know—Tom Leary. Johnny and I ran into him on the street one day. He busted me once back when, but since I’ve gotten my act together, he kind of treats me like a little sister. That night, though, he was cold. And the next morning he called me, told me I was dating a major drug distributor, made me come down to the Hall and look at the file they’ve got on Johnny. I freaked, called Johnny, told him it was all over.”
“You tell him why?”
“No, no way I was gonna let him know I was onto him. I said an old boyfriend was back in my life, and I’d had to choose between them. Johnny was cool about it.”
I nodded, drumming my fingertips on the desk. My next question was one she wouldn’t like, but I had to ask it.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Wasn’t any of your business!”
“When you came to work for me, what did I tell you about your private life?”
She thought, running the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “‘Your private life is your own, except when it reflects badly upon the agency. Then we need to talk.’”
“Didn’t you think the subject of your relationship with Johnny Duarte was one we needed to discuss?”
Julia looked down at her hands.
Craig, who was leaning against the doorjamb, shifted. I sensed he was about to say something in her defense, so I held up a staying hand.
“Julia?”
“. . . I was embarrassed. I mean, I should’ve known what he was. Hell, I used to work for guys like Johnny.”
She’d had a rough five days and was close to the breaking point. I backed off some. “We all want to believe we have good judgment about the men we’re involved with. You overlooked the little signs that would’ve told you Duarte wasn’t what he seemed. But after you found out about him, you should have come to me.”
“I know.” She looked up, more resigned than upset. “I guess this means you’re firing me.”
I shook my head. “No, but I am sending you home to do some thinking.”
Her lips twisted wryly. “Sort of like I send Tonio to his time-out corner?”
“Something like that. I want you to take tomorrow off. Review everything that’s gone on in your life since you came to work here, to see if there’s anything else you should have told me.”
“Shar, I swear—”
“It could be something insignificant, that didn’t seem important at the time. For one reason or another, you’ve become a target, and we have to figure out why.”
After Julia left the office, Craig moved to the chair she’d occupied. “I think,” he said, “that Alex Aguilar found out Julia had dated Johnny Duarte. He was probably afraid she’d discovered the connection between them and might use it against him after he put the moves on her. So he decided to frame her, maybe trade dropping the charges against her for her silence.”
“And what is that connection?”
“Let me tell you about my trip down south.” He set his laptop on the desk and booted it up. “Most of the people I spoke with in the L.A. area confirmed the public details of Aguilar’s life. But in San Diego I began running into resistance. The owners of one of the restaurants where he worked during the time he dropped out of college wouldn’t talk about him. In fact, they seemed disturbed that I had come around asking questions. Naturally, that intrigued me, so I kept digging. A former roommate who still lives in the area threatened to call his lawyer if I persisted. A woman who did volunteer work with Aguilar refused to see me. Finally I came up with the name of an old friend of his who lives in Banning—that’s Riverside County—and he agreed to talk with me, on the condition of anonymity.”
“A lot of closemouthed people down there.”
“More like a lot of frightened people. But the guy in Banning is tough—ex-con gone straight, owns a motorcycle dealership. He wasn’t about to let Aguilar’s pals shut him up.”
“Aguilar’s ‘pals’?”
“His term. He claims that shortly after an article on Aguilar appeared in the national press, touting him as San Francisco’s best future prospect for a Hispanic mayor, some of Aguilar’s people paid him a visit, warned him that a certain area of the supervisor’s past was not to be discussed. They offered him money, and when the guy refused it, they threatened him. He ran them off, started sleeping with a baseball bat next to the bed.”
“Who are these people?”
Craig shrugged. “From the description the guy in Banning gave me, I’d say your garden-variety Mission-district thugs.”
“So you think they paid visits to all of the people you tried to contact?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what is this area that’s off limits to discussion?”
Craig smiled thinly. “Aguilar’s drug dealing.”
“Ah.” I nodded.
“During the time that Aguilar dropped out of college—and after he rematriculated—he worked as the UCSD liaison for Johnny Duarte. Naturally, this is information that won’t enhance his present position or future mayoral bid.”
I nodded, thinking of what I’d learned that day. San Diego, my old hometown, appeared to be pivotal to the case. Alex Aguilar had sold drugs for Julia’s ex-boyfriend there. Dan Jeffers had lived there around that time, scamming money from his brother that he probably used for drug buys. Dan had seen “a bad dude” he used to know kill Scott Wagner at Olompali. Johnny Duarte? Possibly. But why?
“Shar?”
“Sorry. I found out something today that adds another puzzling angle to the investigation.” I told him about Dan Jeffers’s claim that he’d seen Scott Wagner killed.
Craig frowned. “Wasn’t Wagner a squeaky-clean guy? I remember reading a profile of him someplace: fund-raiser, on the board of the Sierra Club and other environmental organizations, all-around do-gooder. That type doesn’t make a good candidate for premeditated murder.”
“No. I want you to run an in-depth background check on him, see if you can come up with something that would prove him otherwise. And while you’re at it, run one on Gene Santamaria, Wagner’s replacement at the center. I’ll also need you to try to locate Dan Jeffers.”
“Will do. So
what are your thoughts about Duarte?”
“Well, Julia obviously doesn’t know about his connection to Aguilar, or she would’ve mentioned it. And it seems extreme for Aguilar to have worked out this elaborate a frame on the basis of what she might know.”
“Right. Unless he and Duarte have an ongoing profitable relationship.”
“You mean drug trafficking. It’s possible. That shop in Ghirardelli Square interests me; they could be bringing in drugs in shipments of merchandise from Central America. I’ll have it checked out.”
“Well,” Craig said, “my other assignment is obvious—find out everything there is to know about Johnny Duarte.”
“No, I need you to follow up on Scott Wagner, Gene Santamaria, and Dan Jeffers for now. I’ll tackle Duarte.”
Johnny Duarte’s favorite hangout, Julia told me when I called her later, was a club on Twenty-fourth Street called Holidaze. I got a detailed description of him from her.
I asked, “As far as you know, Duarte’s never seen me, right?”
“He never came to the office. In fact, he didn’t seem all that interested in what I did for a living. Mostly we just talked about him—and then it turned out what he said was lies.”
After I ended the call, I went to the armoire that served as my coat closet, and contemplated the outfits I kept there for occasions that required something other than business attire or sweaters and jeans. The little black cocktail dress was too formal for the Mission; the bag-lady ensemble was appropriate in some quarters, but not for the clubs; the prim-and-proper corduroy jumper from L.L. Bean—even a member of the bridge-and-tunnel crowd wouldn’t wear it for a night out in the city. But the slim leather pants and short matching jacket would work, if I mated it with the red silk T-shirt.
I carried the outfit and a bag of miscellaneous makeup and costume jewelry to the restroom. Washed my face and pulled my hair into a ponytail. Then I proceeded to tart myself up with heavy eyeshadow, mascara, blusher, and bright red lipstick. When I was dressed and surveyed myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, I had to admit I looked like a woman any self-respecting drug trafficker would be eager to meet. The long, red enamel earrings that matched the silk tee were a particularly nice touch. Before I left the office, I took my .357 Magnum from the safe and slipped it into my bag. I didn’t like to carry the gun under normal circumstances, but tonight I’d feel better with it close at hand.
Eight-thirty, and Twenty-fourth between Mission and South Van Ness was humming. People entered and exited the BART station; couples gathered on the sidewalk, talking about where to go for dinner or clubbing; others strode along, eager to reach their destinations. They were dressed in casual and business attire, expensive urban chic, or the latest in hipster style—thift-shop acquisitions such as baggy pants, oversize formal jackets, and garish sneakers, or floral-print shirtwaist dresses from the sixties paired with hiking boots. Intermixed with them were the old and the poor, the shifty-eyed and the wild-eyed; and, as always, the homeless sprawled like so many bundles of rags in doorways. I joined the throng of those in a hurry and, moments later, entered Holidaze.
The club had a travel motif—posters on the wall, models of airplanes hanging from the ceiling. Although there was a bandstand and small dance floor toward the rear, both were dark and vacant. Music played over a sound system—at the moment, the old song about seeing the pyramids across the Nile. The bar was relatively uncrowded, and I had my choice of seats on its short leg by the front windows, from which I could see the entire room.
Tables, most of them occupied, dotted the floor, and booths lined the far wall. From Julia’s description, I spotted my man in the center one. He was heavyset, with more muscle than fat, and wore a black patch over his right eye—an old injury, Julia had told me, that he wouldn’t talk about. His hair was thick, well styled, and faintly streaked with gray; his blue silk shirt looked expensive. I put his age at mid- to late thirties. A glass full of pale amber liquid sat before him, but he ignored it as he leaned forward, talking intensely with a small, shabby-looking man in a faded denim jacket. After a moment he grasped the man’s forearm and spoke more emphatically. The man—
“What’ll it be, miss?”
The bartender. “Uh, wine. Chardonnay.”
“We have Kendall Jackson, Deer Hill—”
“The house will be fine,” I said, ever conscious of the agency’s tightened budget.
When I looked back at the booth, the little man was gone, and Duarte was making a call on his cellular.
For the next half hour Johnny Duarte sat alone, sipping his drink and making call after call. I nursed the wine—which was quite dreadful—and tried to think of a way to approach him. Finally he turned off his phone, signaled for another drink, and looked around the room. His eyes lit on me, and he smiled; the eye patch made him look like a rakish pirate.
I smiled back, and Duarte motioned for me to join him.
Why wasn’t it this easy when I used to haunt the clubs, looking for guys?
The first thing I noticed as I slid into the booth opposite Duarte was his aftershave—too much of it and too pungent. The second, as he introduced himself and we shook hands, was his immaculate manicure. I once again gave my name as Robin Blackhawk, with mental apologies to my half sister. Robin’s area of study was civil rights law; she would have hated someone like Duarte, who gave his people a bad name.
“So, Robin Blackhawk,” Duarte said, “tell me about yourself.”
“There’s really not much to tell. I’m from Idaho, came out here for a change of scene after my divorce. I’m currently staying with friends and looking for a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Anything where I can make a lot of money and not do much work.”
Duarte’s good eye regarded me thoughtfully. “That’s a tall order. Do you have any particular skills?”
“I’m good with people. I can sell anything. And I believe in situational ethics.”
“Meaning?”
“If it benefits me, it’s ethical.”
He laughed and signaled to the cocktail waitress, motioned at my wineglass. “I like the way you think.”
I said, “Now it’s your turn to tell me about yourself.”
“I am a businessman—in marketing for the telecommunications industry. Currently unmarried like yourself. I like fine dining, auto racing—as a spectator only—and traveling to exotic locales. I own a condominium on Upper Market with a large deck and a panoramic view of the city, but I’m not particularly domestic. I have no houseplants, no pets, and have yet to figure out how to use the convection oven. When I throw dinner parties, they are catered. And I am enamored of women with high cheekbones and black hair in ponytails.” He leaned forward, taking my hand.
“Although,” he added, “the red lipstick and earrings have to go.”
So he’s into control.
“You think so?” I asked.
“Most definitely.”
I picked up my cocktail napkin and rubbed at the lipstick. Pulled the earrings off and dropped them on the table.
Duarte nodded his approval. “Now we will go to La Vida Loca. It’s much livelier than this place, and the owner is a friend who will give us a good table.”
At 2:15 the cab I’d taken from the club dropped me at my car. At 2:27 I was home, fuzzy from the wine Duarte had plied me with—although, surprisingly, he’d acted quite the gentleman—and tired from a long day and too much frenetic dancing. The evening had paid off, though; I was now equipped with much more information about Johnny Duarte than he was aware he’d imparted to me. When under the influence of a considerable quantity of single-malt Scotch, even the most streetwise drug dealer is no match for this private investigator—wine or no wine.
The cats were asleep on the couch in the sitting room, Ralph butted up against Allie. He didn’t move as I passed by, but her eyes followed me anxiously. As kittens they used to sleep curled up together, but later they decided they hated each othe
r, and the snuggling ceased. I didn’t know whether to take this newfound affection as a good or a bad sign, but was too preoccupied to contemplate it. Instead I patted them both, and went to check the answering machine. Only one message, from Marguerite Hayley, saying she would be meeting with Todd Baylis and an official with BSIS in Sacramento on Friday. “That will buy us some time,” she added. “I trust your investigation into this matter is going well?”
I made a mental note to call Hayley in the morning, before I again donned my Robin Blackhawk persona for three appointments Ted had set up for me with former clients of Trabajo por Todos. Then I went back to the bedroom, dropped my clothes on the floor, and crawled between the sheets without turning on the light.
Thursday
JULY 17
I set the typed transcripts of that morning’s interviews with former clients of Trabajo por Todos on the desk and began going through them, refreshing my memory and highlighting the important parts.
Pete Infante, data-entry clerk, Bank of America: “Hey, this is great. Back when I was unemployed, I’d sit around my mom’s house watching daytime TV and see these commercials. Some guy smiling and saying he went to this or that college and now he’s making good money in such and such a field. But those colleges, they’re expensive, and what’re you gonna do if you don’t have a job and are living over your mom’s garage? Then a friend of mine, he told me about the center, that it’s free. I went in; they gave me tests, pointed me at the computer lab—and here I am. . . . Yeah, that was two years ago, a little more. . . . Right, Alex Aguilar and Scott Wagner were the head honchos then. I didn’t see much of Scott; he was busy raising money. Alex, he was around a lot. . . . What do I think of him? He’s okay. Pushy, though. One of those guys who wants things his way, and right now. And he took advantage of the clients—made us turn out for his political rallies, stuff like that. Not that I minded much. I’d’ve probably turned out, anyway.”
Marina Reyna, nurse’s aide, San Francisco General Hospital: “I go to Trabajo por Todos after I come up from Ciudad Juarez to live with my tio and his familia. My inglés, it was not very good, and I don’t know the right way of things here—how to behave and dress so somebody will give me a job. They teach me all that and send me here to Ms. Evans, who is a friend of Mr. Wagner and hires people from the center. . . . Yes, I know—I knew—Mr. Wagner. A nice man. Muy bueno. It is terrible, what happen to him. . . . Mr. Aguilar? He is . . . You will put this in the paper? No? Okay, then. He is . . . I don’t know the word. Someone who makes people do what he wants. . . . Manipulates, yes, that is the word! He and Mr. Wagner sometimes argue about that. Mr. Wagner say it is not right to use los clientes that way. . . . Oh, yes, Mr. Aguilar gets very angry when they argue. And those of us who hear them become afraid for Mr. Wagner.”
The Dangerous Hour Page 10
