Dominguez wants a confrontation. Soon. He may be back.
No, he won’t. He doesn’t want it now. Or here.
Clicking of claws on the hardwood floor. Alice meowed and brushed against my legs. I switched on the hallway lights and set Ralph down. Both cats headed toward the kitchen and their food bowls.
In the sitting room, the light on the answering machine was blinking. Four calls.
Mother One: “Sharon, please call me. I’m worried about you.”
Me, too, Ma.
Half sister Robin: “Hey, I’m gonna be out there next month, looking for a place to rent in Berkeley. Would it be an imposition if I stayed with you?”
None at all, Robbie.
Patrick: “I couldn’t get through to the office before, so I thought I’d better call you at home. I kept the house on Precita Street under surveillance for most of the evening, and then the family that lives there came home. Dominguez’s friend sublet it to them nine months ago, didn’t leave a forwarding. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
Thanks, Patrick.
Hy: “That situation with RKI’s client is heating up again, and I’m off to La Jolla. Nothing at the place where I was maintaining the surveillance for you, and I doubt there will be. Sorry to cut out on you at a time like this, McCone. We’ll talk when I get back.”
Hurry home, Ripinsky. I need you.
Close to midnight now, but I didn’t want to sleep; Mick or Craig might contact me with a fresh lead anytime now. I went to the kitchen, contemplated a glass of wine, rejected the idea. I was so tired that even the smallest amount of alcohol would put me under. Finally I sat down at the table and began to play my own brand of solitaire.
A few years before, one of the witnesses in an investigation had showed me how to play the game backwards and incorporate a few rules that made it more a contest of skill than chance. Since then I’d invented a few rules of my own that made it even more enjoyable.
I must confess, I win a lot.
Shuffle, cut, deal. Red on black, ten on nine, king to the top . . . The rhythm relaxed me, and my mind began to wander. Would anyone really turn up valuable information at this time of night? Maybe I should try for a few hours’ sleep—
The phone rang. I dropped the portion of the deck I was holding, scattered the cards across the table. Went to the sitting room and snatched up the receiver.
“Sharon? Ray Rios, at Olompali State Park.”
“Yes, Ray. What’s happening?”
He spoke, but between his accent and a bad connection I could barely understand him. “Would you say that again, please?”
“Sorry—I’m on my cell, and it don’t work so good here. I wouldn’t’ve called you this late, but I knew you’d want to know. I found Dan Jeffers hiding in one of the cold rooms off the dairy barn. He’s real scared. The guy who killed Scott Wagner, he found Dan at some house in the city and beat the shit out of him.”
“Are you with him now?”
“Outside. I don’t want him to hear me, ’cause he might split again.”
“Stay with him. I’ll come up there.”
“Okay. The bar gate across the access road is locked at sundown. What you do is pull your car off to the right of it. Nobody patrols after midnight. Just walk in to the barn.”
“I’m on my way.”
Backup. I need backup. Dan Jeffers is a used-up old druggie, probably not dangerous to anyone but himself, but that’s an isolated place, and I’ve only met Ray Rios once. Can I trust him?
I tried Adah and Craig’s place. Got the machine and left a message for either of them to meet me at Olompali as soon as possible. Tried Craig’s cellular, too; still out of range. SFPD said Adah was off duty.
I considered calling Mick and Charlotte but decided against it. They were both overemotional tonight, and besides, he was family and she might as well be—the reason I’d so far confined them, in spite of much chafing on their parts, to safe fieldwork and desk jobs.
Patrick Neilan didn’t have a cellular and hadn’t told me where his security gig was taking him tonight. On the off chance he’d get home soon, I left a message on his machine.
Then I headed for Marin County.
Thursday
JULY 24
The fog massed heavily through the Golden Gate but dwindled to wisps by the time I passed Sausalito. Traffic moved at a steady pace, and I sped along, keeping an eye out for highway patrol cars. North of San Rafael I rolled down the window. Sweet-smelling warm summer night.
Some fifteen minutes later I spotted the park entrance, drove on, and U-turned. Followed the access road to the bar gate and parked to its right. Another vehicle was pulled into the weeds there, an antiquated VW van. I got out of the MG, taking my flashlight, and checked the van’s plates; it was the one that Jeffers had failed to reregister this year.
I checked my watch by the light of the flash. One-seventeen, and no sign of Craig or Adah. I tried their apartment and again reached only the machine. Called the pier with the same results.
Craig was probably still down south in San Luis, but where was Adah this long after midnight on a Thursday? Not on official business, or the officer who’d caught my call would’ve said—oh, right, now I remembered: the bachelor party for another inspector who was getting married on Saturday. That could go on till dawn. Patrick? If he was on the same schedule as the day before, he wouldn’t be home till midmorning. I could call the security company and ask where he was working, but by the time I got hold of him . . .
Okay, I was on my own. I’d been on my own plenty of times before.
And I needed to get to Dan Jeffers before he disappeared again.
The sky was star-shot, with a sliver of new moon—not much light pollution this far from the towns that lined the 101 corridor. The temperature was lower here, chilled by the wind blowing across a maze of waterways and tule marshes that extended east to San Pablo Bay. The “dreaded crosswind,” area pilots called it; on a breezy day, landings at nearby Gnoss Field were a test of one’s skill.
I zipped my jacket, turned up its collar, and skirted the iron gate. Walked swiftly along the pavement, shining the flash downward. The road split around a tree at the edge of the formal garden, one branch leading to the visitors’ lot, the other into the park proper. I followed the latter, then picked my way down the slope into the garden. There I moved slowly, avoiding gopher holes and fallen branches. The trees rustled above me, and a night creature ran off through the brush. I caught the scent of bay laurel and something more pungent.
A small plane droned on its climb-out from Gnoss. I looked up, spotted red and white lights blinking through the palm fronds. Its sound diminished in the distance, and then all I heard was a murmuring and whispering like the waves in the cove at Touchstone. The tires of cars on the highway, muted by distance. If I closed my eyes, I would have believed I was near the sea.
I walked the length of the garden, passing the stone steps and the dark, craggy shape of the dry fountain, and scrambled up the slope near the bridge that spanned the stream. Hurried across the trail and into the shelter of the trees, where a bird’s shrill cry gave me a brief start.
Behind me small security spots shone down from the old adobe, but the yellow house beyond it was dark. Although Ray Rios had said the rangers didn’t patrol after midnight, someone might come looking if he saw my light, so I shaded it and kept well into the underbrush. After I passed the horse barn, I spotted the road leading to the staff housing at least a quarter mile away. A faint glow showed there, and I caught the glint of headlight beams on the highway beyond.
I rounded a curve and saw the outline of the sagging dairy barn, flanked by the cold rooms. Darkness enveloped it. I stopped for a moment, searching for signs of occupancy; thought I saw a red ember fall to the ground and disappear as someone extinguished a cigarette. Did Rios smoke? I didn’t remember. But Jeffers did.
If it was Jeffers, I couldn’t risk calling out and scaring him off, so I approached slowly and in a rounda
bout way, the high grass rustling and thistles catching at the legs of my jeans. Dust rose, and I sneezed—into my forearm, to muffle the sound.
Jesus, what is it all of a sudden with me and weeds?
As I neared the cold rooms, I spied another glimmer of light—yellowish this time. When I moved closer, I saw that plywood had been placed over the high windows of the front room. The light came from the rear. A stack of lumber blocked the steps that led there, so I went around the structure to the narrow passageway between it and the barn and peered into the front room. Dark there, but flickering light outlined the interior doorway.
Something wrong here.
I slid the flashlight into my jacket pocket, drew the Magnum from my bag. Stood very still, listening for movement, a breath, anything. Total silence. Then a scurrying sound as some small creature ran into the weeds.
Definitely something wrong. Should’ve waited for backup—
A rushing noise close behind me. Before I could turn, a strong arm gripped me around the neck; another chopped at my right hand. I felt a slash of pain, couldn’t hold the gun after the second fierce chop. Then my assailant spun me around and dragged me backwards through the door to the cold rooms.
I struggled against him, trying to back-kick his shins. He laughed—a familiar insane cackle that put a chill on my spine and made me struggle harder. I kicked again, tried to bite his arm. Futile. He dragged me into the second room, where an oil lamp sat in the middle of the floor. Slammed me so hard against the far wall that I bounced off and sprawled onto the old metal desk next to the leaning stack of plywood, breath forced from my lungs, my vision blurring.
Gasping, I pushed up on my elbows. My eyes focused again. Dominguez was standing several feet away, on the far side of the oil lamp, a gun—a .45, not the Saturday night special Darrin Boydston had sold him—aimed at me.
“No knives,” he said, “and it’s not midnight, but you fell for it. ‘Ray Rios at Olompali State Park,’” he added in imitation of what I now realized was his earlier phone call. “‘I found Dan Jeffers hiding in one of the cold rooms.’”
I fell for it, all right. Stupid!
Anger with myself allowed me to regain control. I took a couple of breaths and lowered my feet to the floor, watching Dominguez closely. The lamp’s glow highlighted the sharp planes of his narrow face. Highlighted his scars, twisted lips, and dead eyes. He’d aged markedly since I’d last seen him, but those eyes were the same. They had probably been the same on the day he was born.
He said, “Don’t know one spic accent from another, do you? Can’t tell us apart.”
I measured the distance between us, the distance to both exits.
“Am I right?” he asked.
“It was a bad connection. A deliberately bad one, I suppose. And you’re a good mimic. When did you talk to Ray?”
I can’t run out the way he dragged me in—he’s blocking the door. Maybe I can edge over, dodge through the door to the right, but then there’s that stack of lumber, and his damn gun.
Neither way’s good.
Dominguez said, “I followed you the day you came up here to ask about Scott Wagner. Talked up old Ray, told him I thought you were a fox, asked what you were doing here. Guy had serious diarrhea of the mouth.”
“What’ve you done to him?”
“Nothin’. I ain’t even seen him. He’s probably snuggled up in bed by now. Nobody knows we’re here.”
“What about Dan Jeffers? Where is he?”
He made an offhand gesture. That and his expression said the same thing: dead.
“Did you kill him down at Sly Rawson’s house?”
“Nah. Sly went back inside last week on a trumped-up rap, said I could use the place till the lease ran out. I figured you might catch on to it and bust in, so I set it up good. Don’t you worry about Dan; he’s long gone. I kept his wallet, pills, van. It’s just me and you now, puta.” He took a step toward me.
I held my ground. There was a pronounced twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes moved erratically. The hand that held the gun jerked. Drugged up, overconfident, and out of control.
“Just me and you,” he repeated.
All in one motion I pushed off the desk and kicked out, toppling the oil lamp. Glass shattered, and a line of flame shot across the floor.
Dominguez fired wildly, a deafening roar in the small space. The bullet hit the wall above me, sending down a shower of concrete chips. Then the firelight sputtered out and the room went dark.
I was out the side door before he could fire again. I tripped on the top step, fell onto the stack of lumber. Cascading boards carried me down onto the hard ground. My left side throbbed from the impact, but I pushed myself up and scrambled through the high grass. Behind me I heard Dominguez crashing around in the lumber, cursing.
I headed for the road to the staff housing, hoping someone there had heard the shot. No more lights there, no motion. Of course—the thick walls of the cold room had muffled the sound; at a distance of half a mile, it would have sounded like a car backfiring on the highway.
I had perhaps a thirty-second lead on Dominguez, but he could probably run faster than I. The staff quarters were too far away, over more or less open ground, where I’d be a clear target. My side felt on fire now. I’d never make it there before he overtook me.
Misdirect him.
I slipped between two of the old ranch buildings on the far side of the trail. The flashlight was still in my jacket pocket; I shielded the lens and briefly shone it around. A pile of miscellaneous junk lay behind the blacksmith’s shed—chunks of concrete, wood scraps, twisted iron. I tried to pocket the flash again, dropped it, and it bounced away and went out. I couldn’t find it.
I did find a large piece of concrete, and hefted it, further wrenching my side and gritting my teeth against the pain. Some yards away I could make out the giant bay laurel tree in the declivity. I toted the chunk of concrete over to the edge of the shed, raised and hurled it. It thumped, breaking off a tree branch as it rolled into the declivity. Then I screamed.
Dominguez’s footsteps pounded that way. I slipped around the cottage behind the blacksmith’s shed and moved swiftly across the road and around the horse barn, toward the ruins of the garden. It would be a while before Dominguez realized I wasn’t in the declivity. I dug into my bag, pulled out my cellular, hit the auto-dial for 911. The display showed I was out of range. Damn!
Okay, I wouldn’t panic. The night was clear enough, and the security spots on the old adobe guided me. Soon I’d get to my car and drive to a place where the cell worked. Or find that dinosaur of the communications industry—a pay phone.
I slipped along to the side of the trail, trying to blend into the shadows. All the while I was beating myself up for falling for Dominguez’s ruse. Chalk it up to impatience, a desperate desire to bring the matter to a conclusion before anybody else got hurt. But I’d been damned stupid, and it could still get me killed.
When I reached the bridge by the garden, I slid down the slope and began walking swiftly back the way I’d come. Branches and leaves littered the ground; they crackled and snapped under foot. Several times I paused, listening for footsteps. Checked the cell again, but found it still nonfuctional. I was skirting the far side of the stone fountain when I heard him whisper from somewhere close by. Too close.
“Where are you, puta?”
I fought off a surge of panic, ducked down behind the fountain’s wall. When I peered over it, I saw his figure silhouetted at the top of the steps. He hadn’t fallen for my ruse with the concrete. Had anticipated the direction I’d take. . . .
I’d never make it to the parking lot and my car. Like the road to the staff housing, the public access road was too long and exposed.
Hide someplace.
Hide!
Dominguez was between me and the adobe and other buildings—the logical place to take shelter. I looked up at the towering fountain. Some of the cavelike spaces between the rocks were lar
ge enough for a person my size to conceal herself. I spotted one halfway up—some ten or twelve feet—that would also give an advantage over Dominguez on the ground.
I rolled over the wall, quietly let myself down into the dry pool. Leaves crunched under my feet as as I moved toward the dark, craggy mass. When I reached it, I grabbed the rough rocks, dug my toes in, and started up toward the opening I’d pinpointed. The pain in my side flared white-hot. The rocks ripped at my hands, tearing a nail to the quick. My foot slipped, then found a toehold again. Finally I reached the ledge above, slipped through the opening.
Safe. For the moment.
Dominguez was closer now. I could hear branches snapping under his feet. I crouched at the mouth of the little cave, watching.
After a moment his footsteps stopped. Then they started up again. He was coming closer, circling the fountain.
I held my breath, listened to him as he prowled. He was so close, I could hear him panting. He circled the fountain twice, then started away, toward the access road.
I leaned out, looking after him, and my foot dislodged a loose stone. Shit! It rolled through the opening and clattered to the fountain’s floor.
Dominguez’s footsteps halted, then returned.
Again I held my breath.
“I know you’re in there,” he whispered. “Come on out!”
He was below me now. I could make out the outlines of his angular figure as he leaned across the wall, but he couldn’t see me in the deep shadow. Then he swung over it and lowered himself down to the fountain’s floor.
“Stop playing games with me, puta!”
He staggered through the branches and leaves, whispering epithets in Spanish.
This could go on all night, unless I took the offensive. I waited until he was below me, then deliberately scraped my foot across the cave’s pebbled floor.
Dominguez stopped, uttering a small sound of surprise. Then I heard him scrambling and grunting as he started to climb.
I braced myself, hands flat on either side of the opening.
The Dangerous Hour Page 21
