Where Echoes Live

by Marcia Muller

  I moved past him toward the room at the rear of the garage. “I doubt you’re too busy to hear what I have to say.”

  Knight remained where he was, hand on the knob of the open door. I stopped at the far side of the foyer and looked at him, eyebrows raised in impatient inquiry. He frowned, lips pushing out and jowls bunching until he resembled a caricature of a bulldog. After a moment he half shrugged and shut the door. I went on to the office.

  The dim little room looked the same as it had the night before; not a paper had been moved, not a speck of dust had been disturbed. Whatever Knight was busy with, it wasn’t work. He entered behind me and after a brief hesitation motioned at the director’s chairs before sitting down himself. I remained standing.

  “Mr. Knight,” I said, “you’re on the Bureau of Land Management’s roster of approved mineral surveyors, are you not?”

  He nodded—warily, I thought.

  “And five years ago a complaint was lodged against you by an environmental organization because they felt you might have falsified a survey on a gold-mining claim being patented with the BLM?”

  “That complaint was totally invalid and later withdrawn— with a full apology.”

  “What group filed the complaint?”

  “The California Coalition for Environmental Preservation.”

  “And where was the claim?”

  “Lassen County.”

  “Not Mono County?”

  He shook his head, wariness plainly apparent now.

  “And was the claim eventually patented?”

  “It was. As I said, the complaint was completely invalid.’

  “Yet when the American Society of Consulting Geologists and Mineralogists asked you to appear before their board to explain about the complaint, you opted instead to drop your membership.”

  “It was an insult! They’re a do-nothing group, anyway.”

  “I see. And since then you’ve continued your surveying activities for applicants to the BLM?”

  “Of course. Where is all this leading?”

  I moved over and sat on a corner of his desk, placing my briefcase on a stack of papers beside me. “I’m interested in the patenting process. Is the applicant free to choose which surveyor to use from the BLM roster?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what criteria does an individual or company go by when it makes the choice?”

  “Sometimes it’s as simple as proximity—is the surveyor located in the area? Or availability within the prescribed time frame. In other instances the person may know the surveyor or his work.”

  “Or he may know his reputation?”

  “Well, of course.”

  I opened my briefcase and took out the file on gold mining. Knight watched suspiciously as I thumbed through it to the copies of the completed applications for patenting the 700 acres of land Mick Erickson—as Franklin Tarbeaux—had sold to Transpacific Corporation. I showed him the last page of the mineral survey and asked, “Is this your signature, Mr. Knight?”

  He glanced at it and nodded.

  “When Mick Erickson—or as he’s known in these documents, Franklin Tarbeaux—chose you to survey this claim in Mono County, what criterion did he use?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Did he use you because of your proximity? Availability? Had you worked for him previously?”

  No reply.

  “Or was it your reputation? Your reputation as someone who would misrepresent a claim’s potential in order to facilitate the patenting process?”

  Knight balled his stubby hands into fists. I tensed, but he merely placed one on either thigh and stared down at them. I relaxed, certain now that I was on the right track; an innocent man would have protested, ordered me to leave his house, but Knight was doing neither.

  “Did you ask Erickson why he was using an assumed name on the applications?”

  “Something … something to do with keeping the mining venture separate from his consulting business.”

  “And you believed that?”

  Shrug.

  “Or maybe you didn’t care. Using an assumed name is nothing compared to falsifying the mineral survey. Did Erickson later get you the job as supervising geologist on the Golden Hills project?”

  “… Yes.”

  “And you conducted core sampling up there until a few weeks ago—or made out as if you were doing so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, you did, or yes, you made out as if you were?”

  “All right—I made out as if I were.”

  “Because there’s little—if any—gold on the claim Erickson sold to Transpacific. And the mine on the land that they bought from Earl Hopwood is pretty much played out, too.”

  Knight finally looked up. His face was flaccid with defeat, eyes dulled by fear.

  I went on, “It was legal for Transpacific to do whatever they wanted with the Hopwood land, since it was purchased from a private party, but doing so posed a PR problem. And putting the seven hundred acres of former BLM land into non-mining use posed an even bigger one, because of the hassles with the government that were bound to ensue. But if that land was also purchased from an individual …

  “The nonexistent middleman, Franklin Tarbeaux, was the perfect solution. He would sell Transpacific the land and then disappear. Later when core sampling supposedly showed that the company had been conned by Tarbeaux, sympathy would be on their side. Who could fault them for putting this tract of land that they had significant capital tied up in to a use that would recoup their investment?”

  “What do you figure they could do with it in a godforsaken place like that?” Knight asked.

  “Come on, Knight. You’ve been there. You’ve seen the lake, the volcanic craters, the ghost town. If they put a luxury resort with an airstrip on that mesa, they’ll be in the black within a couple of seasons. And that’s the area Transpacific has been moving into—luxury resorts.”

  Knight sighed heavily.

  Taking his reaction to mean he’d given up his pretense of innocence, I pressed my advantage. “They must have paid you a great deal to aid in their plans,” I said. “Unlike Mick Erickson, you had to put your true name on these documents. When the facts of the matter come out, you’ll never work again. You could even be liable for criminal prosecution.”

  “You can’t prove any of this. You can’t do anything to me.”

  “I’m not interested in going after you. All I want is the truth, and then I’ll leave you alone. Did they pay you enough to retire and disappear on?”

  His nod was barely perceptible.

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “Because most of the money isn’t to be paid until the first of the year. They promised me that nothing would be made public about their plans until I’m well away from here.”

  “And am I right about their plans?”

  Silence.

  “Well, for your sake I hope they’re paying you plenty. Poor Earl Hopwood didn’t do as well: he not only got screwed out of the fair market value of his family’s land, but lost his dream of seeing the mine reopened. And the people in that part of Mono County aren’t any better off: Promiseville will be ruined, and the ecosystem of Tufa Lake is sure to suffer.

  “Of course,” I added, “Lionel Ong and Transpacific got themselves a gold mine—of the tourist variety. And Mick Erickson: he probably got a fat finder’s fee—before they killed him.”

  Knight shuddered.

  “What did they give Hy Ripinsky?” I asked.

  “I don’t know—”

  “And where’s Ong? Has he arrived in Mono County yet? Have you heard from him?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why’s he going to Mono County?”

  No reply.

  “Knight—”

  He shook his head and stood, pushing heavily on the chair’s arms. Before, his squarish frame had seemed powerful; now he looked weak and frail. He said, “You told me you wanted the truth and then you’d leave m
e alone. You’ve got it. Now go.”

  “You haven’t told me everything—”

  “I’ve told you what I know. You got one minute to get out of here, and then I’m calling the cops.”

  “That would put you in an awkward position.”

  “No more awkward than the one you’d be in.” He had a point, but I still took the entire minute to leave.

  Twenty

  The phone booth at the top of Portola was occupied when I got there, and I was amused by the flash of proprietary annoyance I felt. When the user relinquished it, I quickly called Ted and picked up my messages: one from George and another from Marcy Cheung.

  George’s said he’d be at my house at seven. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember what plans we’d made, so I called him and asked. His pained tone as he reminded me that we had tickets for that night’s performance at A.C.T. made me realize how I’d neglected him of late; such forgetfulness, on top of his having to squire my mother about for an entire day, was far less than my lover deserved. I apologized—probably more than was necessary—and made a mental promise to do better in the future.

  But as I dialed the Sino-American Alliance’s number, I reflected that this was George’s first taste of what I was like when working a complicated case. Although he’d already learned to put up with my long, irregular hours and occasional interrupted plans—as I’d learned to accommodate myself to the vagaries of his writing and teaching schedule—he might have difficulty dealing with the focused, compulsive woman I became while immersed in an investigation.

  For once Cheung’s phone wasn’t off the hook. “I heard from Lionel Ong’s secretary,” she said as soon as I identified myself, “and she tells me they’re starting to panic over at Transpacific.”

  “Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “Nothing like that, but they can’t reach Ong anywhere. He missed an important luncheon engagement, a couple of meetings, and now an emergency’s come up with a stock issue on the Tokyo exchange that only he can make the final decision on.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if he staged his disappearance, then.”

  “No. I also talked with my friend who met the woman Ong’s supposedly keeping on Tel Hill. He doubts she’s Ong’s girlfriend. Says she didn’t act like it, even though she used her own key to come into the condo and went through a stack of mail that was sitting there. But there was no spark between the two of them, nothing that gave him any sense of a real connection.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ong introduced her only as Margot. She’s petite, blond, mid-thirties. Good-looking but not the type Ong’s usually seen with. The condo is the penthouse at the address you mentioned. My friend has the impression the setup is a front.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, Ong’s one of the city’s inner power circle; everybody knows the structure of our government rests more on a framework of interlocking handshakes than on the city charter. Since an awful lot of that shaking goes on in private, that building could be where Ong makes the deals that he can’t make at the office or at home.”

  It was a reasonable analysis. “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Marcy. I owe you a dinner for this.”

  “Just as long as it’s not health food.”

  The raw red color of the new brick town houses at Barbary Park was softened by the late-afternoon sun. A gentle breeze off the bay stirred the leaves of the containerized hawthorns and Japanese maples. I crossed the humpbacked stone bridge over the koi pond and followed the path to number 551.

  When I’d called up there from the lobby, the Filipino maid again answered and said that Mrs. Erickson had gone out of town. I strongly suspected that Margot had cloistered herself within the spun-sugar confines of her home, so I retreated to the Embarcadero Center and loitered on the level where the pedestrian walkway linked it to the condominium complex. A man in business attire crossed it and inserted a plastic key card into a box next to the gate; it swung open and closed slowly behind him.

  I sat on the edge of a large concrete container of marigolds and watched as two other people entered in similar fashion. When a third came along, I fell into a step a short way behind her, pretending to fumble in my bag for my own key card. The woman passed through the gate without taking more than perfunctory notice of me; I slipped through as it began its return swing.

  Now I stepped into the private entry court of number 551. The sun slanted through its glass roof, creating a hothouse atmosphere; the containerized tropical plants that grew there had recently been watered, and a damp-earth smell rose to my nostrils. No one answered my repeated rings. Either the maid had gone home since I’d called from the lobby or she was ignoring me at her employer’s instruction.

  I went back outside, contemplating my options, then followed the path to the elevator. When it arrived, I pressed the button for the garage.

  The garage was whitewashed and neon-lit, echoing with the whine of tires as cars ascended from a lower level. I glanced at my watch as I passed the service bay; just about five, when the offices and parking spaces of the financial district begin to empty. At the office I waited while a man argued with the clerk about the increase in his monthly rent. The city’s parking tax went up faster than his dick, he complained. The clerk—a dishwater blond youth who couldn’t have been more than a year out of high school— frowned and pointedly glanced my way; so did the complainer, but seeing there was a woman present only made him repeat his comment. After he paid his bill he got into a Cadillac with a custom metallic green paint job, proving to my way of thinking that his bad taste extended to his choice of transportation.

  I showed the young man my identification and asked if he knew Mrs. Margot Erickson. He nodded and said wasn’t it a shame about her husband? She was a nice lady, and then to have an accident on top of him dying like that—

  “What accident?”

  “Oh, man, you should have seen her. Her face was all fu … messed up. When I asked what happened, she said she’d been riding in a taxi that got into a wreck.” He paused, looking critically at me. “Something like that happen to you, too?”

  “Something like that. When did you last see Mrs. Erick-son?”

  Now he looked unsure of himself. “I don’t think I should talk about one of the residents.”

  “I’m investigating her husband’s death in cooperation with the Mono County Sheriff’s Department. If you’d like verification, you can call Inspector Bart Wallace at the SFPD.”

  “No, that’s okay.” He looked more uncomfortable about talking with a police officer than with me.

  “Is Mrs. Erickson’s car in the garage?”

  “No.”

  “You last saw her when?”

  “This morning when she paid for the servicing on the Miata. She called down first thing, asked that they get it ready for a long trip.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Not to me. Maybe to Ken.” He indicated a heavy set middle-aged man in mechanic’s coveralls who was leaning against one of the gas pumps in the service bay.

  I thanked him and went over to Ken, showing him my I.D. and giving him the same explanation I had the clerk. Ken was less wary of talking about the residents; from his lackadaisical speech and slouching posture I gathered that caution would simply have cost too much of an effort. Yeah, he said, he’d serviced the Miata that morning.

  “Did Mrs. Erickson mention where she was going on this trip?”

  “Yeah—home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Shrug. “All she said was she needed to go home for a few days. And then she stiffed me out of a tip. You imagine that? I bust hump to get that car ready before I even have my coffee and doughnut, and she stiffs me.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t mention—”

  A car came up the ramp and pulled into the bay. Ken heaved a martyred sigh as it stopped at the full-service island. As he pushed away from the pump he said, �
�All she told me was home,” and eyed me hopefully.

  I turned and walked away, stiffing him out of both a tip and thanks.

  When I got back to All Souls, Ted had already left his desk, but there was a message in my box to call Anne-Marie at the Coalition’s trailer. I went down the hall to Rae’s office but it was dark and untenanted. Upstairs I removed the folder containing the patenting applications for the Stone Valley land tract from my briefcase. There, in black and white, was what I’d failed to attach any significance to earlier: the address given for Franklin Tarbeaux was the same as that of the Transpacific-owned condominium on Tel Hill. That gave me a fair idea of what Margot Erickson’s business there had been.

  Next I dialed Mono County. Anne-Marie’s voice answered on the first ring. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “That’s what I called to ask you.”

  “Well, I’ve found out something that may help you stop Transpacific from developing the mesa, but I’d rather tell you about it in person.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  I looked up as Ted entered the room and slipped a sheet of legal paper in front of me. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “What?” Anne-Marie said.

  “I’m talking to Ted.”

  Ted said, “It’s a message from Rae. You’re to ask me if you can’t make sense of it.”

  “Shar? Are you there?”

  “Yes.” I began scanning Ted’s scribblings.

  “I asked when you’re coming back. If you have something significant, we need to move on it. Besides, things have gone to hell around here and I could use—”

  “Hold on.” I finished scanning the page, then read it more carefully.

  Peggy = nickname for Margaret Hopwood (got from UC Berkeley records)

  Margaret H. m. James L. Hill, SF, 7/71

  MH div. JLH, SF, 10/74

  MH m. Robert Krause, SF, 12/75

  MH div. RK, Marin, 5/83 MH m.

  Michael M. Erickson, Marin, 6/83

  “Shar? This is costing you money.”

  “Just one more minute.”

  Margot—a fancy variation on Margaret. The sort of name that would appeal to Earl Hopwood’s upwardly mobile and much married daughter.