Dead Midnight

by Marcia Muller

  In a minute, Neal.

  J.D. Smith: “Okay, Shar, I’ve got a sweet deal for you. So pick up … Are you screening your calls? No, you wouldn’t screen this one. Why aren’t you home, goddamn it? All right, I guess it can wait till morning. I’ll see you at Miranda’s at nine for breakfast. You’re gonna love my plan.”

  Thursday

  APRIL 19

  To the casual passerby Miranda’s would seem to be an ordinary waterfront dive. Gray weathered clapboard with salt-caked windows, it teetered on pilings over the bay’s brackish shallows, clinging tenuously to mainstream San Francisco. It, as well as the nearby Boondocks and Red’s Java House, were already on the city’s endangered-species list.

  Proposals for redevelopment up and down the waterfront had already threatened many venerable establishments. The plans ranged from desirable to the preposterous: among the latter were a Disneyesque faux-city theme park replete with earthquake simulations, and a full-scale floating replica of the Titanic. Such madness could strike at any location at any time, hence my concern for several of my favorite eateries.

  Fortunately, Miranda’s had assets that increased its chances of survival: its much-loved owner, Carmen Lazzarini; excellent food, courtesy of Carmen’s new wife; aficionados in city government and on the Port Commission. As I waited for J.D. in a window booth I looked around and noticed a powerful member of the board of supervisors, a well-known actor, and an appellate court judge downing eggs and hash browns. Standees clustered by the lunch counter, drinking coffee while waiting for tables. Just as I was beginning to feel guilty for hogging an entire booth, J.D. pushed through the door and strode toward me, clapping the supe on the shoulder as he passed.

  “Traffic!” he exclaimed, collapsing on the bench opposite me and shrugging out of his raincoat. “Fender-benders all over the place. Why is it that Californians forget how to drive when it rains?”

  “Don’t know. We ought to be experts, given the monsoons we’ve had recently.”

  “Parking’s impossible too.” He studied the menu and set it aside. “Makes me long for the days of my youth, when parking was plentiful and drivers in the Old South were courteous.”

  “You left Savannah because you found it dull and stifling.”

  “True. I came west looking for excitement and got it— congestion, rolling blackouts, high PG and E bills, higher rents, and now rain when the rainy season’s supposed to be over. What’s that the Chinese say? ‘May you live in interesting times.’ ”

  Carmen himself, wrapped in a stained apron, appeared to take our orders. The big man—whose real first name, I had found out after considerable investigation, was Orlando— had undergone a renaissance of sorts since meeting his second wife, Cissy. Beneath the apron he wore a teal blue silk shirt and stylish cords; hair implants dotted his head like seedlings in a vegetable garden. I couldn’t help eyeing them and wondering if they’d ever grow. Carmen noticed, and I looked away, embarrassed.

  J.D., a reporter to the bone, had no similar qualms. He asked, “How’re those things doing, Carmen?”

  “A few more little hairs every day.”

  “You know, your experience would make an interesting story, give other bald men hope.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. I could write it up, chart your progress. We could sell it as a series to one of the online ’zines, and you’d be all over the Internet. Great publicity for the diner.”

  “I don’t know, J.D.” Carmen glanced at the crowd still waiting for tables. “We’ve got more customers than we can handle already, and while the Port Commission isn’t selling us out to the developers yet, they’re not about to give us the go-ahead to expand.”

  “Well, think about it, anyway.”

  “Yeah, I will. Now, for breakfast I can definitely recommend the Denver omelet.”

  J.D. made a face. “Orange juice, English muffin, hold the jelly.”

  Carmen snorted. “Why you bother with breakfast I don’t know.”

  As he turned to go, J.D. said, “Hey, what about Shar’s order?”

  Carmen looked over his shoulder and winked at me. “Two eggs over easy, double side of bacon, hash browns.”

  J.D. blinked, astonished. “You have that all the time?” he asked me.

  “Except when they’ve got chicken fried steak and eggs on special.”

  “Don’t you know stuff like that can kill you?”

  “Well, I don’t come here every day. Unless I have a breakfast appointment, I usually just have coffee and some tomato juice.”

  “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.”

  “I’ve survived worse things at the hands of people who wanted me permanently gone. Breakfast doesn’t scare me. Now, what’s this plan you have for getting me inside—”

  He held up a cautionary hand. “Don’t mention them by name. I’m on to something, and I don’t want it blown because somebody overhears our conversation.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  He leaned across the table, his smile revealing small, sharp teeth, and I was reminded of Glenn’s “wolf look.” J.D. resembled a less ferocious species—possibly a ferret—but his hunting instincts transformed him all the same. It made me wonder what sort of creature I resembled when on the prowl.

  “You and … the gang are going to play a game, and I’m to be the observer,” he said.

  “What kind of game?”

  “Here’s what I proposed to them: They create a puzzle of their own choosing, centered in their offices. You go in and have a day to solve it. The result of this battle of wits will be chronicled by me for their local celebrity series.”

  “And they went for it?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t they?”

  “I don’t know. The idea sounds kind of—”

  “Silly. I know. But they’re kind of a silly publication. Anyway, it gets you into their offices and gives you free run of them without arousing any suspicion, plus plenty of time to become acquainted with the players.”

  Silly or not, his plan had its merits.

  “The publicity wouldn’t hurt either,” J.D. added.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t want the article to actually appear.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is an important investigation I’m conducting. I don’t want to compromise it.”

  He considered that. “Well,” he said after a minute, “I suppose I could have difficulty finishing the piece. Or simply write it so badly they’d refuse to publish it. They don’t pay all that much anyway.”

  “I’ll be glad to reimburse you—”

  “Not necessary.” He studied me, brows knitting. “The other night you said the results of this investigation would be newsworthy.”

  “Yes. They’ll result in a civil suit revolving around a subject that’s already attracted considerable attention.”

  “A civil suit?” For a moment he looked confused, then he smiled. “Now I understand—the Nagasawa kid.”

  I fixed him with a stony look.

  “Okay.” He held up his hands defensively. “I’ll say no more. We’ll play it your way. But remember—I get the story.”

  “Agreed. Now, when is this game supposed to take place?”

  “Tomorrow. We’re to meet with Max Engstrom at five-thirty today to go over the details.”

  I had no set plans for Friday, and today’s last appointment was scheduled for three. I took down InSite’s address and told J.D. I’d meet him there.

  By four o’clock I was back in my office reviewing the highlights of my taped interviews with Roger’s friends and acquaintances.

  Kelley Waterson, unemployed systems analyst: “A bunch of us used to hang together after work. We all had pretty intense careers, we were going to get as rich as Bill Gates. Right? Wrong! But back then the dot-com market was still sizzling, and we were all working our tails off for stock options, so we liked to blow off steam when we called it a day. We’d meet at Kodiak Rick’s, that billiards parlor and brew
pub on Third, shoot a few games to get the evening going. One night one of the women was late, and I asked Rog if I could use his cell phone to call and tell her we’d decided to amp up the evening by going on to one of the clubs. But he said he’d rather I didn’t because it was a company phone, and Max Engstrom used the records of the employees’ calls to keep tabs on what they did after work. Talk about a gross invasion of privacy!”

  Matt Oppenheim, Web page designer: “Sometimes Rog and I lifted weights at the health club next to his building. Usually in the middle of the night, because we both had crazy schedules. You wouldn’t believe how many people who’re trying to stay fit are at the club at three in the morning. Anyway, one night I noticed he had bad bruises on his upper arm. When I asked about them, he shrugged it off, said he didn’t know how he got them, he was clumsy and banged into things all the time. But he was not a clumsy man. The next time, I noticed scratches that looked like they’d been made by somebody’s fingernails, and I insisted he tell me what had happened. He admitted there had been some serious arguing going on at the office, and he’d gotten into it with one of the VIPs. Now, I’ve worked in all kinds of offices, and seen all sorts of infighting, but this was unbelievable to me. I mean, physical fighting is just not acceptable behavior no matter what the circumstances. I advised him to consult his attorney, and he said he’d think about it. I guess, since you’re here asking me about this, that he didn’t.”

  David Kong, investment banker: “Invasion of privacy? Definitely. InSite is into that in a major way. They provide cell phones, credit cards, and Internet access to their employees, tell them to go ahead and use them for personal, as well as work-related, purposes. Then they use their leverage as the party who pays the bills to check phone and creditcard invoices and get the Internet server to divulge information about e-mail. I guess because of your line of work you know how much you can learn about a person from those sources. And it’s not illegal, technically speaking, because the magazine is officially the client of record… . Why would they want to keep tabs on their people? I’d say it’s a control thing. Engstrom and his buddies are total control freaks.”

  Fiona King, registered nurse, San Francisco General Hospital: “Roger Nagasawa sought me out after one of his coworkers was brought into our emergency room suffering from acute dehydration brought on by an overdose of laxatives. Roger thought the drug had been administered in her drinks at a company party. I told him the woman had suspected the same, and asked if she’d gone to the police or her attorney. He said she was afraid to confront their employer or file charges. Roger and I became friends after that. He was such a caring, sensitive man. We dated a couple of times, but … well, he was a glass-is-half-empty type, and my glass is always half full.”

  Suzy Bivens, bartender, Kodiak Rick’s: “Sleep-deprived, that’s what they all were, but manic too—especially when NASDAQ started tanking and they were watching their portfolios shrink and their job security turn shaky. Then there were the poor bastards like Rog, who didn’t even have portfolios, because the ’zine had promised but not delivered stock options in lieu of real pay. After the bubble burst, the atmosphere in here really turned grim, and that hasn’t changed. The regulars still come in, but it’ll never be the same. But to get back to your original question, all of those people were wrecks, but the InSite staffers were the absolute worst.”

  Liz Lyman, consultant: “A consultant’s a name for somebody who got laid off when everything fell apart and hasn’t been able to land another position. But that’s enough about me. Frankly, I don’t want to talk about this last year, other than to say it’s been horrible. About Roger Nagasawa and InSite magazine: it was a toxic combination. The top people there are not the type who like others to stand up to them. But Roger had been raised to fight things he considered wrong, and that did not go over well. There were screaming fights, physical fights. It was a hideous situation.”

  Emily Kurland, venture capitalist: “You know what the press has started calling us? Vulture capitalists. God, I hate that term! I’m a trust-fund baby, inherited a lot of money, and I’ve put it into socially responsible companies that I think may do our world some good. Sure I expect a return on my investment, and therefore I’m one hundred percent behind any firm I back. I don’t want to pick their bones, see them fail. Sorry, I’m ranting, and you’re here to talk about Rog. We used to see each other at Kodiak’s. He was a very nice man. Depressed a lot of time because he’d lost his sense of a bright future with that magazine. But he was smart, he had a lot going for himself if only he’d use it. I kept after him to come up with a concept I could finance, so he could gain some control over his life. But something was going on at InSite, and he was determined to fight it… . No, I don’t have any idea what. But I do know that Rog had a finely tuned sense of justice. He was a crusader, and if there was a way to make things right, he’d find it.”

  I shut off the recorder and went to the armchair by the window. It was a relic of my early days at All Souls Legal Cooperative, and I’d brought it along to the pier in a fit of sentimentality. I’d done some of my best thinking in that chair and, ugly and butt-sprung as it was, and I didn’t want to part with it. Besides, a good-quality handwoven throw had greatly improved its appearance.

  So, I thought, after three days on this investigation what did I have?

  Statements that the VIPs at InSite invaded their employees’ privacy as well as psychologically and physically abused them. Statements that Roger had been determined to right the wrongs there. Hearsay, all of it, inadmissible in court. I needed actual witnesses to the abuse who would be willing to testify. And even then Glenn would have to establish that the abuse was severe enough to make Roger take his own life. Not an easy task, but Glenn relished that kind of challenge.

  I’d interviewed all the potential witnesses on Glenn’s list. Now it was time to tackle the people at InSite.

  I hadn’t visited the little neighborhood called Dogpatch in almost a decade, when friends who lived there were evicted from their ramshackle Victorian. It’s an area little known to most San Franciscans, and even the residents are in disagreement as to how it got its name. Some say it comes from the hillbilly town in the Li’l Abner comic strip; others claim the five-block-square area was once home to packs of wild dogs. Whatever the explanation might be, it’s an odd pocket of the city several blocks south of Pac Bell Park and the Mission Bay development, where new economy firms in renovated industrial space sit side by side with old cottages and working-class bars. And the only place, so far as I know, to boast of its own brand of ale, the oldest functioning shipyard in the country, and a Hell’s Angels clubhouse. The denizens of Dogpatch take pride in its colorful past, when its sugar refineries, gunpowder factory, whaling station, and iron mills dominated the city’s industrial economy.

  As I drove to InSite’s offices in a former warehouse on Illinois Street, I noted that a good deal of redevelopment was slated for the area. A row of frame cottages was being torn down, and many other lots sat vacant; luxury cars and SUVs were slotted between battered sedans and trucks. When I passed the venerable Dogpatch Saloon I saw a briefcase-toting woman talking on her phone while she held the door for a man in shipyard worker’s clothing—an amiable collision of the old and the new.

  J.D. was leaning against the wall of InSite’s building when I pulled into a parking space by its loading dock. The morning’s rain had let up around noon, and he’d traded his coat for a lemon-yellow sweater that clashed violently with his red hair. As he pushed away from the wall and walked toward me, I spotted a penny lying in a crack in the pavement, picked it up, and waved it triumphantly at him before pocketing it.

  He grinned. “You’re still doing that.”

  “For luck. I need all I can get.” I’m always finding coins on the street and tucking them into the pocket of whatever garment I’m wearing—where they stay till they fall out in the washing machine.

  “Well, maybe it’ll bring us luck in there.” He jerked his
thumb at the building.

  “We can hope.” I started for the glass doors labeled with the magazine’s logo—a hand holding a magnifying glass over its name—but J.D. stopped me. “From here on we don’t say anything that’ll give away our real purpose, even if there’s nobody around.”

  “Don’t tell me the offices’re bugged?”

  “Knowing Max Engstrom, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Someone told me he’s a control freak. Does he gather information to coerce his employees?”

  “Probably.”

  We walked through the doors into a linoleum-tiled ante-room with a second, solid set of doors at its far side. On the otherwise unadorned wall in between was an intercom with a surveillance camera mounted above it and a command panel for an alarm system. Not excessive security, considering the neighborhood. J.D. pressed a button and spoke, a buzzer sounded, and we pushed through into a scene of utter chaos.

  Phones rang, fax machines and computers beeped, voices spoke loudly or, in some instances, shouted. About fifty casually dressed people filled the large space, and most of them were in motion—pacing, gesturing, popping up from and plopping down into their chairs. Their battleship-gray metal desks were lined up in rows three abreast; there were no cubicles, no dividers, no privacy. The floor was awash in crumpled paper, candy wrappers, and other litter; the desks were covered with files, notepads, coffee cups, and the remnants of meals. My senses reeled from the noise and the mixed odors of Chinese, Mexican, Italian, and good old American grease. Fluorescent light glared down from fixtures suspended on chains from the high ceiling.

  I would have gone insane within an hour if forced to work in such a place.

  A couple of people nodded to J.D. when we came in, but most didn’t pay us any attention. He touched my arm and pointed to a staircase at the rear of the room that led up to a loft where glass-walled offices overlooked the main floor. A man—medium height, heavy, partially bald—stood in one, motioning to us.

  “Max,” J.D. said.