Dead Midnight

by Marcia Muller

  “No, but if the two of us work together, we might come up with one hell of a story for you.”

  J.D.’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “How many times have you been nominated for the Pulitzer?” I asked.

  “Twice.”

  “Three’s a charm.”

  It was nearing noon, and the day that had begun so promisingly now loomed empty. Because I’d expected to be at InSite till midnight, I’d scheduled no appointments, and nothing pressing was going on at the office. I supposed I could take some personal time and sort through my ideas about the case while doing chores. At home I had a ton of dirty laundry and two cats who would surely be cranky and in need of attention because of the rain. There were messages on the answering machine that I’d been avoiding. Unwanted e-mail to be dealt with. Dust mice in the corners. Real mice in the crawl space …

  I went by the house for some dry clothing, then headed for the pier.

  Not much activity there. Ted’s Neon was parked in its space, and for a moment I contemplated stopping by his office to ask how he and Neal were getting along, but decided I wasn’t up to it. He hadn’t wanted to discuss his partner’s abrupt departure when I’d spoken with him yesterday, and I’d learned from long experience that he’d confide in me when he was ready, and not before.

  I went upstairs and along the catwalk, waving to Craig Morland, who was taking a break and doing pushups on his office floor. Craig was into fitness, trained for the annual Bay to Breakers race, and had interested Adah in working out alongside him. Now, if they could only put Charley on a diet … Two weeks ago Craig had told me the cat’s vet had pronounced him “officially obese.”

  There was a single message slip on my desk. Paige Tall-man, the friend who had leased Jody Houston’s flat, had called. I dialed her number, and she answered on the first ring.

  “I heard from Jody last night,” she said. “She wouldn’t tell me where she was, just that she’d gotten to her new place okay, except the airline lost one of her suitcases and still hadn’t found it.”

  “She say anything else?”

  “Asked if anybody had been looking for her. I didn’t mention you.”

  “Thanks. How’s the security system working out?”

  “Great. I want to thank you again for sending your friend over. She gave me some safety tips, and I feel loads better.”

  “Good.”

  “I told Jody I didn’t appreciate her leaving me in a risky situation, and that I’d had the system put in. Made it sound like I paid for it myself.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “Kind of defensive, and then she said she had to hang up.”

  “Well, you know where to find me if she calls again.” I said good-bye, then buzzed Ted. “Is Julia in the office?”

  “Out to lunch.”

  “When she comes back, tell her I want to see her, please.”

  The Nagasawa case file lay on my desk, Ted’s transcriptions of yesterday’s interviews attached to the back cover. I began going over them, highlighting words and phrases, looking for new lines of investigation. This evening I’d run by Kodiak Rick’s, the bar where Roger’s crowd hung out, see if there were others who’d known him who might be willing to talk with me. Right now I’d try to track down the InSite staffers who might be weak on loyalty, feel them out about Roger’s treatment at the magazine. I was especially interested in talking with Lia Chen, who earlier had been eavesdropping on Engstrom’s confrontation with Amaya.

  I took out a list of the employees’ addresses and phone numbers that Engstrom had provided me with yesterday and marked the ones I wanted to see, then began calling. None answered their phones. Possibly they were still at the office, trying to salvage their soaked workstations. Finally I gave up and retreated to my armchair for some miscellaneous brooding.

  “Sharon?” Julia Rafael’s voice, trying to contain excitement. “I’ve got something on Jody Houston.”

  “Grab a chair and tell me about it.”

  She wheeled my desk chair over and flopped down, fingers nervously playing with the edges of her case file.

  “Okay,” she said, “like you suggested, I started by calling the airlines’ frequent-flyer programs, going down the listings in the Yellow Pages for the major carriers. But when I got to Air France, I figured out that I oughta concentrate on the companies that run relatively short flights out of SFO, Oakland, and San Jose. I mean, Houston didn’t take much luggage, so she probably wasn’t going far, right?”

  Not necessarily, but apparently her logic had proved correct. “Go on.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a shortcut. I kept striking out till I got to United. They had a frequent-flyer number on file for her.”

  “And from that you got her flight information. Where’d she go?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

  Allowing her to live out her triumph for a few minutes wouldn’t hurt and, besides, critiquing her techniques was part of her on-the-job training. “Of course. How?”

  “I said I’d lost my frequent-flyer card and couldn’t remember the number. I didn’t have any statements because I make it a rule to recycle stuff like that as soon as it comes in, so I couldn’t refer to them. But now I needed to know if I had enough miles to travel to Texas for my aunt’s funeral, and— Well, you get it. I acted kinda lame, and the clerk felt sorry for me, so she looked up the miles. Twenty-nine thousand, two hundred and three.”

  “And from there … ?”

  “I go, ‘That doesn’t sound right. Did last week’s trip to L.A. get posted?’ And she goes, ‘There’s no L.A. trip, but we’re showing Wednesday’s flight from San Francisco to Portland.’ That’s where Houston is—Portland area.”

  “Julia, that’s great!” I was already at my desk, leafing through the Yellow Pages to the airlines section.

  Julia followed me. “I didn’t get too dramatic or anything?”

  “No. I think you have good instincts about how far to take it with whoever you’re talking to. Let’s try you on this.” I thrust the phone book at her. “Call United’s lost luggage department. A source told me Houston’s bag didn’t make it to Portland and, as of last night, it hadn’t been found. What do you ask them?”

  “Um … I tell them I’m her and … I say I want to verify the address in the Portland area that the bag’s to be delivered to, since it hasn’t arrived yet. What if it already has?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Say there must be a mistake—”

  “And I want to verify it anyway. If they ask for a claim number, I’ll do the I-lost-it routine.”

  She was good—and, as I’d suspected, she was also a bit of a con woman. I handed her the phone receiver.

  She dialed and performed as if she’d been doing this for years. When she hung up she handed me the paper on which she’d scribbled the address.

  Thirty-two Beach Street, Eagle Rock, Oregon.

  Julia said, “They told me Houston’s bag was located in Omaha and should be there by morning.”

  Strange. I’d once had a bag sent to Omaha by mistake. Maybe Nebraska was the purgatory of lost luggage.

  Eagle Rock, Oregon. I buzzed Ted, asked him to check his atlas. After half a minute he said, “It’s on the coast, about two hours southwest of Portland.”

  I considered the distance, compared the flying time in Two-five-two-seven-Tango with the speed of a commercial airliner. “Book me on any flight for Portland,” I told him.

  It was Friday night, so I hadn’t been able to get a flight north till eight. The sky was dark but clear by the time I left the Portland area, the two-lane highway well marked and smooth beneath the wheels of my rental car. About halfway to the coast, where Route 18 and 99W divided, I saw the turnoff for McMinnville and felt a twinge. For a few years Joey had worked in a restaurant there—possibly his longest tenure of employment—and I’d always promised to visit and sample what he claimed was world-class cuisine. But I never had and now, like so man
y other things I’d promised, it was too late.

  High cirrus clouds appeared as I approached the coastal ridgeline, whipping across the moon like horsetails. The road bisected a meadow, meandered through woods, began climbing, then descended. At its intersection with Oregon 101, I came up against a wall of thick, stationary fog. I checked the odometer and turned north, driving slowly past the small settlements scattered along the shore: Neskowin, Oretown, Pacific City. Then I began looking for the old-fashioned wooden water tower that the rental-car clerk, a native of the area, had told me was the landmark for Eagle Rock. It loomed up suddenly, dark and bulky through the fog.

  As I came closer I spotted a long line of mailboxes fastened to a rough board stand. Beyond them high wooden fences, most of them overgrown by vegetation, shielded the roadside houses from view. Tall trees—some type of pine— formed a canopy over an unpaved lane leading into the settlement. I turned left, pulled my rental up to the mailboxes, and got out.

  The boxes were of different sizes and shapes: standard Postal Department issue; birdhouses; tin drums; lighthouse replicas. Some were painted with flowers or abstract patterns; others were corroded and battered by the elements. Gaps between them indicated vacation homes where no deliveries were made, and the space for 32 Beach was empty. I took out my flashlight and checked names; what few were painted on the boxes were not familiar. Then I got back in the car and went in search of Beach Street.

  The cottages I passed were small, built mostly of clapboard or weathered shingle. Lights shone dimly in a few windows. Some of the dwellings had fenced yards, but most were fronted by gardens where plants grew lushly, encouraged by the moisture of the climate. The intersecting lanes were marked, but poorly, their signs bleached and pitted. I crept along, shining my flash on them, and finally located Beach—a short block ending at a stone seawall. The house numbers proved impossible to read from the car, so I parked under the low-hanging branches of a cypress tree at the lane’s far end and proceeded on foot. The fog was thick there, muting the sound of the surf. A dog barked in one of the yards as I passed, and another answered from a couple of blocks away.

  Number 32 was pale clapboard, with an overgrown front garden and a carport to one side. A vehicle was parked in the driveway: Ford Taurus, this year’s model, an Enterprise Car Rental sticker on its bumper. I tried the doors, which were locked, then took down the license plate number.

  The plants in the yard were rhododendrons, set close together and several feet taller than I. I worked my way through them till I could see the front of the house. Lighted first-story window with blinds shut; lighted dormer window upstairs, curtained. In the dim yellow glow of a bare bulb on the porch I saw an envelope wedged into the frame of the screen door. I stepped up there, snagged it, and retreated into the bushes. It contained a five-dollar bill and a scribbled note signed by Houston. “United Airlines—Please leave bag here.”

  I considered my options, then went through the bushes and walked back down the street to the car. At Houston’s cottage again, I carried my own travel bag up the front path, keeping my head down; if Houston were looking outside, she wouldn’t recognize me, would naturally assume I was an airlines courier. I knocked loudly. There was no immediate response, but after a minute I heard motion and an erratic intake of breath on the other side of the door.

  “United Baggage, Ms. Houston,” I called. “Thanks for the tip, but I’ve got to get your signature.”

  Silence, then Houston’s voice spoke up close. “I signed the note. Won’t that do?”

  “Sorry. You know how it is with the Department of Transportation—forms, and more forms. It’ll be my butt if I don’t get it on the dotted line.”

  A sigh of resignation. “All right.”

  A chain rattled. I dropped my bag and braced myself. The deadbolt turned, the door opened, and I shoved through, knocking her off balance. She staggered back against the newel post of a steep staircase, face pale, eyes wide. Then she put her hands over her mouth and sank onto the bottom step. A whimper sounded in her throat.

  I felt for a light switch, got the overhead on. Kept my distance as I said, “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  A wisp of relief crept into her eyes, and after a few seconds she took her hands from her mouth. There was a spot of blood where she’d bitten her lower lip. “I … know you. You’re … ?”

  “Sharon McCone. We met the other day at Roger’s flat.” “… Oh, right.”

  “I spoke with Daniel Nagasawa. He told me about your call. I’ve been trying to contact you.”

  The blood from her lip was dribbling onto her chin. She wiped it with her fingers, wiped the fingers on her jeans. “How’d you find me? Nobody knows, not even the friend I leased my flat to.”

  “I’m a private investigator. Tracing missing persons is one of the things I do.” I handed her my card.

  She put it in her pocket without looking at it. “What d’you want with me?”

  “To talk. I’d like to help.”

  “Help? Yeah, sure, like you give a shit about me.”

  “I ‘give a shit’ about any innocent person who’s so frightened she abandons her whole life and runs.”

  Her eyes moved jumpily—left, right, left. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at you: you’re so scared you practically peed in your pants when I came through the door. You’ve been here since, when? Wednesday night? I’ll bet you haven’t changed your clothes, washed your hair, or bathed. Have you been out of the house? Do you even have enough food on hand?”

  “I’ve been out, damn you! I’ve got food!” She ran her hand through her cropped hair, added in a weak voice, “I’m fine.”

  “Jody, I meant it when I said I’d like to help.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because for the moment I’m all you’ve got.”

  Houston led me to the kitchen at the back of the house— a tiny room with an adjoining breakfast nook containing a table and built-in benches next to a window that overlooked the backyard. Before we sat she moved two full grocery bags to the counter by the refrigerator, giving me a pointed look that said, “See—I have been out, I do have food.”

  More rhododendrons crowded in close to the window, tapping on the glass in the rising wind. Houston shivered and lowered the canvas shade. “Those bushes really creep me,” she said. “They’re like hands trying to reach inside.”

  “Whose place is this?”

  “My great-aunt’s. At least it was. She’s eighty-nine, in a rest home in Portland. Last year she signed the deed over to me.”

  And that meant her ownership of the cottage could be traced. I’d have to get her out of there.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s talk about Roger, and what has you on the run.”

  She fidgeted. Clasped and unclasped her hands. Finally she began to speak—haltingly, breaking off whenever a real or imagined sound startled her. The wind baffled around the small cottage; the branches clawed at the glass; beams creaked and groaned. She sat on the edge of the bench, ready to leap off at the slightest provocation. I’d seldom questioned anyone more frightened.

  It had started, she said, on a cold, blustery day the previous November when she and Roger holed up in her flat, ordered pizza, shared a joint and some Chianti. Roger was depressed, and not only by the weather. The smoke and wine loosened his customary reserve, and he broke his silence about his job.

  “He said he and Dinah Vardon had gotten into a physical fight, and Max Engstrom had threatened to fire him. Not Dinah, just Rog, even though she was the one who attacked him.”

  “Did he tell you what the fight was about?”

  “He was standing up for a tech department staffer Dinah had humiliated to the point of tears. He called her— Dinah—a monster, and she came after him, scratched him up pretty bad. Rog was furious with her and the other VIPs at the ’zine, said he wanted to expose their abusive behavior to the press. I told him he’d better colle
ct some solid evidence, because the press doesn’t like to turn on one of its own.”

  Three days before Christmas Roger appeared at Houston’s door with champagne and caviar and lobster tails. He wanted to celebrate his finally having found a way to get the evidence he needed to expose the abuses at InSite. Jody was concerned about his manic behavior, but she went along with the celebration.

  “He wouldn’t tell me exactly what he planned to do—except that he was going to take all of them down. A lot of what he said that night didn’t make much sense at the time. You see, with Rog, it was like he was speaking in code, and sometimes I really had to work to get at the meaning behind it. His perceptions didn’t come from the same place as mine—which was one reason why I could never love him. I mean, don’t you at least have to understand what the person you love is saying?”

  Early in the new year, Jody continued, she invited Roger to dinner. Once again he was out of sorts, edgy and preoccupied. When she first asked what was wrong, he dismissed his mood as a figment of her imagination. But as the wine flowed, he admitted that his plan to expose the abuses at the magazine had gotten sidetracked.

  “He’d found out some things, but when he tried to fit them together, they didn’t compute. And he’d gotten off in a wrong direction, forced somebody to do something un-ethical for him, and now the person’s career was in jeopardy.”

  “He didn’t go into the specifics?”

  “No. Rog could be secretive. I told him maybe he should just give it up and look for a new job. But he said he couldn’t do that. Once he got started on something he couldn’t quit.”

  “Okay, what happened then?”

  “I screwed everything up.”

  Late in January Roger had grown more optimistic. He told Jody he’d uncovered something wrong at the magazine—something more serious than management’s poor treatment of the employees—and it was only a matter of time till he had the evidence he needed to go public with it. Again he wouldn’t go into specifics, except to say it was major. He discussed his options, said he favored taking the details to the print media, as it would be a difficult sell to an online publication or even television. The Chronicle, he thought, would be the ideal venue.