Dead Midnight

by Marcia Muller

  Amaya’s apartment was in a highrise that spoke of wealth and privilege, at the top of the hill near Grace Cathedral and Huntington Park. Many stories of glass and stone, with a canopied entrance, and topped by a roof garden where full-size palms swayed. Parking in that rarefied part of the city has always been problematical, and today was no exception. I finally located a hideously expensive public garage a few blocks away and walked up there, my back protesting violently with every step.

  Either the building didn’t have a doorman or he was on break. I dialed Amaya’s apartment on the intercom, received an immediate answering buzz. Curious that he hadn’t bothered to ask who was there. The elevator was a high-speed model and delivered me to the sixteenth floor in minutes. Although the thickly carpeted hallway was deserted, a door at its far end stood open, and through it I heard Amaya’s agitated voice. As I approached I made out the words “liability” and “want you here when the police arrive.”

  I picked up the pace, ignoring the pain in my back, and stepped through the door into a granite-tiled entryway. Ahead was a large living room with French doors open to a balcony; a breeze scattered petals from a pewter vase of red roses across the gleaming surface of a grand piano. Amaya stood halfway between me and the piano, cordless receiver to his ear, and on the floor lay Max Engstrom, moaning, his head bloodied. His left arm was twisted at an odd angle.

  I said to Amaya, “Hang up.”

  He whirled toward me. “You! What are you doing here? I thought you were the paramedics. Go away. I am having a private conversation with my attorney.”

  “You’ve already told him to get over here. Now hang up!”

  He hesitated, said into the receiver, “Fifteen minutes, no later,” then did as I’d told him.

  I knelt beside Engstrom. He was in a twilight state, halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness. “What happened here?” I asked.

  Amaya looked nervous, but he was calmer now and seemed inclined to cooperate. “I was on the phone with my broker when my houseman let Max in. He came at me, shouting that he would kill me. We struggled, I grabbed his arm. It snapped, but he kept after me. And then John—John Hernandez, my houseman—hit him with a stone bookend.”

  I looked around, spotted the bookend under a table next to a black leather sofa. “You called the paramedics. What about the police?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to allow enough time for my attorney to arrive. Why are you here? What is your connection with Max?”

  I ignored his questions. “Make sure you call the police when the paramedics get here. Where is your houseman now?”

  “In his room.”

  “How do I find it?”

  “There is no reason you should talk with him.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Engstrom moaned again; he was coming around. I put my hand on his shoulder, said, “It’s going to be okay, Max. The paramedics are coming.”

  Amaya said, “Do you know why he tried to kill me?”

  “We don’t have time for this now. Look after Max, but don’t move him. Head injuries can be tricky. Now, where’s your houseman’s room?”

  Amaya’s expression said he’d like to tell me to go to hell, but after a moment he relented. “Down the hall, across from the kitchen.” He motioned to his right.

  “Okay, I’m going to talk with him. As far as the police are concerned, I’m not here. Do you understand?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  The intercom buzzed—the paramedics, finally arriving.

  Amaya said, “You owe me an explanation—”

  “Not now. When the police ask to question Hernandez, you come get him. I’ll wait in the kitchen. Then we’ll talk.”

  “But—”

  Another buzz. “Just let them in. He needs immediate attention.”

  … that private investigator who keeps showing up when tragic things happen—or almost happen—to people …

  The newscaster’s words echoed in my mind as I went along the hallway to the room across from the kitchen. I couldn’t withstand any more of that kind of publicity, and I hoped I hadn’t been wrong in trusting Amaya not to give away my presence to the police.

  The door to the room stood open. I knocked on the frame, and a slender, dark-haired man looked up from the suitcase he was packing. “Not a good idea, Mr. Hernandez,” I said. “The police will want to talk with you.”

  Hernandez’s thick brows drew together in a scowl. “Who’re you?”

  I showed him my ID.

  “Private cop? You can’t keep me here.”

  “Where’re you going to go? By now the paramedics are on their way up, and the police won’t be far behind.”

  He threw a couple of shirts into the suitcase and slammed its lid shut. “There’s a service elevator—”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Look, I don’t trust Amaya.”

  “If you’re concerned about being charged with assault, don’t be. I’m sure Mr. Amaya will back you up.”

  “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. Never trust an asshole.”

  “Why is he an asshole?”

  “Because he treats me like dirt, and I’m fuckin’ fed up with it. I wouldn’t put it past him to side with Engstrom.”

  “After you saved his life?”

  “Their kind, they stick together. Engstrom’s an asshole too. All Amaya’s friends are. And those women of his— bitches.”

  “A lot of women?”

  “Only two that I know of. The first, that Dinah, she looked right through me—till she wanted something, and then she’d demand, no please or thank you. One time I spilled some water on her and she tried to slap me. And Tessa, she’d stop talking as soon as I walked into the room. Had better manners than Dinah, I’ll give her that, but she was one cold broad.”

  So Amaya had been having an affair with both Dinah Vardon and Tessa Remington. Interesting.

  “How long was Mr. Amaya involved with these women?”

  “Well, Dinah was around when I came to work a year ago. Then all of a sudden, in June, she was gone and the other one took her place. Tessa was married, so she wasn’t here nearly as much.”

  So that was the reason for the barbed exchange I’d witnessed between Amaya and Dinah: they’d been lovers, and he’d broken off with her for Tessa. “You seem an observant man, Mr. Hernandez. Did you ever hear Tessa or Mr. Amaya mention a company called Afton Development?”

  “Well, sure. He’s on the phone to them all the time.”

  “You overhead any of those conversations?”

  “I was paid not to hear them.”

  I took a twenty from my wallet, extended it to him.

  “Well paid.”

  I added another.

  “Okay,” he said, “I can’t give you the exact words, but I figure Amaya has a deal to sell them some property. There was front-end money put up, a lot of it, back in February. And Tessa must’ve been involved, because she disappeared around that time, and Amaya’s been stalling them ever since. They must’ve pressured him pretty bad, because he’s been real nervous, and last Thursday he told them he was going to wrap up the deal within a couple of weeks.”

  “You’re sure the up-front money was put up in February?”

  “Yeah, Valentine’s Day. How I remember is Amaya kept me busy running out for flowers, champagne, fancy food. Tessa was coming over that night. When I got back from the last trip, he was on the phone to the Afton people, telling them to wire the money to an account at some company.”

  “You remember the company’s name?”

  “It was one of those names that sounds good, but doesn’t tell you what they do. Actonium … Uranium … no—Econium. Econium Measures.” Hernandez hefted the suitcase. “It’s been nice gossiping with you about my ex-boss, but I got an elevator to catch.”

  Amaya was furious with me when he came to fetch the houseman so the police could question him—so furious that I was afraid he would give my presence away. But he left me
in the kitchen and, with the help of his attorney and the stockbroker with whom he’d been talking when Engstrom attacked him, made relatively short work of satisfying the law. Afterward he summoned me to the living room, where he and his attorney, Sid Curtis, proceeded to pace around, ranting at me. I sat on the sofa, reflecting that their behavior resembled the pointless activity of caged animals.

  “Gentlemen,” I finally said, “what did you expect me to do—tackle Hernandez and tie him up with the bedsheets?”

  Sid Curtis whirled on me, thrusting out an accusatory index finger. “You know, I’m not unfamiliar with your reputation. You’ve subdued larger men than Hernandez and lived to brag about it.”

  I studied him: a small man with curly hair that stuck out at all angles from finger-combing. I was not unfamiliar with his reputation either: he had a tendency to bully anyone who opposed him.

  I said, “I do not brag. Plenty of journalists have been willing to do that for me. Besides, I wasn’t here today, so how could I have subdued Hernandez?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I also couldn’t have had a very interesting conversation with him about your client’s romantic life.” I glanced meaningfully at Amaya, saw his lips tighten.

  Curtis turned to him. “What’s she talking about?”

  “She was not here today, Sid. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Ms. McCone and I need to talk privately.”

  “You are not talking with her outside my presence.”

  “You forget yourself, Sid. I am the client. I say what happens and what does not happen.”

  “You want me to leave you in the hands of this—”

  “Watch it, Sid,” I said. “I’ve subdued larger men than you.”

  “What did John tell you?” Amaya demanded when his attorney had left.

  “That you were having an affair with Dinah Vardon and broke it off for Tessa Remington. How did Dinah react to that?”

  Amaya hesitated, probably considering a blanket denial, then shrugged. “How do you think? She is a typical vengeful woman, and she made my life difficult whenever she could.”

  “John also said Tessa was supposed to visit here the night she disappeared, February fourteenth.”

  He flushed. “Damn him!”

  “She never arrived or called, did she?”

  “No. She had plans with her husband and some friends, which she intended to cancel at the last minute. When she didn’t arrive, I assumed she hadn’t been able to beg off. But when she didn’t call with an explanation, I began to worry. We were to go over the final details of a joint business venture, and then we planned to celebrate. It is not like Tessa to walk away without concluding a transaction.”

  “Was this venture the sale of InSite’s building to Afton Development?”

  Amaya started, then regrouped, smiling thinly. “Ah, you are quite the detective, Ms. McCone.” He sat on a chair opposite me and took a cigar from a humidor on the coffee table. His hands shook slightly as he prepared and lighted it.

  “Mr. Hernandez also told me you directed Afton to deposit up-front money in one of Econium Measures’ accounts.”

  He regarded me through a haze of smoke. “I do not have to discuss my private business dealings with you.”

  “No, but it would be wise, in light of Tessa’s disappearance. Given the fact that you were sleeping with her, plus the fact that Max came after you because he found out about the Afton deal, the police might want to take a closer look at your recent activities.”

  “Are you blackmailing me, Ms. McCone?”

  “Advising you, perhaps.”

  He hesitated, considering his options. “Very well. I will explain, so you will not misconstrue what Tessa and I were attempting to accomplish. One of my functions at InSite was to restrain Max from his excesses. Unfortunately, he is a headstrong and overbearing man, and I had little success in that area. The magazine was losing money, and when it became apparent it would fail, Tessa grew concerned for her limited partners and decided, in effect, to kill it.”

  “Not a very straightforward way to do that, having you stage incidents like the bogus fire last Friday.”

  No response.

  “I know you were responsible for them. And I can understand your reasoning. If the company was in less than total ruins, you might have received pressure from Engstrom or the limited partners to declare bankruptcy and try to revive it. But this way, you can sell off the assets, and Tessa can close down the fund and return whatever small amount of capital that remains to her investors and then pocket the profit from the building’s sale. If she went the bankruptcy route, she’d come under the scrutiny of the regulators, but individual investors wouldn’t demand as rigorous an accounting; they’re becoming accustomed to dot-com companies failing.”

  His silence confirmed my theory.

  I added, “I assume you saw the plan through because of pressure from Afton Development. Do you have the authority to complete the sale of the building and withdraw funds from Econium Measures’ accounts?”

  “No. Both require Tessa’s signature.”

  “Do you have reason to believe she’ll surface and complete the transaction?”

  “I do. A fax arrived from her last Thursday, telling me to go ahead as planned.”

  “Where was the fax sent from?”

  “I do not know. The header was blank.”

  “Did she say anything else in it? When she was planning to surface, for instance?”

  “No.”

  “That’s probably because she doesn’t intend to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Are you aware that the account into which Afton deposited the up-front money has been cleaned out? So have other Econium Measures accounts.”

  He froze, cigar halfway to his lips. “That cannot be.”

  “But it’s true. According to Kelby Lincoln, someone moved all the funds last week. Twenty-two million dollars is gone, and no one’s been able to trace it.”

  “My God!”

  “And then there’s another detail: on Saturday, a woman whose description matches Tessa’s was seen delivering a suitcase to the magazine’s head of research, Kat Donovan. I suspect it contained payoff money.”

  “For what?”

  “Information Kat turned up.”

  He flushed. “So she’s the one!”

  “The one who what?”

  “The bitch!”

  “I think you’d better tell me all of it, Mr. Amaya.”

  “No.” He ground out his cigar and stood. “This conversation is over. If you don’t leave immediately, I will call building security.”

  When I got back to my car I called the hospital where the paramedics had taken Engstrom, for an update on his condition; they said he had a broken arm and mild concussion, but was resting comfortably. Then I called the office for messages. Julia was still there; I wondered when she found time to spend with her son, decided that was her business. Besides, I didn’t want to discourage dedication in a new employee.

  “Hy called,” she said. “He asked me to tell you he’ll be home around noon on Friday. A Mr. Hernandez wanted to thank you for letting him catch his elevator on time, said to tell you he remembered something else. Before Remington disappeared, she and Amaya were upset because somebody had found out something damaging about him—Amaya, not Hernandez—and would have to be ‘silenced.’ ”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Julia went on, “A Mrs. Woods says the boys have returned. And Ted phoned to ask if you’d found out anything.”

  “Thanks, Julia. Will you transfer me to Mick, please?”

  “I was on my way out, Shar.”

  “Sorry, this is top priority.”

  “Dammit—”

  “Bargaining chips—remember?”

  “Okay, okay. What d’you need this time?”

  “A background check on one Jorge Amaya.” I gave him what details I had.

  “I’ll get started.”


  Sometimes I’m so manipulative that I’m ashamed of myself, but at least it gets the job done.

  It was six o’clock now—end of a long, difficult day. All over the Bay Area people were heading home in their vehicles on the crowded streets, freeways, and bridges. They were lining up for CalTrain and BART, or rushing for the ferries, streetcars, and buses. The bars and restaurants were greeting their early customers; the athletically inclined were jumping on their mountain bikes or donning their running shoes; others were picking up groceries, lighting barbecues, or thinking fondly of pizza or Chinese takeout. Thousands of mundane, comforting rituals were going on all around me.

  And I wasn’t taking part in any of them.

  As I sat in my costly slot in the garage on the slope of Nob Hill, a familiar yet puzzling sense of loneliness and loss washed over me. It was true that years before, without fully comprehending the consequences, I’d set out on a path that few people—particularly women, at the time—would have chosen. A path involving long hours, sleepless nights, frustration, danger, and enough resultant demons to cast an epic-length horror film. But unlike many of my colleagues, I now had resources to fall back on: Hy, my family—more family than most, even with Pa and Joey gone—and my friends. The agency, my home, my cats, Two-five-two-seven-Tango, and Touchstone.

  So why this overwhelming sense of emptiness?

  Well, why not? Over the years I’d seen too much violence, too many evil deeds done as the result of greed, cowardice, or just plain stupidity. In the past week I’d seen the body of a friend who had died needlessly, a near suicide, and another man badly injured. I was on overload and wanted nothing more than to stow the memories in my mental bank vault, go home, and indulge in those mundane, comforting rituals allowed to other people.

  But I wasn’t other people. And tonight I needed to continue searching for answers.

  Parking in Ted and Neal’s neighborhood is even more difficult than on Nob Hill, especially in the evening when the residents—and their cars—return. I left the MG in a pay lot on the northern Embarcadero and walked up the series of concrete stairways that scale Tel Hill to the end of Montgomery Street; by the time I reached the top the pain in my back had flared up again, and I paused to gulp down two dry aspirins.