Dead Midnight

by Marcia Muller

  “You can’t help how you feel. It’s a bad situation for you, too.”

  “Yeah, it is. I mean, she’s a fugitive, and not turning her over to the cops is a crime. But how could I do that, when she’s not guilty? Anyway, she did try when I complained about the smoke. Started hanging out the airshaft window to have a cigarette because she was afraid to stand by a window where she could be seen. I offered her some Valium, thinking that would help, but she said no, she had to keep a clear head so she could think.”

  “She give you any indication of what she was thinking?”

  “Well, when I knocked off work, we had a couple of glasses of wine, and she started talking about what she should do. She was afraid to turn herself in to the cops and take her chances. She couldn’t keep running; she didn’t want to live like that and, besides, she didn’t have any money. She couldn’t stay here indefinitely. Finally she said that if the person she saw up there in Oregon was the one who killed the reporter, she was in even more danger than before. It was a no-win situation, so she might as well risk everything.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. She got quiet after that, and a few minutes later she went into the bedroom to make a phone call. When she came out she told me she was going to meet with the person, strike a bargain. I said wasn’t that dangerous, and she said she’d told them she’d left an insurance policy just in case.”

  An insurance policy—the same phrase Roger had used in his last journal entry.

  “She left it here, with you?”

  “No, she said it wasn’t in the flat.”

  “But she hadn’t been out since she arrived on Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “So how were you supposed to do something with this policy, if you didn’t know what it was or where?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to do anything. I think she was going to use it as leverage with the person—give it to them in exchange for money and leaving her alone.”

  A dangerous and foolish course of action. “What time did she leave here?”

  “Around eight.”

  Almost two and a half hours ago. “On foot?”

  “Well, she didn’t call a cab.”

  “And that’s everything?”

  “Yeah. You think something’s happened to her, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If it has, I’ll never forgive—”

  I shook my head, held up a hand to silence her. Outside a siren wailed a counterpoint to the words and phrases that echoed in my mind.

  Insurance policy … Eddie will look out for her … he’ll see she has an insurance policy at her fingertips … important that you show her the stuff I asked you to teach me … he asked if he could use my computer to send an e-mail, his server was down … not in the flat … at her fingertips …

  I asked, “Is Jody’s computer still here?”

  “Yeah, but it’s boxed up in the closet with the other stuff she left behind.”

  That wasn’t it, then. Damn!

  Not in the flat … she started hanging out …

  I looked around, asked Tallman, “Where’s the airshaft window?”

  “What’s that got to do—?”

  “Just show me.”

  “In the kitchen, next to the fridge. You can’t miss it.”

  I hurried over there. The pebbled glass pane was on the building’s side wall, where in Roger’s flat it had been covered by cabinetry. I released its latch and leaned out into a dim space that smelled of stale cooking odors and mold.

  Tallman came up behind me, asked what I was doing, but I ignored her. I felt around till my fingers touched a plastic bag taped to the frame. The tape came loose and I almost dropped the bag. That was all I’d have needed in my present state—to have to climb down the shaft after it like Spiderwoman.

  I moved back from the window and held the bag to the light. Inside was a disc, smaller than a CD.

  When I’d come in I’d seen that the living room was set up as an office. “Do you have a Zip drive on your computer?” I asked Tallman.

  “Yes.”

  “Download this onto the desktop, would you?”

  She led me to the workstation, booted up, fed the disc into the drive.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’d better go into the other room while I look at this.”

  “Hey, this is my—”

  “Remember what Jody told you? You’re better off not knowing.”

  She gave a grunt of displeasure, then her footsteps moved toward the dining area.

  The desktop icon for the disc had appeared. I clicked on it. The file came up on the screen, and I began scrolling through the words that Roger had typed on Jody’s machine and then deleted shortly before he killed himself. Not an e-mail because his server was down, as he’d claimed to her; he’d earlier sent his final messages to his brothers on his own machine. When Jody read his journal she’d figured that out and, using the method Eddie had taught them both, retrieved and stored the document on disc.

  I read on, Roger’s words confirming many of the things I’d already suspected.

  And telling me one thing I never would have guessed.

  Almost three hours now since Jody left the flat. She was in extreme danger, if not already dead. Call 911?

  No, no real evidence of where she’d gone, and it would take too long to explain my reasoning.

  Go now, by myself.

  But I needed an insurance policy too. I highlighted the entire document, added a message, and sent it as an e-mail to Adah Joslyn, both at her home and SFPD addresses.

  Once again I crouched behind the abandoned truck on Water Street studying the resort. The mist was thicker now, and moving inland, but I could make out faint light behind the masked first-story windows. Portions of Roger’s last message kept replaying in my mind.

  I never should have gone there, but by then I’d realized Dinah had been using me when she came on to me that afternoon, buying time so she could do something with the material Kat had given her. God, I was a fool to believe her when she said she still loved me. But with me, Dinah always knew what buttons to push.

  I’d gone by the pier for the .357 Magnum that I normally keep in the safe there. Now it was a comforting weight in the outside pocket of my bag. I have a curious love-hate relationship with firearms: love, because I’m a good marks-woman and they’ve saved my life on a number of occasions; hate, because I’ve seen—and three times been responsible for—the dreadful toll they exact on human beings.

  After a few minutes I left the shelter of the truck and retraced the route I’d taken earlier. The boathouse was still padlocked, and I didn’t see any other car.

  She said she was meeting with her contractor at five, but when I saw the cars I realized the appointment was actually with Tessa Remington. I supposed she planned to pass along whatever information Kat had turned up, and I wanted to know what it was, so I went inside. Second mistake.

  There was a plank walk on the bay side of the building. As I started along it, I saw a vehicle pulled close to the railing of the lower deck. The windows of the bar overlooked the walk, but they were also masked; still, I crouched down while passing them. Now I saw that the car was a red Pontiac Firebird, a sporty but relatively inexpensive model. The plates on it were the ones that earlier had been on the BMW. I tried its doors, but they were locked.

  The railing of the stairway to the upper deck seemed more wobbly than it had before. I moved slowly, testing each board with the toe of my shoe before I put any weight on it. I wasn’t sure what I’d do once I got up there. I’d take care of that when the time came.

  She called after eight and said she’d taken care of everything. I was to tell no one what happened, particularly you, Jody. She said that if I did, we’d both suffer the consequences. I didn’t have to ask what she meant by that.

  Once upstairs, I moved through the mist to the door. No lights inside the bar or the kitchen beyond. The padlock on the door, like the one on the boathouse, wa
s a good one, would take a long time to pick. Time I didn’t have.

  A window similar to the ones downstairs flanked the door on either side. I spotted some loose shingles beside the left one, pried them off. Only tar paper behind them, old and brittle; I pulled it free. Most of the insulation between the stud and the window was gone; I removed what was left and went to work on the Sheetrock with my Swiss Army knife. In minutes I’d cut loose a big enough piece to stick my arm through and release the window’s latch. The rusted aluminum frame grated in protest as I eased it open.

  I waited to see if the noise had alerted anyone. Apparently not. After a minute I climbed up and through to the room beyond. As I recalled, a stairway led down from here to the lower level. I felt my way along the bar to the fire-door.

  Locked from the other side.

  From below I now heard a voice, harsh and insistent, but I couldn’t make out the words. It went on and on without interruption.

  You don’t know her. She’s a greedy, arrogant woman who thinks the rules don’t apply to her. She’ll probably try to intimidate you and find out how much you know. Don’t underestimate her.

  I put my ear to the door, straining to hear. Now a second voice was raised in protest. Again I couldn’t make out the words, but they were laced with fear. The other person interrupted with a scornful laugh.

  There had to be another way down there. Maybe through the kitchen—it served both floors. They must’ve been able to take food downstairs without carrying it through the bar area.

  I took out my flashlight and moved slowly, trying not to make noise. Cobwebs brushed at my face and hands; I knocked them away. When I pushed one of the bat-wing shutters, it nearly fell off the wall. I eased it free, laid it on top of the commercial cookstove.

  There was a door set into the wall beside the stove—another firedoor, perhaps. I tugged on its handle, was hit by a blast of icy air when it opened. Walk-in freezer. But why use costly energy running it when—

  A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature took hold of me. I stepped inside, not letting the door shut all the way behind me. Shone my light around—

  And moved slowly toward a stainless-steel table draped in a paint-stained canvas drop cloth under which was a conspicuous bulge. I raised the cloth, shone my flash down.

  Short blond hair, sparkly with ice crystals. Waxen, sculpted features that it was impossible to believe had once been poised, self-confident, animated. Bloody gash and discoloration at the right temple.

  So this was how she’d “taken care of everything.” Well, not quite. Tonight she planned to finish the task.

  When I went inside l heard voices yelling on the second floor. I ran up the stairs to the bar and saw they were fighting physically. Screaming at each other, something about Jorge. Tessa was getting the worst of it, and I knew firsthand how much damage Dinah could inflict, so l got between them and tried to stop them. Dinah was clawing at me, and Tessa was hanging on, using me like a shield. I turned and shoved her away and she fell and hit her head on the bar. The sound was horrifying, and I knew she was dead. So, like the true coward l am, I ran out of there, away from this terrible thing I had done.

  I replaced the drop cloth over Tessa Remington’s frozen face. In the kitchen I leaned against the wall, breathing hard. There it was, the evidence I needed. Call 911 and—

  “No!” The shout rose from downstairs, a truncated, terrified sound.

  I looked around for another door. None there. But across the kitchen was a dark, empty space. No, not empty—a wooden cage. Dumbwaiter, how they sent the food downstairs.

  I exchanged my flashlight for my gun. Though it was a large industrial-size cage, it would be a tight fit. If it was even operable. I located the Down button, squeezed in there—sitting down, my back to the rear, head lowered, knees bent. Pain stabbed my back in protest. I ignored it, pressed the button.

  The cage jerked and bounced. Began its descent, clanking and growling. I brought my feet up, ready to kick out, the .357 grasped firmly in both hands.

  The cage stopped abruptly, dealing a jarring blow to my spine. I rammed my feet at the wooden panel in front of me. It yielded, and I heard a cry of pain as it connected with flesh and bone.

  I struggled out of the cage, barely gaining my footing. Stumbled back against the wall beside it.

  “Watch out!” Jody Houston’s voice called.

  I saw the pool cue descending just in time to duck. It swished past my head. Dinah Vardon swung the cue again, and this time it connected with my shoulder. The gun slipped from my hands; I went to my knees reaching for it. Vardon whacked me across the ass.

  I scooted forward on my elbows under the pool table. My fingers touched the .357; I grasped it, rolled over, and brought it up. Vardon stood over me, the cue poised.

  “Drop it, Dinah!”

  She backed off but didn’t lower the cue.

  I edged out from under the table, got to my knees and then to my feet.

  “Drop it!”

  She flashed me a contemptuous look, let the cue fall to the floor. “Listen,” she said, “put the gun away and we’ll talk.”

  “No way.” I motioned to Houston, who sat in a straight-backed chair, her legs bound with duct tape, her arms trussed behind her. “Cut her loose.”

  Vardon ignored the order. “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. I have money, a great deal of it. I’ll pay you—”

  “I don’t want your money. Cut her loose.”

  “You haven’t heard how much. I have twenty-two million dollars. More, when I sign Tessa’s name to the sale documents for InSite’s building and sell this property. Still more, if I can crack the codes on her offshore accounts.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to work on that in jail—if they let you have your computer.”

  “I’m not worried about jail. Or you.”

  “You should be.”

  “I don’t think so. Last chance to take me up on my offer, McCone.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Your loss.” She shrugged and smiled. “If you won’t take my money, I know an excellent attorney who will.”

  Wednesday

  APRIL 25

  It was dead midnight when the police arrived.

  I’d had no difficulty preventing Dinah Vardon from leaving—in fact, I hadn’t had to try. Acting oblivious of the .357 trained on her, she’d sat herself down on the pool table, called her attorney, and insisted he meet her at the Hall of Justice, then proceeded to ignore Houston and me. Later on I reflected that she reminded me of a cat that has gotten its nose out of joint: it puts its back to you and stares haughtily into the distance, but from the flattening and swiveling of its ears you can tell it is listening to everything that goes on behind it.

  And in the interim between my 911 call and the arrival of the first squad cars, there was plenty for Vardon to listen to. Jody confirmed what Eddie Nagasawa had told me, and much of what I’d theorized. She’d asked Eddie about the insurance policy Roger claimed to have left her after a call from Vardon suggesting they “get together to talk about Roger.” After Eddie showed her how to retrieve Roger’s files, it had taken her a while to piece them together and figure out that the so-called policy was actually on her own computer. Finally she accessed it and put it on disc, uncertain as to what to do with it.

  If at all possible, she didn’t want to make Roger’s confession public; Remington’s death had been an accident, but knowledge of his part in it would tarnish his memory in the minds of those who had cared about him. She felt for Tessa Remington’s husband and friends, however, and knew they deserved to learn what had happened to her. And Vardon became insistent, calling repeatedly, the conversations taking a threatening turn. When she encountered me at Roger’s flat and realized the Nagasawas were opening an inquiry into his suicide, she decided to take the disc to his father, but Daniel’s seemingly skeptical reaction made her back off. Vardon called again the next day, and Jody set an appointment with her, but fle
d to Oregon instead, taking the Zip disc with her.

  Most likely Vardon had known or found out about Jody’s cottage in Eagle Rock and gone there with the intent of killing her. But coincidentally she met up with J.D. I’d probably never know what went on during their final confrontation. And given the lack of evidence, there was an odds-even chance she would never be charged with the murder.

  She’d covered up an accidental death. Figured out Tessa Remington’s passwords and looted the Econium Measures funds. Driven around in the dead woman’s expensive car for two months while Tessa’s corpse lay in cold storage because she—as she’d bragged to Jody—could get away with it and wanted to taste what it was like to be rich. Bribed Kat Donovan to leave the area, arriving at her house in the BMW wearing a yellow head scarf that, to a neighbor who admitted to bad eyesight, made her look like “a blonde in a fancy car.” Held Jody hostage and repeatedly threatened to kill her if she didn’t turn over the disc.

  And if I hadn’t stopped her tonight, she would have disposed of Tessa’s body, along with her personal effects, by pushing her car into the sea south of the city off treacherous Devil’s Slide. Jody was certain that even if she’d surrendered the Zip disc she’d have been a passenger in that car.

  Arrogance is its own undoing, of course. Vardon had incriminated herself because she couldn’t resist bragging to Jody. And she hadn’t realized the limitations of her knowledge of forensics; given the condition of Remington’s body, no coroner would have believed she and Jody had died at the same time in the same car wreck.

  But those crimes were nothing compared to the enormity of J.D.’s murder. It pained me to think there might never be justice for him.

  Adah Joslyn’s voice spoke behind me. “Damn, McCone, you know I hardly ever check my e-mail at home.”

  I turned toward her. Even at this late hour she was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit, her curly hair perfectly styled. “I sent a message to your office as well. Doesn’t somebody monitor what comes in when you’re off duty?”

  “My counterparts on the other shifts, yes. One of them read it.”

  “So he couldn’t figure it out and get over here?”