Dead Midnight (22 page)

“What kind?”

“Do I look like somebody who knows fancy from fancy?”

“Can you describe the woman?”

“Blond, is all. My eyesight’s pretty bad.”

“What time did she arrive?”

“Around six. I thought she was an overnight guest, on account of she went in carrying this little suitcase, but she came out maybe ten minutes later, and she didn’t have the case with her.”

A blond woman in an expensive car delivering a small suitcase to another woman who was expecting to come into a lot of money. Most of the females involved in my investigation had dark hair.

Except for one: Tessa Remington.

Tessa Remington, who had disappeared and this weekend may have removed enough money from her company’s accounts to fill many suitcases.

Dinah Vardon lived in a small cottage on Potrero Hill’s Vermont Street, otherwise known as “the second most crooked street in the world”—the first being the block of Lombard between Hyde and Leavenworth on Russian Hill. Although tourists flock to Lombard, few of them know about Vermont; tonight the series of steeply sloping switch-backs was deserted. I coasted along and parked close to a concrete retaining wall bordering the dark, wooded park on the downside of the hill. As I got out of the car I heard rustlings in the underbrush that were not necessarily animal, and farther below the sound of a siren approaching S.F. General Hospital.

I crossed the pavement, climbed the steps of Vardon’s cottage, and rang the bell. No answer, no lights in any of the windows. I would have liked to draw out Vardon about the research Kat Donovan had done for her, as well as Donovan’s relationship with Tessa Remington, but that would have to wait for another time. And maybe it was just as well: I’d arrived here before coming up with a strategy that wouldn’t involve telling her about Roger’s “Project ’Zine.”

Come to think of it, when
had
he retrieved the office e-mails in that file? The staff at the magazine worked long hours, and the tech department was always on call. As I’d seen last night, the process was not a quick or easy one. Roger would have needed access to the premises at times when no one was likely to be there, as well as a convincing excuse for his own presence.

I reached into the zipper compartment of my bag, found the keys I’d taken from the crimson bowl in his kitchen. Yes, the larger of the two could be to the double doors at
InSite
’s building. There was also a security system requiring a code, but if Sue Hollister was at home, I had an excellent resource in that department. The magazine had suspended publication; the offices would be deserted tonight.

At least till I arrived there.

At nine-thirty Dogpatch slumbered under the white glow of the new moon. I parked my MG a couple of blocks away from
InSite
’s building, in front of an apartment house that was being torn down. The balconies of the small units had already been removed, and the interiors of what had once been people’s homes were nakedly exposed. The tenants must have fought their eviction, because someone had spray-painted on the facade, “Your time here is over. Move on!” I felt a sudden stab of sympathy for those with no place to go in an expensive and often inhospitable city.

As I walked along the street, broken glass crunched under my feet and figures moved silently in the shadows. The area had been reclaimed by the night people, and they were carrying on all sorts of clandestine activities mere yards away, but as long as I didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t be interested in me. Still, I clutched my keys firmly, points out—a useful weapon in lieu of the .357 Magnum that for the most part I keep in my office safe.

It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside the converted sewing factory; the only windows I’d noticed on Friday faced the rear alley and had been painted over. I slipped onto the loading dock and moved along slowly, shining my small flashlight at the logical places a system box would be located. Near the front entrance I spotted it; the installer’s sticker read BARBARY COAST SECURITY, a small local firm. I dug out my cell and called Sue, whom I had contacted before driving over here and who was expecting to hear from me.

“It’s one of Barbary Coast’s installs,” I told her.

“That makes it easy. I used to work for them. There should be a number on the box.”

I peered up at it. “Nine-three-two-A.”

“I use that model myself on some of my residential jobs. In fact, it’s what I installed on your friend Paige Tallman’s flat. But first let me ask you: is this a B and E?”

“Not really. I have a key, but not the alarm code.”

“And the key was given you by … ?”

“An employee.” In a way.

“With the employer’s authorization?”

“… No.”

“I’m not at all comfortable with this, Shar.”

“Sue, it’s got to do with J.D.’s murder.”

That gave her pause. She’d dated him for a few months after he did a piece on her for the
Chron,
dubbing her “the first lady of S.F. security.”

“In that case, I’ll do it,” she said. “It didn’t work out with us, but we stayed friends. He was somebody you could count on. But promise me you’ll keep me out of it if you get caught.”

“If course.”

“Okay, the key is to … ?”

“The front door.”

“And the command panel is where?”

“Directly inside. But there’s a second set of doors that you have to be buzzed through.”

“Not if you’re entering with a key, you don’t. There’s one command to turn off the alarm, then the key will work the inside door lock. What you’re gonna do is override the system. I’m looking it up in my manual now, just to be sure. By the way, do you know you were mentioned on the six o’clock news?”

“The attempted suicide out at McKittridge Park?”

“Right. And there was also a teaser a while ago for the late broadcast—something about a suitcase linking you to J.D.’s murder.”

“Dammit!”

“I wouldn’t worry; it’s probably nothing. They exaggerate to boost their ratings. Ah, here’s what I’m looking for. You ready?”

“Give me a few seconds.” I went to the edge of the loading dock and peered around. If anyone was watching me, it wouldn’t be an upstanding citizen who would hustle to a phone and call the police. I dropped down to the pavement, went to the entrance.

“Okay,” I said to Sue, “I’m ready.”

“What you’re gonna do is simple,” she told me. “Stay cool, go slow, follow my instructions. We don’t want you getting any more press than you already have.”

“I’m in. Thanks, Sue.”

“Don’t mention it—to anyone.”

“Not to worry.” I broke the connection, stuffed the cell back into my bag, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Small spotlights shone down from the vaulted ceiling above the work area, but they did little more than illuminate the girders. They were there for security reasons, but since people had come and gone at all hours, the building was probably not equipped with motion sensors that would trigger the alarm. I’d avoid passing through their beams, just to be on the safe side.

The offices were otherwise dark and silent. The work area looked much as it had on Friday, except that many of the desks were bare and white stains from the fire-retardant chemicals in the sprinkler system covered everything. The room had the muggy feel of a swamp and smelled faintly of mildew. I located my raincoat where Engstrom had draped it over the chair on Friday morning; it too was stained and spotted with the beginnings of mold. The coat was old and I’d never much liked it anyway, so I left it there. Let the cleanup crews dispose of it.

As I passed the workstations I saw many had their drawers pulled out, and had been emptied of their contents. The laid-off staffers had made a hasty departure. I gave the desks only cursory attention before going upstairs. Vardon’s office was at the end of the narrow corridor, two doors away from Engstrom’s.

Desk and workstation against the side wall. Blue carpeting underfoot, still spongy. State-of-the-art computer with a huge screen—nothing but the best for the WebPotentate. Brushed chrome desk accessories, bookshelves loaded with technical manuals, Tensor desk lamp. I tried the lamp, found it hadn’t shorted out in the deluge, and began going through the drawers. The desk was metal, and very little water had seeped inside.

The usual office items: pens, pencils, notepads, Post-Its. File drawer of assorted items: extra mouse pads, spare keyboard, two coffee cups, several tote bags, a pair of black high heels, a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Drawer above stuffed with papers; apparently Vardon’s filing system was known only to her or nonexistent. Although I doubted she’d keep anything meaningful in such a jumble, I began going through it.

Interoffice memos, about as boring as the ones I circulated at the agency. Expense form for last month, half filled out. Flyer for a pizza restaurant, dollar-off coupon expired. Takeout menus, owner’s manual for the Palm Pilot IIIxe. Fax from—

I knew that name. Barry Carver. Could it be one and the same? Yes, the address was correct. Years before, in the process of trying to add a new bathroom to my house, Carver had practically trashed it. Now his letterhead bore a contractor’s license number. My God, how had the state allowed
that
to happen?

The fax appeared to be an informal contract between Vardon and Carver, saying they mutually agreed that work on the property at 211 Water Street, scheduled to begin on March 1, be postponed until further notice. Too bad I couldn’t warn her to get another contractor, but that would involve admitting that I’d broken in here and searched her office… .

Water Street. It sounded vaguely familiar. I had a Thomas Guide in the MG; I could pinpoint the address, drive over. Maybe Vardon had moved. But I’d have to hurry; it was now after ten, a marginally acceptable hour to drop in on someone.

No, I could see Vardon tomorrow, but I couldn’t count on having the run of these offices again.

I went through all the desks on the second story and learned a few interesting facts: Jorge Amaya kept prophylactics in his upper right-hand drawer; Max Engstrom stocked enough Mylanta, Alka-Seltzer, and Beano to mix a potent cocktail; Lia Chen’s publisher had turned down her proposal for a book on intimate urban gardens, and she had a drawer full of past due bills; the art director—title Leonardo da Picasso—doodled obscene caricatures of women on a scratch pad; one looked remarkably like the Money Mongrel. Interesting, but not particularly useful.

On my way out, I stopped by Kat Donovan’s desk on the ground floor. All her personal effects were there. Sherlock had left town without returning to the office.

Eleven-ten. I was too keyed up to go back to the apartment, but it was late to pay Vardon a visit. Of course, my line of work gives me an excuse for appearing to have few social graces, and just showing up at odd hours puts the element of surprise on my side. Small wonder that I barely hesitated before consulting my guide and locating Water Street. It was a short block paralleling the Bay’s shoreline, not far from the Islais Creek Channel on the southern waterfront. An industrial area in a very iffy part of the city. Odd place for Vardon to have bought property.

As I drove along Third Street, deep into the industrial core of the city, the pavement became crisscrossed by railroad tracks and deeply potholed. The night people were also out here, lurking in doorways of closed businesses and congregating under streetlights. They melted into the darkness as an SFPD car cruised slowly past.

I turned onto Twenty-fourth Street into an area nestled between Pier 72 and the Army Street Terminal, where shabby frame cottages stood side by side with warehouses and other business concerns. Most of the cottages appeared to be condemned, and the only lights that shone in the businesses were security spots behind the chain-link fences. A Doberman paced up and down in the yard of an auto body shop, spoiling for a reason to attack. Twenty-fourth dead-ended at Water Street, and as I turned, I recognized number 211.

It was the old Islais Creek Resort, more familiarly known as “the Last Resort” to those of us who had patronized it during its brief period of popularity. A weathered frame building that sagged above the water, it had a second-story restaurant deck and bar that had been the haunt of the more upscale clientele, and a downstairs bar and poolroom favored by the friends and associates of its owner, Tony Capello, an enterprising man who had conducted an astounding variety of illicit activities from the resort until his luck ran out and he began serving twenty-to-life at San Quentin. The main structure and several outbuildings—a boathouse where Capello had kept his cabin cruiser and the sheds that had housed ill-gotten gains—had been boarded up after his conviction, and I’d assumed they’d long ago been demolished. Now it seemed that Dinah Vardon had purchased and planned to remodel the resort.

But for what purpose? I couldn’t imagine her in the role of restaurateur. And I doubted she was living there, given the building’s obvious state of disrepair. All the same, I parked the MG and went exploring.

The downstairs windows were salt-caked and covered on the inside with the type of plastic that painters use to mask the glass. The door to the lower bar was chained and padlocked. A yellow plastic tape proclaiming DANGER … DANGER … DANGER … blocked the staircase to the upper deck. When I stepped over it, I realized why: many of the boards were loose or missing, and the structure wobbled under my weight. I paused, looking up, and saw that the glass door to the deck was not masked. Carefully I climbed, holding tightly to the railing.

The brightly painted tables and chairs and striped umbrellas that I remembered from past lunches there were gone from the deck; only a collapsed picnic table and empty flower boxes remained. I went to the door, took out my flashlight, and shone its beam around the interior. The bar and stools were still there, as well as a table that had blueprints spread out on it. Through an archway where bat-wing shutters hung, I saw a commercial cookstove.

I’d have loved to get a look at those blueprints but this door was padlocked like the one downstairs. I was good with locks, had a handcrafted assortment of picks that an informant had given me shortly before he went to prison for the third time. But idle curiosity was no justification for criminal trespass. Besides, if I wanted to know Vardon’s plans for the resort, I could ask her. Its sale was a matter of public record.