Dead Midnight (24 page)

“And?”

“I didn’t have anyplace to go. Mick said you were away for a few days and loaned me his key.”

“I take it you and Neal are still on the outs.”

“Yeah. And Adah and Craig threw me out. Last night I crashed with a couple of other friends, but their place is awfully small, and I could tell I was wearing out my welcome.”

He looked so hangdog that I couldn’t stay angry. “Well, feel free to use the guest room here.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t say so if it weren’t.”

He sighed and set the knife down, leaned against the counter.

I asked, “Have you talked with Neal?”

“Once. After Adah and Craig threw me out … D’you know I barfed on his new SUV?”

“Uh-huh.”

“God, I still can’t believe I did that. Anyway, the next evening I went to the apartment to patch things up with Neal. But he had some guy there—handsome guy, no less— and he told me I’d have to leave. He and the guy went into his study while I packed up some stuff. Neal came out and asked where I’d be staying, and I told him Adah and Craig’s. Then I got out of there before he could ask for my key back.”

“He introduce you to this guy?”

“No. He acted kind of preoccupied.”

“But not angry?”

“Not really. I decided to give him some space over the weekend, then try to talk with him again. But every time I’ve called the phone’s been tied up, and Craig says he hasn’t tried to reach me at their place.”

“I can’t believe he’d just move somebody else in.”

“Neither can I. But if he wants to, he can; it was his apartment originally, and his name’s the only one on the lease.”

“What about Adah and Craig? Since you went back there, I gather the barfing incident wasn’t why they threw you out.”

“No, it was the thing with the cat.”

“Charley? Because you’re allergic to him?”

“No. I insulted him.”

“How on earth can you insult a
cat
?” It certainly wasn’t possible with Ralph or Alice; a creature that feels it’s the center of the universe is impervious to insult.

“Actually, Adah took offense for him. When she fed him a leftover filet mignon that I’d been eyeing for my lunch the next day, I told her the cat was a pig and if she didn’t stop stuffing him someday he’d choke to death and she’d find him lying facedown in his food bowl like an enormous beached whale.”

With a perfectly straight face I said, “Why, you swine. You dreadful swine of a skunk.”

He frowned, then burst out laughing as he realized I was making fun of his own outrageously mixed metaphor. He began making noises like Ralph does when he’s trying to bring up a hairball, and I began snorting like Alice does when she gets foxtails from the neighbors’ weedy yard stuck up her nose.

“Lord,” he said, “if you can’t laugh …”

“I know.” I got myself under control, asked, “So d’you want me to stop by and see what’s going on with Neal?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem. In the meantime, make yourself at home. The neighbor kid—”

“Michelle. I’ve already met her. She wants to play gin rummy later.”

“Don’t play for money; she’s a card shark, is investing her winnings.”

“Young kid like that?”

“Yes, and she tells me it’s only seed money.”

“Saving up for a car?”

“Real estate. She claims land is where the money’s really at. By the way”—I motioned at the rack—“have you seen the midsized knife?”

“In the sink. Why?”

“Long story, and I’ve got to go now. Will you please rest up so you can go back to work tomorrow, before the agency falls apart?”

Before I went by Telegraph Hill to check on Neal, I wanted to stop in at the office to see what manner of chaos might be reigning there. I hadn’t been flattering Ted when I’d said the agency would fall apart without him; his calm and efficient presence was essential to its functioning properly, and any number of bizarre incidents had occurred on the few occasions he was absent. Today I was pleasantly surprised to find Julia monitoring the phone lines while she studied a handbook on skip tracing, and the others working quietly at their desks.

I gathered my message slips, went to my office, and returned a few phone calls. Then I took out the scribbled piece of paper that I’d found in J.D.’s raincoat pocket—tattered now from many handlings—and studied it once again. One of the unfamiliar notations caught my eye: Afton. The English river of song? A woman’s name? A company?

I went down the catwalk to the office Mick and Charlotte shared. She’d stepped out, but he was industriously typing. I peered over his shoulder at the screen, saw he was running a property search for a low-priority investigation, and said, “Put that aside for a while, will you?”

“Gladly.” He saved the information and put the computer into sleep mode. “What d’you need?”

“Afton. A-f-t-o-n. What is it?”

“Can’t you give me more to go on than that? I mean, it’s just a word.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, one of those.” His eyes narrowed in concentration as he began formulating a way to proceed.

I looked at my watch. “I’m on my way out. I’ll check with you in an hour or so.”

A slow smile spread over his face. “Your cell on?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What’s it worth to you if I have the info in less than an hour?”

“You know, I’d be better off putting you on a cash-incentive program than buying you all these restaurant meals.”

“I’d probably be better off too. Sweet Charlotte tells me I’m getting fat.”

True enough. He
had
bulked up a bit. “So let’s talk about it. Have you put together those figures on the computer forensics program yet?”

“They’ll be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll talk then. Be prepared to bargain hard.”

Ted and Neal’s apartment was in an elegant art deco building on Plum Alley, a narrow half block in the shadow of Coit Tower at the top of Tel Hill. When no one answered my knock, I took the elevator back down to the ground floor— mesmerized as always by the rippling effect of light through its glass-block enclosure—and crossed the tiled courtyard to the unit of the manager, Mona Woods. Mrs. Woods, an athletic septuagenarian who today had three pencils and a pair of reading glasses anchored in her thick, upswept white hair, welcomed me warmly.

“Perhaps you can tell me what’s going on up there.” She motioned toward the third floor.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen Ted in days. Another young man began coming and going at all hours since last Thursday. And yesterday afternoon I saw Neal and the new one carrying in some boxes. Don’t tell me he and Ted have broken up?” Mrs. Woods looked genuinely distressed; she took a personal interest in the lives of her mixed bag of tenants.

“They had a falling-out, but it isn’t like Neal to simply move someone else in. Of course, he hasn’t been himself since he had to give up the bookshop. D’you know where he is today?”

“He left a couple of hours ago. With the new one. Probably to get more boxes.” She sniffed disdainfully.

“If you see him return, will you give me a call?”

“I certainly will, dear. No one wants to get to the bottom of this business more than I. Ted and Neal are meant to be together—even if they’re both too stubborn to admit it.”

When my cell rang, I was maneuvering back and forth to extricate the MG from the tiny space where I’d wedged it at the end of the alley. My foot slipped off the brake as I reached for the unit, and the front end banged into the rubber bumper of the car in front of me. Startled, I took my other foot off the clutch, which stalled the engine. Then I dropped the phone and had to double over looking for it on the passenger-side floor.

Sometimes I wondered how I could be such a klutz when answering a simple phone call in a type of vehicle I’d been driving since I was sixteen, yet fly a plane while minding the radios and other instruments in a manner Hy described as “graceful.”

Mick. “Count this as one more bargaining chip in my pile.”

“Show-off. What’ve you got?”

“Afton Development. Headquartered in Atlanta, Georgia. Isn’t
InSite
magazine located in Dogpatch?”

“Right.”

“Well, there’s your tie-in. Afton’s been buying up large and small parcels there for an office-and-residential complex, as well as a hotel. On the quiet, because they don’t want to get the residents in an uproar—especially the Hell’s Angels, whose clubhouse they covet.”

I told him the location of
InSite
’s building. “How is it positioned relative to the properties they’ve already acquired?”

A pause. “Right smack in the middle.”

I thought of Charlotte’s statement that sometimes investors wanted a company to fail because it had valuable assets that could be sold off. Remembered Jorge Amaya telling Max Engstrom that the building was the only tangible asset they owned. Had Amaya forced the magazine into failure in order to make a lucrative deal with Afton Development?

The magazine’s doors stood open, but the ground-floor work area was empty. Gone were the desks and the computers, the chairs and tables. Cardboard boxes were scattered here and there, filled with what looked to be the personal belongings of employees who had not yet bothered to remove them. I continued toward the rear and up the staircase to the loft. At first I thought nobody was there, then I heard a squeak that sounded like a chair turning in Engstrom’s office.

The stocky publisher sat with his back to the door, staring out at the floor below. I cleared my throat and he swiveled to face me. He looked as if he hadn’t changed his rumpled shirt and chinos in days; deeply shadowed circles bagged under his eyes. In his right hand he held a tumbler full of clear liquid, and a gin bottle stood on the desk.

“Ms. McCone. How kind of you to attend the wake.”

I went over and looked down at the main floor. From here the scene was even more desolate. The stains from the fire-retardant chemicals outlined where the furnishings had stood. Trash was scattered across the floor and drifted in the corners. Without the staffers and their bustle of activity, the building was merely another abandoned factory waiting to be demolished.

“Sit,” Engstrom said. “Join me in a toast to the demise of an excellent publication.”

I took a chair, poured a small amount of gin into a smudged glass. Raised it and pretended to drink. “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

Engstrom rubbed his eyes. “Ah, who am I kidding?
InSite
was a shitty publication. All these online rags are. Short on intellectual content, long on nonsense. But why should they be otherwise? Consider the readership. God knows, in fifty years no one’ll remember what a real magazine or newspaper looked like.”

“I don’t think it’s that drastic.”

“Maybe not, but the world’s changing—and not for the better.”

“What will you do now?”

“I haven’t a clue. I do know one thing: I’m through with journalism and this city. I own a small cabin in Siskiyou County. Maybe I’ll hole up there and take another stab at writing the great American novel.” His lips curled mirth-lessly.

“Did the fire department figure out why the sprinkler system went off ?”

“Someone had tampered with it.”

“Who, do you think?”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“You’re really through with all this, aren’t you? You didn’t waste any time getting rid of the furnishings and equipment.”

“
Jorge
didn’t waste time. He’s anxious to move on.”

“Where to?”

“Greener pastures. A new challenge. Who knows? Or cares?”

“And you just went along with his decision.”

“I didn’t have much choice, given the extent of the damage. I knew we couldn’t keep going. Jorge had already been talking about suspending publication, so I struck a deal with him that will allow me to get out with my initial investment intact. It isn’t much, but the cabin’s paid for and the taxes on it are low. If I’m careful, I should be able to get by for some time. That’s better than the other investors will do.”

“Really? What about the proceeds from the sale of this building?”

“Who would want it, given its condition and environs?”

“Afton Development.”

“Who’re they?”

Good God, had the man been so absorbed in his own games and power trips that he hadn’t realized what was going on around him? “An Atlanta firm. They’re buying up most of Dogpatch for a big project.”

Engstrom’s face went rigid as what I’d said sank in. “They never approached me,” he said, “but I’ll bet Jorge knows about this. He’s been telling me we’ll never be able to unload this building. Part of my deal is that I sign a quitclaim on my interest in it.”

“l wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“It’s already signed. He’s screwed me.”

“But if you agreed because he falsely represented—”

“In private. His word against mine, and who’s going to believe a broken-down old hack like me?” His hand shook as he set his glass on the desk.

“Maybe it’s not that hopeless—”

“No, the son of a bitch screwed me but good.” Engstrom’s eyes flashed with anger, and he rose, balling his fists. “That was the plan all along—sabotage the operation, force me out with a few bucks, take the money and run. He set me up and he screwed me, but he’s not gonna get away with it!”

“Max—” I stood up, put out a hand, but he was already moving across the office. By the time I caught up with him he’d reached the stairway. I grabbed his arm, but he pushed me back and started down. I went after him. He swatted at me, knocking me to the side; my hand missed the railing and I fell against the step behind me, taking its edge in the small of my back. Pain shot up to my neck, down to my knees. By the time I recovered, Engstrom was out the front door.

He was going after Amaya, of course, and in his enraged and drunken state a confrontation would be dangerous to both of them. Groaning, I pulled myself up from the steps and hobbled outside. My back felt like a white-hot knife were being driven into it, but I doubted I’d sustained any serious injury. Painkillers, which I harbored in large quantities for just such emergencies, would get me through till I could see my doctor. The important thing now was to warn Amaya.