McCone And Friends

KNIVES AT MIDNIGHT

My eyes were burning, and I felt not unlike a creature that spends a great deal of its life underground. I marked the beat-up copy of last year’s Standard California Codes that I’d scrounged up at a used bookstore on Adams Avenue, then shut it. When I stood up, my limbs felt as if I were emerging from the creature’s burrow. I stretched, smiling. Well, McCone, I told myself, at last one of your peculiarities is going to pay off.

For years, I’d taken what many considered a strange pleasure in browsing through the tissue-thin pages of both the civil and penal codes. I had learned many obscure facts. For instance: it is illegal to trap birds in a public cemetery; anyone advertising merchandise that is made in whole or in part by prisoners must insert the words “convict-made” in the ad copy; stealing a dog worth $400 or less is a petty theft, while stealing a dog worth more than $400 is grand theft. Now I could add another esoteric statute to my store of knowledge, only this one promised a big payoff.

Somebody who thought himself above the law was about to go down-and I was the one who would topple him.

Two nights earlier, I’d flown into San Diego’s Lindbergh Field from my home base in San Francisco. Flown in on a perilous approach that always makes me, holder of both single- and a multi-engine rating, wish I didn’t know quite so much about pilot error. On top of a perfectly natural edginess, I was aggravated with myself for giving in to my older brother John’s plea. The case he wanted me to take on for some friends sounded like one where every lead comes to a dead end; besides, I was afraid that in my former hometown I’d become embroiled in some family crisis. The McCone clan attracts catastrophe the way normal people attract stray kittens.

John was waiting for me at the curb in his old red International Scout. When he saw me, he jumped out and enveloped me in a bear hug that made me drop both my purse and my briefcase. My travel bag swung around and whacked him on his back; he released me, grunting.

“You’re looking good,” he said, stepping back.

“So’re you.” John’s a big guy-six -foot-four-and sometimes he bulks up from the beer he’s so fond of. But now he was slimmed down to muscle and sported a new closely trimmed beard. Only his blond hair resisted taming.

He grabbed my bag, tossed it into the Scout, and motioned for me to climb aboard. I held my ground. “Before we go anyplace-you didn’t tell Pa I was coming down, did you?”

“No.”

“Ma and Melvin? Charlene and Ricky?”

“None of them.”

“Good. Did you make me a motel reservation and reserve a rental car?”

“No.”

“I asked you-”

“You’re staying at my place.”

“John! Don’t you remember-”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t involve the people you care about in something that could get dangerous. I heard all that before.”

“And it did get dangerous.”

“Not very. Anyway, you’re staying with me. Get in.”

John can be as stubborn as I when he makes up his mind. I opted for the path of least resistance. “Okay, I’ll stay tonight-only. But what am I supposed to drive while I’m here?”

“I’ll loan you the Scout.”

I frowned. It hadn’t aged well since I last borrowed it.

He added, “I could go along, help you out.”

“John!”

He started the engine and edged into the flow of traffic.

“You know, I’ve missed you.” Reaching over and ruffling my hair, he grinned broadly. “McCone and McCone-the detecting duo. Together again.”

I heaved a martyred sigh and buckled my seat belt.

The happy tone of our reunion dissipated when we walked into the living room of John’s stucco house in nearby Lemon Grove. His old friends, Bryce and Mari Winslip, sat on the sofa in front of the corner fireplace; their hollow eyes reflected weariness and pain and-when they saw me-a kind of hope that I immediately feared was misplaced. While John made the introductions and fetched wine for me and freshened the Winslips’ drinks, I studied them.

Both were a fair number of years older than my brother, perhaps in their early sixties. John had told me on the phone that Bryce Winslip was the painting contractor who had employed him during his apprenticeship; several years ago, he’d retired and they’d moved north to Oregon. Bryce and Mari were white-haired and had the bronzed, tough-skinned look of people who spent a lot of time outdoors. I could tell that customarily they were clear-eyed, mentally acute, and vigorous. But not tonight.

Tonight the Winslips were gaunt-faced and red-eyed; they moved in faltering sequences that betrayed their age. Tonight they were drinking straight whiskey, and every word seemed an effort. Small wonder: they were hurting badly because their only child, Troy, was violently dead.

Yesterday morning, twenty-five-year-old Troy Winslip’s body had been found by the Tijuana, Mexico, authorities in a parking lot near the bullring at the edge of the border town. He had been stabbed seventeen times. Cause of death; exsanguination. Estimated time of death: midnight. There were no witnesses, no suspects, no known reason for the victim to have been in that place. Although Troy was a San Diego resident and a student at San Diego State, the SDPD could do no more than urge the Tijuana authorities to pursue and investigation and report their findings. The TPD, which would have been overworked even if it wasn’t notoriously corrupt, wasn’t about to devote time to the murder of a gringo who shouldn’t have been down there in the middle of the night anyway. For all practical purposes, case closed.

So John had called me, and I’d opened my own case file.

When we were seated, I said to the Winslips, “Tell me about Troy. What sort of person was he?”

They exchanged glances. Mari cleared her throat. “He was a good boy…man. He’d settled down and was attending college.”

“Studying what?”

“Communications. Radio and TV.”

“You say he’d ‘settled down.’ What does that mean?”

Again the exchanged glances. Bryce said, “After high school, he had some problems that needed to be worked through-one of the reasons we moved north. But he’s been fine for at least five years now.”

“Could you be more specific about these problems?”

“Well, Troy was using drugs.”

“Marijuana? Cocaine?”

“Both. When we moved to Oregon, we put him into a good treatment facility. He made excellent progress. After he was release, he went to school at Eugene, but three years ago he decided to come back to San Diego.”

“A mistake,” Mari said.

“He was a grown man; we couldn’t stop him,” her husband responded defensively. “Besides, he was doing well, making good grades. There was no way we could have predicted that…this would happen.”

Mari shrugged.

I asked, “Where was Troy living?”

“He shared a house on Point Loma with another student.”

“I’ll need the address and the roommate’s name. What else can you tell me about Troy?”

Bryce said, “Well, he is…was athletic. He liked to sail and play tennis.” He looked at his wife.

“He was very articulate,” she added. “He had a beautiful voice and would have done well in radio or television.”

“Do you know any of his friends here?”

“…No. I’m not even sure of the roommate’s name.”

“What about women? Was he going with anyone? Engaged?”

Head shakes.

“Anything else?”

Silence.

“Well,” Bryce said after a moment, “he was a very private person. He didn’t share many of the details of his life with us, and we respected that.”

I was willing to bet that the parents hadn’t shared many details of their life with Troy either. The Winslips struck me as one of those couple who have formed a closed circle that admits no one, not even their own offspring. The shared glances, their body language, the way they consulted nonverbally before answering my questions-all that pointed to a self-sufficient system. I doubted they’d know their son very well at all, and probably hadn’t even realized they were shutting him out.

Bryce Winslip leaned forward, obviously awaiting some response on my part to what he and Mari had told me.

I said, “I have to be frank with you. Finding out what happened to Troy doesn’t look promising. But I’ll give it a try. John explained about my fee?”

They nodded.

“You’ll need to sign one of my standard contracts, as well as a release giving me permission to enter Troy’s home and go through his personal effects. I took the forms from my briefcase and began filling them in.

After they’d put their signatures on the forms and Bryce had written me a check as a retainer, the Winslips left for their hotel. John had fetched me another glass of wine and a beer for himself and sat in the place Mari had vacated, propping his feet on the raised hearth.

“So,” he said, “how’re we going to go about this?”

“You mean how am I going to go about his. First I will check with the SDPD for details on the case. Do you remember Gary Viner?”

“That dumb-looking friend of Joey’s from high school?”

All of our brother Joey’s friends had been dumb-looking. “Sandy-haired guy, one of the auto shop crowd.”

“Oh, yeah. He used to work on Joey’s car in front of the house and ogle you when he thought you weren’t looking.”

I grinned. “That’s the one. He used to ogle me during cheerleading, too. When I was down here on that kidnapping case a couple of years ago, he told me I had the prettiest bikini pants of anybody on the squad.”

John scowled indignantly, like a proper big brother. “So what’s this underwear freak got to do with the Winslip case?”

“Gary’s on Homicide with the SDPD now. It’s always best to check in with the local authorities when you’re working a case on their turf, so I’ll stop by his office in the morning, see what he’s got from the TJ police.”

“Well, just don’t wear a short skirt. What should I do while you’re seeing him?”

“Nothing. Afterward, I will visit Troy’s house, talk with the roommate, try to get a list of his friends and find out more about him. Plus go to State and see what I can dig up there.”

“What about me?”

“You will tend to Mr. Paint.” Mr. Paint was the contracting business he operated out of his home shop and office.

John’s lower lip pushed out sulkily.

I said, “How about dinner? I’m starving.”

He brightened some. “Mexican?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll pay.”

“John!”

“Consider it a finder’s fee.”

Gary Viner hadn’t changed since I’d seen him a couple of years earlier, but he was very different from the high school kid I remembered. Gaining weight and filling out had made him more attractive; he’d stopped hiding his keen intelligence and learned to tone down his ogling to subtle looks that actually flattered me. Unfortunately, he had no more information on the Winslip murder than what John had already told me.

“Is it okay if I look into this for the parents?” I asked him.

“Feel free. It’s not our case, anyway. You go down there”-he motioned in the general direction of Baja California-“you might want to check in with the TJ authorities.”

“I won’t be going down unless I come up with something damned good up here.”

“Well, good luck, and keep me posted.” As I started out of his cubicle, Gary added, “Hey, McCone-the last time I saw you, you never did answer my question.”

“Which is?”

“Can you still turn a cartwheel?”

I grinned at him. “You bet I can. And my bikini pants are still the prettiest ever.”

It made me feel god to see a tough homicide cop blush.

My first surprise of the day was Troy Winslip’s house. It was enormous, sprawling over a double lot that commanded an impressive view of San Diego Bay and Coronado Island. Stucco and brick and half-timbers, with a terraced yard landscaped in brilliantly flowering iceplant, it must have been at least six thousand feet, give or take a few.

A rich roommate? Many rich roommates? Whatever, it sure didn’t resemble the ramshackle brown-shingled house that I’d shared with what had seemed a cast of thousands when I was at UC Berkeley.

I rang the bell several times and got no response, so I decided to canvass the neighbors. No one was at the houses to either side, but across the street I got luck. The stoop-shouldered man who came to the door was around seventy and proved to like the sound of his own voice.

“Winslip? Sure, I know him. Nice young fellow. He’s owned the place for about a year now.”

“You’re sure he owns it?”

“Yes. I knew the former owners. Gene and Alice Farrar-nice people, too, but that big house was too much for them, so they sold it and bought one of those condos. They told me Winslip paid cash.”

Cash? Such a place would go for many hundreds of thousands. “What about his roommate? Do you also know him?”

The old man leered at me. “Roommate? Is that what you call them these days? Well, he’s a she. The ladies come and go over there, but none’re very permanent. This last one, I’d say she’s been there eight, nine weeks?”

“Do you know her name?”

He shook his head. “She’s a good-looking one, though-long red hair, kind of willowy.”

“And do you know what either she or Mr. Winslip do for a living?”

“Not her, no. and if he does anything, he’s never talked about it. I suspect he inherited his money. He’s home a lot, when he’s not sailing his boat.”

“Where does he keep his boat?”

“Glorietta Bay Marina, over on Coronado.” The man frowned now, wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“Troy Winslip’s been murdered, and I’m investigating it.”

“What?”

“You didn’t read about it in the paper?”

“I don’t bother with the paper. Don’t watch TV either. With my arthritis, I’m miserable enough; I don’t need other humans’ misery heaped on top of that.”

“You’re a wise man,” I told him, and hurried back to where I‘d left the Scout.

Glorietta Bay Marina sits at the top of the Silver Strand, catty-corner from the Victorian towers of the Hotel Del Coronado. It took me more than half an hour to get there from Point Loma, and when I drove into the parking lot, I spotted John leaning against his motorcycle. He waved and started toward me.

I pulled into a space and jumped out of the Scout. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice way to greet somebody who’s helping you out. While you were futzing around at the police department and Troy’s place, I went over to State. Talked with his adviser. She says he dropped out after one semester.”

“So how did that lead you here?”

“The adviser sails, and she sees him here off and on. He owns a boat, the Windsong.”

“And I suppose you’ve already checked it out?”

“No, but I did talk with the marina manager. He says he’ll let us go aboard if you show him your credentials and release from Bryce and Mari.”

“Good work,” I said grudgingly. “You know,” I added as we started walking toward the manager’s office, “it’s odd that Troy would berth the boat here.”

“Why?”

“He lived on Point Loma, not far from the Shelter Island yacht basin. Why would he want to drive all the way around the bay and across the Coronado Bridge when he could have berthed her within walking distance of his house?”

“No slips available over there? No, that can’t be – I’ve heard the marina’s going hungry in this economy.”

“Interesting, huh? And wait till you hear what else-” I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “Dammit, you’ve done it again!”

“Done what? I didn’t do anything! What did I do?”

“You know exactly what you’ve done.”

John’s smile was smug.

I sighed. “All right, other half of the ‘detecting duo’-lead me to the manager.”

My unwanted assistant and I walked along the outer pier toward the Windsong’s slip. The only sounds were the cries of seabirds and the rush of traffic on the Strand. Our footsteps echoed on the aluminum walkways and set them to bucking on a slight swell. No one was around this Wednesday morning except for a pair of artists sketching near the office; the boats were buttoned up tightly, their sails furled in the sea-blue covers. Troy Winslip’s yawl was a big one, some thirty feet. I crossed the plank and stepped aboard; John followed.

“Wonder where he got his money,” he said. “Bryce and Mari’re well off, but not wealthy.”

“I imagine he had his ways.” I tried the companionway door and found it locked.

“What now?” my brother asked. “Standing around on deck isn’t going to tell us anything.”

“No.” I felt through my bag and came up with my set of lock picks.

John’s eyes widened. “Aren’t those illegal?”

“Not strictly.” I selected one with a serpentine tip and began probing the lock. “It’s a misdemeanor to posses lock picks with intent to feloniously break and enter. However, since I intend to break and enter with permission from the deceased owner’s next of kin, we’re in kind of a gray area here.”

John looked nervously over his shoulder. “I don’t think cops recognize gray areas.”

“For God’s sake, do you see any cops?” I selected a more straight-topped pick and resumed probing.

“Where’d you get those?” John asked.

“An informant of mine made them for me; he even etched my initials on the finger holds. Wiley ‘the Pick’ Pulaski. He’s currently doing four-to-six for burglary.”

“My little sister, consorting with known criminals.”

“Well, Wiley wasn’t exactly known when I was consorting with him. Good informants can’t keep a high profile, you know.” I turned the lock with a quick flick of my wrist. It yielded, and I removed the pick and opened the door. “After you, big brother.”

The companionway opened into the main cabin-a compactly arranged space with a galley along the right bulkhead and a seating area along the left. I began a systematic search of the lockers but came up with nothing interesting. When I turned, I found John sitting at the navigator’s station, studying the instruments.

“Big help you are,” I told him. “Get up; you’re blocking the door to the rear cabin.”

He stood, and I squeezed around him and went inside.

The rear cabin had none of the teak-and-brass accoutrements of the main; in fact, it was mostly unfinished. The portholes were masked with heavy fabric, and the distinctive odor of marijuana was enough to give me a contact high. I hadn’t experienced its like since the dope-saturated seventies in Berkeley.

John, who cultivated a small crop in his backyard, smelled it, too. “So, that’s what pays the mortgage!”

“Uh-huh.” My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, but not fast enough. “You see a flashlight anyplace?”

He went away and came back with one. I flicked it on and shined it around. The cabin was tidy, the smell merely a residue of the marijuana that had been stored there, but crumbled bits of grass littered the floor. I handed John the flashlight, pulled an envelope from my bag, and scraped some of the waste matter into it. Then I moved forward, scrutinizing every surface. Toward the rear under the sharp cant of the bulkhead, I found a dusting of white powder. After I tasted it, I scraped it into a second envelope.

“Coke, too?” John asked.

“You got it.”

“Mari and Bryce aren’t going to like this. They thought he’d kicked his habit.”

“He wasn’t just feeding a habit here, John. Or dealing on a small scale. He was distributing, bringing it in on this boat in a major way.”

“Yeah.” He fell silent, staring grimly at the littered floor. “So what’re you going to do-call the cops?”

“They’ll have to know eventually, but not yet. The dealing in itself isn’t important anymore; its bearing on Troy’s murder is.”

Back on Point Loma, I waited just out of sight of Troy Winslip’s house in the Scout. John had wanted to come along and help me stake the place out, so in order to otherwise occupy him, I’d sent him off on what I considered a time-consuming errand. The afternoon waned. Behind me, the sky’s blue deepened and the lowering sun grew bright gold in contrast. Tall palms bordering the Winslip property cast long easterly shadows. At around six, a white Dodge van rounded the corner and pulled into Troy’s driveway. A young woman-red-haired, willowy, clad in jeans and a black-and-white African print cape-jumped out and hurried into the house. By the time I got to the front door, she was already returning, arms full of clothing on hangers. She started when she saw me.

I had my identification and the release from Troy’s parents ready. As I explained what I was after, the woman barely glanced at them. “All I want is my things,” she said. “After I get them out of here, I don’t care what the hell you do.”

I followed her, picking up a purple silk tunic that had slipped from its hanger. “Please come inside. We’ll talk. You lived with Troy; don’t you care that he was killed?”

She laughed bitterly, tossed the armload of clothing into the back of the van, and took the tunic from my outstretched hand. “I care. But I also care about myself. I don’t want to be around here any longer than necessary.”

“You feel you’re in danger?”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” She pushed around me and hurried up the walk. “Those people don’t mess around, you know?”

I followed here. “What people?”

She rushed through the door, skidding on the polished marble of the foyer. A few suitcases and cartons were lined up at the foot of a curving staircase. “You want to talk?” the woman said. “We’ll talk, but you’ll have to help me with this stuff.”

I nodded, picked up the nearest box, and followed her back to the van. “I know that Troy was dealing.”

“Dealing?” she snorted. “He was supplying half the county. He and Daniel were taking the boat down to Baja three, four nights a week.”

“Who’s Daniel?”

“Daniel Pope, Troy’s partner.” She took the box from my hands, shoved it into the back of the van, and started up the walk.

“Where can I find him?”

“His legit business is a surf shop on Coronado-Danny P’s.”

“And the people who don’t mess around-who are they?”

We went back in the foyer now. She thrust two suitcases at me. “Oh, no, you’re not getting me involved in that.”

“Look-what’s your name?”

“I don’t have to tell you.” She hefted the last carton, took a final look around, and tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m out of here.”

Once again, we were off at a trot toward the van. “You may be out of here,” I said, ‘but you’re still afraid. Let me help you.”

She stowed the carton, took the suitcases from me, and shook her head. “Nobody can help me. It’s only a matter of time. I know too much.”

“Then share it.”

“No!” She slammed the van’s side door, slipped quickly into the driver’s seat, and locked the door behind her. For a moment, she sat with her head bowed, her hands on the wheel; then she relented and rolled down the window a few turns. “Why don’t you go talk to Daniel?” If he’s not at the surf shop, he’ll be at home; he’s the only Pope on C Street in Coronado. Ask him…” She hesitated, looking around as if someone could hear her. “Ask him about Renny D.”

“Ronny D?”

“No, Renny, with an e, it’s short for Reynaldo.” Quickly, she cranked up the window and started the van. I stepped back in time to keep from getting my toes squashed.

The woman had left the front door of the house open and the keys in the lock. For a moment, I considered searching the place, then concluded it was more important to talk to Daniel Pope. I went back up the walk, closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and pocketed the keys for future use.

Daniel Pope wasn’t at his surf shop, and he wasn’t at this home on C Street. But John was waiting two houses down, perched on his cycle in the shade of a jacaranda tree.

I raised my eyes to the heavens and whispered to the Lord, “Please, not again!”

The Lord, who in recent years had been refusing to listen to my pleas, failed to eradicate my brother’s presence.

I parked the Scout behind the cycle. John sauntered back and leaned on the open window beside me. “Daniel Pope owns a half interest in the Windsong,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes casing the house like an experienced thief.

I’d assigned him to check into the yawl’s registry, but I hadn’t expected him to come up with anything this quickly.

John went on, “He and Troy bought the boat two years ago for 90,000 dollars cash from the yacht broker at Glorietta Bay. They took her out three or four times a week for about eight hours a stretch. In between, they partied. Men would come and go, carrying luggage. Some of the more conservative-read that ‘bigoted’-slip holders complained that they were throwing ‘fag parties.’”

“But we know they were holding sales meetings.”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get all that?”

“The yacht broker. I pretended I was interested in buying the Windsong. He’s probably got the commission spent already. Shit, I feel really guilty about it.”

A blue Mercedes was approaching. It went past us, slowed, and turned into the driveway of the white Italianate house we’d been watching. I unbuckled my seat belt and said, “Ease your guilt by telling yourself that if you ever do buy a boat, you’ll use that broker.”

He ignored me, straightening and watching the car pull into an attached garage.

“Daniel Pope?”

“Probably.”

“So now what do we do?”

Thoughtfully, I looked him over. My brother is a former bar brawler and can be intimidating to those who don’t know him for the pussycat he is. And at the moment, he was in exceptionally good shape.

“We,” I said, “are going in there and talk with Pope about somebody called Renny D.”

Daniel Pope was suffering from a bad case of the nerves, his bony, angular body twitched, and a severe tic marred his ruggedly handsome features. When we’d first come to the door, he’d tried to shut it in our faces; now that he was reasonably assured that we weren’t going to kill him, he wanted a drink. John and I sat on the edge of a leather sofa in a living room filled with sophisticated sound equipment while he poured three fingers of single-malt Scotch. Then I began questioning him.

“Who’s Renny D?”

“Where’d you get that name?”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t have to talk about-”

“Look, Pope, we know all about the Windsong and your trips to Baja. And about the dealers who come to the yawl in between. The rear cabin is littered with grass and coke; I can have the police there in -”

“Jesus! I thought you were working for Troy’s parents.”

“I am, but Troy’s dead, and they’re more interested in finding out who killed him than in covering up your illegal activities.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He took a big drink of whiskey.

I repeated, “Who’s Renny D?”

Silence.

“I’m not going to ask again.” I moved my hand toward a phone on the table beside me. John grinned evilly at Pope.

“Don’t! Don’t do that! Christ, I’ll…Renny Dominguez is the other big distributor around here. He didn’t want Troy and me cutting into his territory.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“No, it’s not.” I moved my hand again. John did a fair imitation of a villain’s leer. Maybe, I thought, he should have taken up acting.

“Okay, all right, it’s not. I’ll tell you, just leave the phone alone. At first, Troy and I tried to work something out with Renny D. Split the territory, cooperate, you know. He wasn’t having any of that. Things’ve been getting pretty intense over the last few months: there was a fire at my store; somebody shot at Troy in front of his house; we both had phone threats.”

“And then?”

“All of a sudden, Renny D decides he want to make nice with us. So we meet with him at this bar where he hangs out in National City, and he proposes we work together, kick the business into really high gear. But now it’s Troy who isn’t having any of that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Troy’s convinced himself that Renny D is small-time and kind of stupid. He thinks we should kick our business into high gear and take over Renny’s turf. I took him aside, tried to tell him that what he saw as small-time stupidity was only a matter of different styles. I mean just because Renny D doesn’t wear Reeboks or computerize his customer list doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. I tried to tell Troy that those people were dangerous, that you at least had to try to humor them. But did Troy listen? No way. He went back to the table and make Renny look back in front of his compadres, and that’s bad shit, man?”

“So then what happened?”

“More threats. Another drive-by. And that only made Troy more convinced that Renny and his pals were stupid, because they couldn’t pick him off at twenty feet. Well, this kind of stuff goes on until it’s getting ridiculous, and finally Renny issues a challenge: the two of them’ll meet down in TJ near the bullring and settle it one-on-one, like honorable men.”

“And Troy fell for that?”

“Sure. Like I said, he’d convinced himself Renny D was stupid, so he had me set it up with Renny’s number two man, Jimmy. It was supposed to be just the four of us, and only Renny and Troy would fight.”

“You didn’t try to talk him out of it?”

“All the way down there, I did. But Troy-stubborn should’ve been his middle name.”

“And what happened when you got there?”

“It was just the four of us, like Jimmy said. But what he didn’t say was that he and Renny would have knives. The two of them moved damn fast, and before I knew what was happening, they’d stabbed Troy.”

“What did you do?”

Pope looked away. Went to get himself another three fingers of scotch.

“What did you do, Daniel?”

“I froze. And then I ran. Left Troy’s damned car there, ran off, and spent half the night wandering, the other half hiding behind an auto body shop near the port of entry. The next morning, I walked back over the border like any innocent tourist.”

“And now you think Renny and his friends’ll come after you.”

“I was a witness, it’s only a matter of time.”

That was what Troy’s girlfriend had said, too. “Are you willing to tell your story to the police?”

Silence.

“Daniel?”

He ran his tongue over dry lips after a moment he said, “Shit, what’ve I got to lose? Look at me.” He held out a shaky hand. “I’m a wreck, and it’s all Troy’s fault. He had fair warning of what was gonna go down. When I think of the way he ignored it, I want to kill him all over again.”

“What fair warning?”

“Some message Renny D left on his answering machine. Troy thought it was funny. He said it was so melodramatic, it proved Renny was brain-damaged.”

“Did he tell you what the message was?”

Daniel Pope shook his head. “He was gonna play it for me when he got back from TJ. He said you had to hear it to believe it.”

The message was in a weird Spanish accented falsetto, accompanied by cackling laughter: “Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.”

I popped the tape from Troy’s answering machine and turned to John. ‘Why the hell would he go down to TJ after hearing that? Did he think Renny D was joking?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he took along his own knife, but Renny and Jimmy were quicker. Remember, he thought they were stupid.” He shook his head. “Troy was a dumb middle-class kid who got in over his head and let his own high opinion of himself warp his judgment. But he still sure as hell didn’t deserve to die in a parking lot of seventeen stab wounds.”

“No, he didn’t.” I turned the tape over in my hands. “Why do you suppose Renny D left the message? You’d think he’d have wanted the element of surprise on his side.”

John shrugged. “To throw Troy off balance, make him nervous? Some twisted code of drug dealers’ honor? Who knows?”

“This tape isn’t the best of evidence, you know. There’s no proof that it was Renny D who called.”

“Isn’t there?” he motioned at another machine that looked like a small video display terminal.

“What’s that?”

“A little piece of new technology that allows you to see what number an incoming call was dialed from. It has a memory, keeps a record,” he pressed a button, and a listing of numbers, dates, and times appeared. After scrolling through it, he pointed to one with a 295 prefix. “That matches the time and date stamp on the answering machine tape.”

I lifted the receiver and dialed the number. A machine picked up on the third ring: “This is Renny D. Speak.”

I hung up. “Now we’ve got proof.”

“So do we go see Gary Viner?”

“Not just yet. First I think we’d better report to Mari and Bryce, ask them if they really want all of this to come out.”

“I talked with them earlier; they were going to make the funeral arrangements and then have dinner with relatives. Maybe we shouldn’t intrude.”

“Probably no. Besides, there’s something I want to do first.”

“What?”

“Get a good look at this Renny D.”

An old friend named Luis Abrego frequented the Tradewinds tavern in National City, halfway between San Diego and the border. The first time I’d gone there two years before, John had insisted on accompanying me for protection; tonight he insisted again. I didn’t protest, since I knew he and Luis were fond of each other.

Fortunately, business was slow when we got there; only half a dozen Hispanic patrons stopped talking and when they saw two Anglos walk in. Luis hunched in his usual place at the end other bar, nursing a beer and watching a basketball game on the fuzzy TV screen. When I spoke his name, he whirled, jumped off his stool, and took both my hands in his. His dark eyes danced with pleasure.

“Amiga,” he said, “it’s been much too long.”

“Yes, it has, amigo.”

Luis released me and shook John’s hand. He was looking well. His mustache swooped bandit-fashion, and his hair hung free and shiny to his shoulders. From the nearly black shade of his skin, I could tell he’d been working steadily on construction sites these days. Late at night, however, Luis plied a very different and increasingly dangerous trade; “helping my people get where they need to go” was how he described those activities.

We sat down in a booth, and I explained about Renny D and Troy Winslip’s murder. Luis nodded gravely. “The young man was a fool to underestimate Dominguez,” he said. “I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him, and I hear he’s one evil hombre.”

“Do you know where he hangs out down here?”

“A bar two block over, called the Gato Gordo. You’re not planning on going up against him, amiga.”

“No, nothing like that. I just want to get a look at him. Obviously, I can’t go there alone. Will you take me?”

Luis frowned down into his beer. “Why do you feel you have to do this?”

“I like to know who I’m up against. Besides, this is going to be a difficult case to prove; maybe seeing Renny D in the flesh will inspire me to keep at it.”

He looked up at my face, studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it. But he”-he pointed at John-“waits for us here.”

John said, “No way.”

“Yes,” Luis told him firmly. “Here you’re okay; everybody knows you’re my friend. But there, a big Anglo like you, we’d be asking for trouble. On the other hand, me and the chiquita here, we’ll make a damn handsome couple.”

Reynaldo Dominguez was tall and thin, with razor-sharp features that spoke of indio blood. There were tattoos of serpents on his arms and knife scars on his face, and part of one index finger was missing. He sat at corner table in the Gato Gordo, surrounded by admirers. He leaned back indolently in his chair and laughed and joked and told stories. When Luis and I sat down nearby with our drinks, he glanced contemptuously at us; then he focused on Luis’ face and evidently saw something there that warned him off. There was not a lot that Luis Abrego hadn’t come up against in his life, and there was nothing and no one he feared. Renny D, I decided, was a good judge of character.

Luis leaned toward me taking my hand as a lover would and speaking softly. “He is telling them how he single-handedly destroyed the Anglo opposition. He is laughing about the look on Winslip’s face when he died, and at the way the other man ran. He is bragging about the cleverness of meeting in TJ, where he has bribed the authorities and will never be charged with a crime.” He paused, listened some more. “He is telling them how he will enjoy stalking and destroying the other man and Winslip’s woman-bit by bit, before he finally puts the knife in.”

I started to turn to look at Dominguez.

“Don’t.” Luis tightened his grip on my hand.

I looked anyway. My eyes met Renny D’s. His were black, flat, emotionless-devoid of humanity. He stared at me, thin lip curling.

Luis’ fingernails bit into my flesh. “Okay, you’ve had your look at him. Drink up, and we’ll go.”

I could feel those soulless eyes on my back. I tried to finish my drink, but hatred for the creature behind me welled up and threatened to make me choke. Troy Winslip had in many respects been a useless person, but he’d also been young and naïve and hadn’t deserved to die. Nor did Daniel Pope or Troy’s woman deserve to live, and perhaps die, in terror.

Luis said softly, “Now he is bragging again. He is telling them he is above the law. No one can touch him, he says. Renny D is invincible.”

“Maybe not.”

“Let’s go now, amiga.”

As we stood, I looked at Dominguez once more. This time, when our eyes met a shadow passed over his. What was that about? I wondered. Not suspicion. Not fear. What?

Of course-Renny D was puzzled. Puzzled because I didn’t shy away from his stare. Puzzled and somewhat uneasy.

Well, good.

I said to Luis, “We’ll see who’s invincible.”

I’d expected the Winslips to pose an obstacle to bringing Renny D to justice, but they proved to be made of very strong stuff. The important thing, they said, was not to cover up their son’s misdeeds but to ensure that a vicious murderer didn’t go free to repeat his crime. So, with their blessing, I took my evidence downtown to Gary Viner.

And Gary told me what I’d been fearing all along: “We don’t have a case.”

“Gary, there’s the tape. Dominguez as good as told Winslip he was going to stab him. There’s the record of where the call originated. There’s the eyewitness testimony of Daniel Pope-”

“There’s the fact that the actual crime occurred on Mexican soil. And that Dominguez has the police down there in his hip pocket. No case, McCone.”

“So what’re you going to do-sit back and wait till he kills Pope and Winslip’s woman, or somebody else?”

“We’ll keep an eye on Dominguez. That’s all I can promise you. Otherwise, my hands’re tied.”

“Maybe your hands are tied.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’re you going to do? Don’t give me any trouble, McCone-please.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to go off and think about this, that’s all. When I do give you something, I guarantee it won’t be trouble.”

When I’m upset or need to concentrate, I often head for water, so I drove north to Torrey Pines State Beach and walked by the surf for an hour. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t bring it forward. Something I’d read or heard somewhere. Something…

Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.

Renny D’s high-pitched, cackling voice in the answering machine tape kept playing and replaying for me.

After a while, I decided to do some research and drove to Adams Avenue to find a used bookshop with a large legal section.

Crimes against the person: homicide. Express and implied malice…burden of proving mitigation-no.

Second degree…penalty for person previously convicted-no.

Manslaughter committed during operation of a vessel-certainly not.

Death of victim within three years and a day-forget it.

What the hell was I combing the penal code for, anyway?

Mayhem? Hardly. Kidnapping? No. Troy went willingly, even eagerly. Conspiracy? Maybe. No, the situation’s too vague. Nothing there for me.

Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.

Can’t get it out of my head. Keep trying to connect it with something. Melodramatic words, as Troy told Pope. A little old-fashioned, as if Dominguez was challenging him to a-

That’s it!

Duels. Duels and challenges. Penal code, 225.

Defined. Combat with deadly weapons, fought between two or more persons, by previous agreement…

Punishment when death ensues: state prison for two, three, or four years.

Not much, but better than nothing.

I remember reading this now, one time when I was browsing through statutes that had been on the books for a long time. It’s as enforceable today as it was then in 1872. Especially sections 231; that’s got the part I really like.

Gotcha, Renny D.

“I’ll read it to you again.” I said to Gary Viner. He was leaning toward me across his desk, trying to absorb the impact of the dry, formal text from 1872.

“ ’Dueling beyond State. Every person who leaves this State with intent to evade any provisions of this chapter, and to commit any act out of the State as is prohibited by this chapter, and who does any act, although out of this State, which would be punishable by such provisions if committed within this State, is punishable in the same manner as he would have been in case such act had been committed within this State.’

“And there you have it.” I closed the heavy tomb with an emphatic thump.

Gary nodded. “And there we have it.”

I began ticking off items on my fingers.”A taped challenge to a duel at knifepoint. A probable voiceprint match with the suspect. A record of where the call was made. An eyewitness who, in order to save his own sorry hide, will swear that it actually was a duel. And, finally, a death that resulted from it. Renny D goes away for two, three, or four years in state prison.”

“It’s not much time. I’m not sure the DA’ll think it’s worth the trouble of prosecuting him.”

“I remember the DA from high school. He’ll be happy with anything that’ll get a slimeball off the streets for a while. Besides, maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody’ll challenge Renny D to a duel in prison.”

Gary nodded thoughtfully, “I remember our DA from high school, too. Successfully prosecuting a high-profile case like this would provide the kind of limelight’s he likes-and it’s an election year.”

By the time my return flight to San Francisco left on Saturday, the DA had embarked on the 1872 statute on duels and challenges with a missionary-like zeal and planned to take the Winslip case to the grand jury. Daniel Pope would be on hand to give convincing testimony about traveling to Tijuana primed for hand-to-hand combat with Dominguez and his cohort. Renny D was as yet unsuspecting but would soon be behind bars.

And at a Friday-night dinner party, the other half of the “detecting duo” had regaled the San Diego branch of the McCone family with his highly colored version of our exploits.

I accepted a cup of coffee from the flight attendant and settled back in the seat with my beat-up copy of Standard California Codes. I had a more current one on the shelf in my office, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to part with this one. Besides, I needed something to read on the hour-and-a-half flight.

Disguised Firearms or Other Deadly Weapons. Interesting.

Lipstick Case Knife. Oh, them deadly dames, as they used to say.

Shobi-zue: a staff, crutch, rod, or pole with a knife enclosed. Well, if I ever break a leg…

Writing Pen Knife. That’s a good one. Proves the pen can be mightier that the sword.

But wait now, here’s one that’s really fascinating…