Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  Praise for Janet Dawson and TAKE A NUMBER

  “Well written and entertaining... You’ll find yourself turning the pages because the victim is so deliciously despicable.”

  —West Coast Review of Books

  “A welcome addition to this tough genre.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “In recent years women private eyes have become big business, as anyone who’s been following the fortunes of Sue Grafton and Sara Paretsky can attest Thanks to their success, the way has been opened for many other women to write mysteries in voices uniquely their own. A fine example is Janet Dawson.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Dawson keeps suspense and interest at high pitch.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Also by Janet Dawson

  KINDRED CRIMES

  TILL THE OLD MEN DIE

  TAKE A

  NUMBER

  Janet Dawson

  For my brother,

  ROGER LYNN DAWSON,

  in spite of the tomato worms.

  Copyright © 1993 by Janet Dawson

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Sue Trowbridge, interbridge.com

  ISBN 0-449-22183-0

  ISBN 978-0-9834031-2-8(ePub)

  First Hardcover Edition: September 1993

  First Mass Market Edition: September 1994

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Fast Forward...

  Chapter One

  Rewind...

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Play...

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Preview: Don’t Turn Your Back on the Ocean

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  I greatly appreciate the time, expertise, and information given so freely by the following people: Sergeant Dan Mercado, Homicide, Oakland Police Department; Sergeant Charlie Dove, Auto Theft, Oakland Police Department; John Jay, Alameda County District Attorney’s Office; Gail Coney, Attorney at Law; Barbara Littwin, Attorney at Law; Lincoln Mintz, Attorney at Law; Lieutenant Commander Teresa Kielhorn, United States Navy JAG Corps; Peter Beall, CPA; and Sister Carol Anne O’Marie and the women of A Friendly Place.

  Fast Forward...

  One

  IT WAS JUST AFTER NOON ON A BRIGHT HOT AUGUST Friday when I met Sam Raynor for the first—and last—time.

  I watched the lunchtime crowd as I waited on the far side of the street-level fountain at City Center Square in downtown Oakland. Men in shirtsleeves and women in summer dresses sat on the edge of the fountain or on benches lining the terra-cotta-tiled pedestrian mall, eating sandwiches and salad from takeout containers. Office workers strolled among the trees, spooning up frozen yogurt as they enjoyed the sunshine and the break from work. Others lingered at the edge of the lower level fountain, where water cascaded down a series of steps near the entrance to the BART station. The splashing fountains pleased my ear as I watched this midday parade.

  I looked up at the modern sculpture above the nearby fountain. Constructed of outsized metal bars in lime green, pink, orange, and red, it looked as though a giant hand had played a game of pickup sticks, tossing the multicolored lengths into the air, where they stayed, frozen in place against the cloudless blue sky, a counterpoint to the Tribune Tower on the other side of Broadway.

  Raynor was late. I looked at my watch, then swept the outdoor mall with a glance. He had proposed the meeting but I had picked the spot. It was neutral territory, with plenty of people around. I’d deliberately positioned myself on the far side of the fountain so I could observe him when he arrived. I had the advantage when it came to recognition. He’d never seen me before, but I’d been tailing him for days.

  Minutes ticked by. Then I spotted a figure in a summer white Navy uniform, walking toward the fountain. The sun glinted off his red-gold hair, the short curls hugging his skull like a nimbus. He moved with a slow, confident strut that matched the cocky grin on his face, aware of the admiring glances he received from women as he cut through the crowd. He enjoyed the attention, basking in it like a lizard on a rock.

  Raynor stopped near the fountain and waited, left hand on his hip. His right hand tossed a key ring into the air and caught it. I approached him from the right, taking my time. I knew he was twenty-eight years old and that he was a first-class petty officer in the Navy, assigned to the Naval Air Station in Alameda. Until now I’d observed him from a distance, in crowds, across busy streets, through car windshields. This was the first chance I’d had to look at him up close. Six feet tall, I guessed, broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist and muscular thighs. His pale freckled forearms were covered with the same curly copper hair. He had long blunt-fingered hands. I particularly noticed his hands.

  “Sam Raynor,” I said.

  He jumped slightly, as though startled by my sudden appearance. I couldn’t tell if it was real or if he knew I’d been watching him. His eyebrows went up and he tilted his head to one side, a smile playing over his full sensual lips.

  “You must be Jeri Howard,” he said, his voice pleasant and purring as he tried hard to be disarming. “Nice to finally meet you.” He stuck out his hand. I kept mine at my side.

  “You wanted to talk.”

  He cranked up the smile a couple of watts and leaned toward me. I felt as though I were too close to a high intensity light bulb.

  “I hear you’re asking questions about me. So I looked you up in the phone book.”

  I stared at him as though I were a scientist examining some alien life form slithering from a petri dish. Raynor’s smile dimmed just a bit. He looked earnest and concerned.

  “Look, I know you’re a private detective, and my wife’s lawyer hired you. You’re trying to find out if I’ve got more money than Uncle Sam pays me. Believe me,” he laughed apologetically and shook his red-gold curls, “I don’t. Just an enlisted man’s salary. Sorry, it doesn’t stretch very far. Tell Ruth what’s on the table is all there is.”

  “California’s a community property state,” I said.

  “I know that. Ruth’s gonna get what’s coming to her. After all, we have a kid.” He blinked his long red-gold lashes and his face turned sober and serious. “I do want what’s best for my little girl.”

  “So you say.”

  “Ruth left me,” Raynor said with an aggrieved sh
rug. It was a jerky movement, as though he were wired with electricity, and it didn’t fit his smooth face and smoother voice. I wondered if he was high on something. “I didn’t want this split. I love her, I love my kid. There are two sides to every story, you know. You can imagine how I felt when I came back from Guam and found out she’d filed for divorce. She doesn’t want to see me, she doesn’t even want me to see my little girl. This is hard on me too. You know how it is.”

  As Raynor talked, he leaned closer still. I could smell the acrid musky scent of his after-shave and see the spatter of freckles on his fair skin. His left hand moved, a slow stroke down his hip to his muscled thigh, coming to rest in too-casual proximity to the bulge in his crotch. He tilted his head again and watched me through heavy-lidded eyes, his tongue darting like a snake between those full smiling lips while his pleasant-sounding voice tried to convince me of his sincerity.

  His eyes gave him away. I suppose someone once told Raynor he had bedroom eyes, whatever that means. But Raynor’s eyes were a flat pale blue, like disks painted on the face of a porcelain doll, devoid of warmth and emotion. They certainly engendered no passion. When they weren’t gazing at me or curtained by their lashes, those eyes flicked around the courtyard, zeroing in on other women nearby. He reminded me of an actor, counting the house.

  As he spoke, the fingers of Raynor’s left hand played invitingly over his crotch. His right hand tossed the keys into the air, a jangling accompaniment. When he got to the line about wanting to see Ruth, to talk to her and convince her that the divorce was a mistake, I cut him off with a sharp gesture and an ice-cold voice.

  “You broke her wrist last fall.”

  “Is that what she told you?” he said with an exasperated sigh. He held his right hand out in supplication, the keys dangling from his extended middle finger. “It was an accident, honest. It could have happened to anyone. I mean, I’m a big guy.” The middle finger of the left hand stroked his equipment, implying he was big everywhere else. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  I looked at the hand that held the keys. His knuckles looked skinned. I surveyed his face. Those flat emotionless blue eyes made my skin crawl. “Then there was the black eye a year ago.”

  “What black eye?”

  “Surely you remember that. Or did she just accidently run into your fist? You broke her nose, two years ago.”

  “Now that was an accident. She’s a little clumsy. She fell off a ladder.”

  “You knocked her off.”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting these stories,” he snapped. The air crackled around us, like an electrical charge. I sensed a change in him that put me on my guard. “Yes, I do. Ruth’s feeding you a line, that little bitch, her and that damned dyke lawyer.”

  “Let’s cut through the bullshit, Raynor.” My voice turned harsh. “You beat your wife, with your fists, when you’re not beating her up emotionally. Ruth’s entitled to half of everything you’ve got. You have over a hundred thousand dollars stashed somewhere, or with someone. I don’t know where you hid that money, at least not yet. But I’ll find it.”

  He tossed the keys into the air one last time. When he caught them, his right hand balled into a fist. He shoved the fist under my chin. His eyes held some emotion now. It was like staring into the blue flame on a gas stove, into the heart of a fire fueled by hatred. The hatred was directed at me, at his wife and her attorney, at women in general. I suspected it was also directed at anyone who tried to thwart Sam Raynor.

  His voice dropped to a low vicious growl. “You fucking bitch.”

  He spewed venom at me, working his way through the alphabet, calling me all the names I’d heard and some I hadn’t. He warned me to stay out of his business and threatened me with what he’d do to me if I didn’t He gave off sparks, adding to the heat of the day. But he didn’t touch me. Evidently he was saving that for later.

  I felt a hot flush of anger, then cold, hardening resolve. One of these days, I thought, this guy is going to kill someone. Or vice versa.

  I folded my arms across my chest and stared back at him with a look I usually reserve for cockroaches, choking down the urge to lash back. Instead I let him do all the talking, if you could call it that. I had no intention of backing down, from this case or from Raynor himself, if I had to stand in this courtyard all afternoon.

  No, Sam Raynor would get what was coming to him. If I could help that day arrive sooner, rather than later, I’d do so with great enthusiasm. And gain more satisfaction from that than I would if I kicked this jerk in his precious balls.

  Finally he ran out of words, frustrated by his failure to stampede me. His tongue darted over his full lips again, only this time he hissed at me like some deadly snake, at bay but still able to strike. The blue eyes slashed at me, then Raynor turned and walked away.

  I watched until he was out of sight. Only then did I relax, surprised at how rigid my muscles had become. I walked across the square, heading in the direction of my Franklin Street office, splashed by an errant spray from the fountain.

  I felt as though I needed a bath.

  Rewind...

  Two

  I DIDN’T WANT TO TAKE THE RAYNOR CASE.

  I don’t like divorce work. Maybe it’s been too short a time since my own. Divorce brings to the surface intense emotion, most of it bad. Two people invest themselves and all their hopes, plans, and dreams in a relationship and decide to go down the road as a couple, sharing whatever comes along. It hurts like hell when it doesn’t work out. Betrayal, pain, anger, and blame come bubbling to the surface, like a geyser that can’t be stopped. Hate is the flip side of love. It’s all too easy for affection to turn into hostility, for a shared life to become a battleground. I don’t like battlegrounds, either as a participant or an observer.

  I didn’t much care for Ruth Raynor’s lawyer either. Blair Castle was a thin, twitchy brown-haired woman in her forties, with a family law practice on Broadway near Fifty-first Street in Oakland. I’m all for sisterhood, but Castle’s voice and mannerisms grated on me like fingernails on a blackboard.

  She sensed my reluctance. In her tailored gray suit and white blouse, Castle examined me, painted fingernails drumming on her desk blotter. She mentally dismissed me, telling her client that she kept an investigator on retainer for cases like this. If that was true, I wondered why she’d bothered to contact me.

  But the client had insisted on a private investigator named Jeri Howard. That piqued my curiosity. When I found out why, the reason left me with a whole new dilemma.

  “My mother recommended you.”

  It was the first time Ruth Raynor had spoken, other than an indistinct murmur of greeting when I arrived. While her attorney told me that her client had recently filed for divorce and that there was a child involved, Ruth sat wordless and motionless in her chair, a small woman with large golden-brown eyes and short blond hair that surrounded her head like dandelion fluff. She wore a pale green cotton dress covered with little white flowers and kept her hands in her lap. The fingers of her left hand rubbed her right wrist, as though it were a talisman. There was something vaguely familiar about those eyes and the way they looked at me. When Ruth mentioned her mother, I looked at her carefully, my mind sifting through the recent past, through recent clients. Had I met Ruth before?

  “You met my parents,” she said, answering my unspoken question with a steady wide-eyed gaze. “In March, when you were working on another case. Joseph and Lenore Franklin.”

  Of course. I looked again at Ruth’s face and saw Lenore’s warm topaz eyes and her hands perpetually covered in dirt from her garden. Ruth didn’t resemble her father at all, which was just as well, considering the beaked nose in his narrow face. Joe Franklin was a retired Navy admiral, a tough old autocrat with a mast for a spine. We crossed swords last spring when I was working on the Willis matter, a missing persons case that evolved into an investigation of murder, past and present. I won that skirmish. Franklin didn’t like me, and
I thought he was a rigid narrow-minded pain in the ass. The prospect of encountering the Admiral again was one more mark in the minus column.

  But I liked Lenore Franklin. She was a truly nice person, matching most of the definitions of that word you can find in the dictionary. I regretted having disrupted her well-ordered life when I forced the Franklins to examine their past ties to the Willis family. After what happened in March, I felt as though I owed her a favor. And here she was, sending her daughter to collect.

  “Tell me about your husband,” I said to Ruth, balancing on the edge of my indecision.

  She spoke in a soft monotone as she rubbed her wrist. That happened in September, nearly a year ago. They were still living on Guam. Sam was working at the Naval Air Station at Agana, and Ruth was isolated, without a car in a duplex at the naval station near the town of Agat. Dinner was leftovers that night because the refrigerator was nearly empty and she hadn’t been able to get to the commissary.

  It happened the way it always did. Sam started with words, calling her a lazy bitch because she hadn’t walked to the commissary. Then he slapped her and punched her in the stomach. Finally he seized her wrist and bent it back until it snapped. When he took her to the Navy hospital emergency room, he joked about how his stupid wife got her wrist caught in the door.

  The black eye happened the year before, when he was drinking. He was usually careful not to leave marks on her face, but not that time. He told everyone that fumble-footed Ruth had stumbled into an open kitchen cabinet door. The broken nose—well, he’d knocked her off a ladder while she was changing a light bulb, then told everyone how clumsy she was. She’d heard that line so often she’d started to believe it.

  “Why did you stay with him?” I’ve never understood why a woman stays with a man who uses her like a punching bag. I’ve read the books and articles, and talked with battered wives, but it’s still hard for me to understand.