Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  I was interrupted by a phone call from Blair Castle, Ruth Raynor’s attorney. She wanted to know if I’d made any progress, and sounded impatient and abrupt when all I had for her was the information about the Wells Fargo bank in San Jose.

  “You don’t have an account number for Wells Fargo?”

  “No. All I’ve got is the guy on the phone telling me that Raynor had an account, then he closed it.”

  “We’ve got a hearing in two weeks, Jeri, on Raynor’s motion to quash the subpoena for the Bank of America records. I need more ammunition. I hope you can come up with something.” Her tone implied that she didn’t think I was moving fast enough.

  “I’ve got some leads, but it’ll take me a while to check them out.” My own voice was sharp. I disliked being pressured, even though I understood the urgency of the situation.

  “I’ll go ahead and subpoena the Wells Fargo records,” Blair was saying. “That should rattle Raynor and his lawyer, if nothing else. You call me if you find out anything.”

  I left my office, locking the door behind me, and walked to the suite of offices at the front of the building, the law firm of Alwin, Taylor and Chao. I waved at Bill Alwin, who looked preoccupied as he walked down the hall with a law book in his hand. Cassie Taylor was in her office, on the phone as usual, shoes off and her feet propped up on a desk drawer that had been pulled out to serve that purpose. The jacket of her gray-and-white-checked suit had been draped on a wooden hanger that now hung on the coat tree in one corner of her office.

  Cassie waved me to one of the chairs in front of her desk and kept talking, one slender brown hand playing with the narrow collar of the pink silk blouse she wore. She reveled in elegant clothes and always looked bandbox fresh, tweaking me constantly about my own preference for comfortable slacks and practical shoes. I sat down and examined the crepe sole of my own footgear while she finished her phone call.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, hanging up the phone.

  “Why?”

  “Eric and I would like you and Alex to join us for dinner Saturday night. Seven o’clock, at my place.”

  “Are you cooking?” I asked, somewhat alarmed at the prospect. Cassie had been dating an accountant named Eric for the past few months and she was sounding increasingly domestic as the relationship progressed. But meal preparation was not her forte, which is why she was my frequent dining companion in local restaurants.

  “Lord no, girl.” Cassie laughed and ran her hand through her short black hair. “You know I only understand defrost, microwave, and let’s go out.”

  “Much to your mother’s dismay.”

  “Well, we all dismay our mothers in this life,” Cassie said philosophically. I could certainly relate to that. I’d been dismaying mine since I was old enough to talk. “No, I’m not cooking. But Eric has many charms, and cooking skills are among them. All you have to bring is Alex and a couple of bottles of wine.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll check with Alex to see if he’s free. While we’re on the subject of food, how about lunch?”

  Cassie looked at her watch and her calendar, then shook her head. “Can’t. I have a client coming in about twenty minutes. Maybe tomorrow. Speaking of mothers, you still going down to Monterey to see yours?”

  “I’m going down to see the family. Labor Day weekend. Cannery Row will be knee-deep in tourists.” I switched subjects. “What do you know about an attorney named Blair Castle?”

  “Divorce lawyer,” Cassie said promptly. “Is she a client? I thought you didn’t take divorce cases.”

  “It’s a long story. Yes, I’m working for her. I don’t like her, but I’m working for her.”

  Cassie leaned back in her chair and recrossed her legs. “I’ve only met her a couple of times. She belongs to my women’s network thing but she doesn’t come to the meetings often. Skinny woman with brown hair, in her forties. A lot of nervous energy, that’s my impression. What do I know about her? She was admitted to the bar less than ten years ago. I think she went to McGeorge Law School, at the University of the Pacific over in Stockton. She has a good reputation as a lawyer, but she can be abrasive.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said dryly. “She irritates me. I’m trying not to let it get to me.”

  Cassie’s phone buzzed. She picked up the receiver, listened, then returned the instrument to its cradle. “My client’s here.”

  I got to my feet. “Thanks for the conversation. I’ll let you know about Saturday night. Ask Eric whether he wants us to bring a bottle of red or white.”

  Cassie laughed. “If I know Eric, he’ll specify vineyard and vintage.”

  According to Mary, Tiffany Collins was using a vacation day to keep an appointment, so I didn’t know whether I’d find her at home. When I arrived at the San Leandro apartment building, I didn’t see the gold Mercedes in her parking stall. I glanced up at her apartment and saw the drapes were open to the afternoon sun. Then I saw movement inside the apartment, so I climbed the stairs to H.

  When I knocked, the door opened wide and I was face-to-face with Tiffany Collins. She was a good ten years younger than her brother Acey, probably mid-twenties. Her round face was fair and smooth-skinned, with a pouty red mouth and a belligerent-looking jaw that tensed as she raked me with her blue eyes. She wore white shorts and a blue T-shirt decorated with pink rabbits. Her hands were on her hips as she glared at me, a hectoring tone in her voice.

  “It’s about time you got here. I stayed home from work because of this. And I’ve been waiting since this morning. I don’t like waiting.”

  I’ll bet you don’t, I thought, tilting my head to one side. “Sorry, I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Aren’t you from the insurance company?” she demanded, running one hand through her corn-silk hair. Her earrings were rabbits too, tiny gold rabbits.

  “Insurance company?”

  “Yeah. Are you the insurance adjuster?” She leaned toward me as though I hadn’t heard her properly. “About the car.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Are you retarded or something?” she snapped as her hands went up in an exasperated gesture. “My car’s been stolen.”

  “The gold Mercedes?” I asked with interest.

  “My dream car,” she wailed. “I only had it a month. Now it’s gone. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Not much I can do about it, except ask a few questions. May I come in?”

  She nodded impatiently. I stepped into the apartment and immediately understood Mary’s comment about bunnies. I felt as though I’d walked into a rabbit hutch.

  To my right was a small dining area and kitchen. On the end of the counter I saw a ceramic cookie jar shaped like a rabbit holding a carrot. The rabbit was white, with wide blue eyes like those of Tiffany Collins. There were place mats decorated with bunnies on the round table in the dining area. On the small, refrigerator I saw several rabbit-shaped magnets. In the living room to my left bunnies frolicked on the shelves of the entertainment center, peeking from all sides of the television set, VCR, and stereo system. They crowded the end tables that bracketed the sofa, upholstered in a busy floral print. Everywhere I looked I saw rabbits, made of wood and china, pottery and porcelain, crystal and brass and who knows what else, in every hue and pose. The only wall decoration was a framed watercolor of a rabbit, and I wasn’t at all surprised to see a paperback copy of Watership Down on the low bookcase under the window, along with a complete set of the works of Beatrix Potter.

  I have a friend who’s the same way about cats. Makes her easy to shop for. Overdosed on bunnies, I turned my gaze back to Tiffany Collins. “When was the car stolen?”

  “Last night. I had dinner with a friend, over at the San Leandro Marina. When we left the restaurant, the car was gone. God, I was pissed.”

  “Car theft is a built-in hazard when you drive a Mercedes.”

  “That’s why my insurance premiums are so high,” she shot back.

  “Did
you have an alarm system?”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Who were you with last night?”

  “What difference does that make?” Tiffany narrowed her blue eyes. At that moment she looked very much like her brother.

  “Was it Sam Raynor?”

  “You’re not from the insurance company,” she said flatly, light dawning. “And you’re not a cop. I talked to the cops last night.”

  “I never said I was from the insurance company. You assumed. Assuming can get you into trouble.”

  Tiffany put her hands on her curvaceous hips and glared up at me. “Well, I assume you’re going to tell me who you are. Then you can get the hell out of my apartment.”

  “Let’s talk about Sam Raynor, Tiffany.”

  She folded her arms over the rabbits bouncing across her T-shirt. “Did my brother send you? If he did, you can tell him from me—”

  “Acey didn’t send me. Though we had a mutually enlightening conversation yesterday. He seems to be concerned about you.”

  “I don’t run his life. You’d think he’d let me run mine.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll get into trouble.”

  “He should talk,” Tiffany sneered. “Did he tell you he sent some of his biker buddies to hassle Sam? They beat him up a couple of weeks ago, and threatened to do worse if he didn’t stop seeing me. You tell Acey if he doesn’t cut it out, his parole officer just might get a phone call.”

  Parole officer. My ears pricked at that. “You’d do that to your own brother?”

  “Just watch me. When did you talk to him?”

  “Yesterday. Right after he told you about Sam’s other girlfriend.”

  I watched her face flush. “He made that up. Just shows what lengths he’ll go to.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Tiffany didn’t answer. “So Sam doesn’t know a blond woman who drives a Nissan with a Navy sticker?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly, looking down at her bare feet on the beige carpet. “I asked him about it at dinner and he just laughed. He says I’m the only woman in his life.”

  “What about his wife? And his daughter?”

  “You’re working for his wife, aren’t you? Well, you can just get your ass out of my apartment, right now.” She marched indignantly to the door and pulled it open. “Of all the sneaky, underhanded—you tell that bitch she has a lot of nerve, after all she’s put Sam through.”

  “What has she put Sam through?” I asked, holding my ground in the middle of the rabbit hutch.

  “She walked out on him without any warning. She won’t let him see their little girl. And she’s trying to take him for every dime he’s got.”

  “Sam has every right to visit Wendy,” I said. “In fact, the court granted him supervised visits. California is a community property state, so Ruth is entitled to half of everything. Did Sam tell you why Ruth left?”

  “She hated Guam, she hated Navy life.”

  “I don’t know whether she hated Guam. As for Navy life, she had a whole lifetime to experience it, since she’s an admiral’s daughter.”

  “I know that. He said she was a snob, she didn’t like being married to an enlisted man.”

  “He beat her up, Tiffany, more than once. Broken wrist, black eyes, broken nose, even a dislocated shoulder.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she hissed.

  “I’m telling you the truth. You run the risk of getting the same kind of treatment, once the bloom’s off the rose. Guys like Sam Raynor do it again and again.”

  “I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do anything like that.” Her chin tilted defiantly upward.

  “You’re deluding yourself, Tiffany.”

  Her mouth tightened and she stared at me. I caught a movement from the corner of my eye and glanced toward the hallway at the rear of the apartment. This time it was a real live bunny rabbit, a large lop-earred creature, its fur a dark rich brown. The rabbit’s eyes glittered at me and its nose twitched as it slowly hopped into the living room. Tiffany knelt to scoop it into her arms. She buried her face in the rabbit’s fur and made clicking noises with her tongue.

  She straightened, looking at me over the rabbit’s ears. “I don’t believe you,” she said again, but she sounded less convinced.

  “Sam Raynor is using you,” I told her. “He gave you the money to buy that Mercedes, didn’t he?”

  “What if he did?”

  “He’s hiding money from his wife to avoid a community property split. That makes you an accessory to fraud.”

  Tiffany gaped at me over the rabbit’s head. The creature had tired of being cuddled. Now it kicked her in the stomach a couple of times, gently, given its powerful hindquarters, demanding to be lowered to the carpet where it could hop around on its own. Tiffany knelt and released the rabbit. Freed, nose twitching, it hopped away, toward a corner of the living room.

  As Tiffany stood, I saw wheels turning in her head. I hadn’t completely convinced her of Sam Raynor’s venality, but I’d certainly planted a seed of doubt. Maybe if Acey and I kept watering it, the seed would sprout.

  Ten

  I STOPPED AT THE SAN LEANDRO POLICE DEPARTMENT for a copy of the report regarding Tiffany’s stolen Mercedes. The incident appeared to be a routine case of auto theft. Tiffany met Sam Raynor for dinner the night before at Horatio’s, near the San Leandro Marina. When they left the restaurant at nine o’clock, the gold Mercedes was gone. The fact that the alarm hadn’t sounded indicated some skill on the part of the car thief.

  I looked up from the report, staring out my windshield as I recalled Raynor’s movements yesterday when I’d tailed him to Tiffany’s apartment. He’d left his own apartment at five, arriving at Tiffany’s place maybe twenty minutes later. He left a note on her door, then departed. I’d hung around, hoping to talk to Tiffany, then I’d gotten sidetracked by Acey. When I returned to Tiffany’s apartment building, I hadn’t noted the exact time, but I guessed it was about a quarter to seven. The Mercedes wasn’t there. Tiffany must have been on her way to the restaurant.

  Something nagged at the back of my mind. It was an article I’d read recently in the San Francisco Chronicle, about insurance fraud. But the thrust of that article was bogus accident claims. What about that case I’d investigated a couple of years ago, over in San Mateo County? That was a car theft scam. I tried to recall the details but they wouldn’t come. I’d have to look back through my own files.

  Of course, there was always the argument that I should give Tiffany Collins the benefit of the doubt. She seemed legitimately upset about the theft of the car. If I’d had a Mercedes for only a month and it had been stolen, I’d be upset too.

  I leafed through the report, looking for the name of Tiffany’s insurance company. It was one of the largest operating in the state of California, and I’d done some work for them earlier in the year, investigating a fraudulent accident claim. When I returned to my office, I picked up the phone and called the insurance adjuster I’d worked with on that particular case.

  “Let me see who’s handling that one,” she said when I gave her the particulars. I was on hold for several minutes, listening to some appalling Muzak, then a man came on the line. I explained myself all over again.

  “Are you telling me there’s something dicey about this claim?” he asked, sounding suspicious. I wasn’t sure if he was suspicious of me or if insurance adjusters were naturally wary.

  “I’m not telling you anything, other than I’m curious about that Mercedes.”

  “To tell you the truth, so am I,” the adjuster said. “The last car we insured for Ms. Collins was a Subaru hatchback. It’s a big leap in premiums from that to a Mercedes. She’s only had the car a month, and now it’s been stolen. Drive a car like that, it’s just an invitation to a rip-off.”

  The insurance adjuster said he’d have someone investigate the claim, but unless concrete evidence turned up indicating Tiffany had something to do with the theft of her own
car, eventually the claim would be paid. He confirmed that Tiffany Collins owned the Mercedes, valued at forty-five thousand dollars.

  I wrote some letters and paid a few bills. When I left my office at six, I drove through the Tube to Alameda. It was a pleasant, late August evening. The fog had not yet crept through the Golden Gate, bringing in the cool night, and the sun was still warm in the blue sky overhead. I parked my Toyota on Fourth Street and walked into the Marion Court cul-de-sac, headed for the fourth cottage on the left. There was a small red Chevy pickup parked in front, its passenger side wheels on the narrow sidewalk. On the left side of the windshield I saw a red sticker denoting that the vehicle belonged to an enlisted person, the ticket for admission to the Naval Air Station.

  I stepped onto the low porch, dodging the spider plant, and rang the bell. A moment later the door opened. I met the curious gaze of a man wearing brown slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and scuffed leather sandals. He had a round fair face and short brown hair. His eyes were hazel. Older than me by a few years, I guessed, putting his age in the late thirties.

  “Chief Yancy?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said with a nod. “Help you with something?”

  “I hope so.” I introduced myself and handed him one of my business cards. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sam Raynor. I understand he works for you.”

  He turned the card over in his hand. “Yes, he does. What’s this about?”

  “I work for an attorney. Raynor’s getting a divorce.”

  Yancy frowned. “I don’t know if I should be talking to you.”

  “My questions are routine,” I assured him. “We just want to confirm some information.”

  “Does he know you’re asking questions about him?”

  “I imagine he expects it,” I said. If Yancy wanted to think I worked for Raynor’s attorney, I was prepared to let him.