by Janet Dawson
Shock and disbelief washed over Porter’s face, erasing the tensing muscles at his jaw and filling his blue eyes with confusion. Evidently he had neither talked to Kevin nor heard about Sam Raynor’s death, something Kevin had known since his parents and I informed him of it early Sunday morning. Surely Kevin would have picked up the phone and informed Porter of the traumatic events that had occurred while the two of them were enjoying their beers and sea stories. Unless Porter wasn’t around to get the news.
“Kevin says he took Ruth home Saturday night, about eleven o’clock.” My eyes bored into Porter. “Then he went to see you at your apartment on Bayo Vista. That’s not far from Ruth’s building, at Forty-first and Howe, so it wouldn’t have taken him long to get there. According to Kevin, the two of you had a few beers, talked, and he slept on your sofa. He got back to his parents’ house about six Sunday morning. Sam Raynor was killed around eleven-thirty. Was Kevin with you at that time?”
Porter’s jaw tightened again and a thin film of moisture appeared on his clean-shaven upper lip. He saw me watching him and averted his eyes, looking out the window as he wiped the palm of his right hand over his chin, as though to still the movement of his facial muscles.
“Did you see Kevin Franklin late Saturday night?” I asked again. “Or any time this weekend?”
Porter took a deep breath and backed further into the corner I’d provided for him. “Kevin was at my apartment Saturday night.”
“Maybe he was. I note that you don’t say you actually saw him. I certainly hope you’re more decisive at the helm of a ship.” I stepped between Porter and the window, blocking his view of the bay.
“You’re lying, Commander, and so is Kevin Franklin. I don’t know why but I’ll find out. Considering that Ruth Raynor may be charged with murder before the week is out, I hope you both have a damned good reason.” In the long ensuing silence, I took one of my business cards from my purse and slapped it down on his desk blotter. “Call me when you figure out where your loyalties lie.”
By now Lieutenant Crowell had arrived for her appointment, a tall slender woman in a service dress-blue uniform with two gold stripes around the cuffs, her dark hair scraped back into a knot under her bucket of a hat. She carried a briefcase and stood behind the secretary, who hovered at a respectful distance outside Porter’s office, an anxious look on her face.
“He’s all yours, Lieutenant,” I said as I walked through the doorway.
I drove the few blocks to the Treasure Island police station. Duffy LeBard waited for me in his office, his height and bulk filling the room, face stern, arms folded across his broad chest. “I was about to send out a search party.”
“I made a detour.”
“This is my turf,” he said, steel beneath his honey-soft Southern drawl. “You say you’re comin’ to see me, you don’t make detours. Where did you go?”
I acknowledged his words with a nod. “I went to see Lieutenant Commander Charles Porter, RedCom Twenty. He’s somebody’s alibi, not a very good one, I might add. Sam Raynor was murdered Saturday night.”
“Good riddance,” the chief said with a snort. “I heard that news Sunday morning. Also heard the wife shot him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How does Porter figure in?” the chief asked, motioning me to a chair. He settled into his own chair, pulled out a desk drawer and propped up his feet as I told him Kevin Franklin’s story. LeBard shook his head. “You don’t think the brother would kill Raynor and let his sister take the heat? I sure as hell wouldn’t do that to my own sister. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know it doesn’t. But I also know when people are lying to me, especially if they’re not good at it. Kevin Franklin and Charles Porter are both lousy poker players. Their faces telegraph every card. I want to know what and why.”
“Don’t know if I can help you there,” LeBard said, frowning. “I got no reason to contact Porter.”
“I don’t expect you to. I think I shook him up pretty good this morning. He’ll be on the phone to Kevin Franklin very soon, if not as we speak. Let me see what sifts out.”
LeBard pursed his wide-lipped mouth and blew out an audible puff of air. His chair squeaked as he leaned back and tilted his head to one side. “Now if Mrs. Raynor didn’t blow ol’ Sam away, who do you think did?”
“I have a few candidates. I saw a couple of faces I recognized outside Ruth’s apartment early Sunday morning. I’ll have to ask them what they were doing there. I’d also like to know where Harlan Pettibone was at the time.”
Duffy LeBard chuckled. “I can answer that question, real easy. Ol’ Harlan got himself arrested Saturday night, at the NAS enlisted club. Little bastard got likkered up and took on a couple of Marines. The jarheads kicked his sorry butt all over the floor. After the dispensary patched him up, the base cops tossed all three of them in the brig so’s they could cool their jets. They’re all going up in front of their respective commanding officers sometime today. The Marines claim Harlan started it. They’ve both got clean records, so I’m inclined to believe ‘em. Harlan, on the other hand, is a miserable excuse for a human being who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the ass. He’s looking at brig time. After that, he’s about due for a bad conduct discharge. I fervently hope he gets tossed out of my Navy.”
I considered this, chewing on my lip. The fight gave Harlan an alibi and made it more difficult for me to check the sailor’s movements on Saturday. If Harlan’s commanding officer incarcerated him for fighting, I wouldn’t be able to get to him until he was released.
“What was Harlan doing before he got into that fight?” I asked. “Guess I need to talk to his pool-playing buddies, if you can get me some names.”
LeBard told me he’d see what he could do about identifying Harlan’s running mates. It wasn’t so much Pettibone’s friends I was interested in as Raynor’s movements the day he died. The two men had been roommates. Surely they’d seen each other Friday night or during the day on Saturday. Maybe the landlady, the helpful Mrs. Torelli, could provide some answers.
I drove back over the Bay Bridge to Oakland, stopping at my office to check messages. There was one from a Lieutenant Bruinsma at the Naval Air Station. When I returned the call, I discovered that the lieutenant had just had something dropped in her lap—the JAG Manual investigation on Sam Raynor.
“Why did you want to talk with me, Lieutenant?”
“I understand you had an appointment with Petty Officer Raynor on Friday. What was that concerning?”
“How did you know about that?” I asked. It felt odd to be the subject of someone else’s investigation instead of the person doing the investigating.
“He wrote it on his desk calendar. Your name, phone number, and the time. He must have had some reason for contacting a private investigator.”
“Not the reason you think. The meeting concerned Raynor’s divorce. I’m working for Ruth Raynor.”
“Ah,” she said. “That explains his mood. Chief Yancy said Petty Officer Raynor was in a foul mood when he got back to work. I’ve talked with some of Raynor’s coworkers. They said he and his wife were having an acrimonious divorce. Evidently there were some bad feelings.”
“Bad feelings.” My voice sharpened. “Why do you think Ruth Raynor had a restraining order against her husband? He was a wife beater. Keep in mind that I’m working for the defense in this case. And based on my one meeting with Sam Raynor, I wouldn’t describe him as a prize.”
The lieutenant’s tone matched my own. “And keep in mind that I’m getting feedback from the people Raynor worked with. He gave them his side of the story, and for the most part they liked him. I’m trying to be objective, Ms. Howard. The only thing I’m supposed to pass judgment on is whether Petty Officer Raynor died in the line of duty.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I had to admit I was partisan in this matter. The lieutenant was trying to be objective, and the scope of her investigation was admittedly limited. “Just
so we know which side everyone’s on. Have you talked with Raynor’s girlfriend yet?”
“Someone mentioned he’d been dating a civil service employee, but I don’t have a name.”
I told Lieutenant Bruinsma about Tiffany Collins, but I didn’t mention Claudia Yancy. I wanted to talk with Claudia first.
“I’ve been looking through Raynor’s service record,” the lieutenant said. “He hadn’t been at this command long, but his file looks clean.”
During our initial interview, Duffy LeBard had indicated that he’d prefer to be an anonymous source concerning Sam Raynor. But Raynor’s murder had upped the stakes. I phrased my next words carefully. “I suggest you dig deeper, Lieutenant. Chief LeBard at Treasure Island was with the Armed Forces Police on Guam. He may be able to tell you a few things about Raynor.”
That piqued Lieutenant Bruinsma’s interest. We ended the call with a wary agreement to cooperate with each other’s investigation. After she hung up, I called my friend Mary at the Alameda air station’s administrative offices. “Is Tiffany Collins at work this morning?”
“As a matter of fact,” Mary told me, “she called in sick. She’s a good worker, but now and then she gets a mysterious illness on Mondays, presumably after an interesting weekend. By the way, Jeri, I’ve been hearing some disturbing things about that guy she’s been dating. Such as, he can’t keep his hands to himself where women are concerned. I like Tiffany. I hope she hasn’t gotten herself into a bad situation.”
Considering Tiffany’s current boyfriend was in the Alameda County Morgue, it had been a more interesting weekend than most, and Tiffany’s situation was a big question mark. I didn’t tell Mary that, however. It was a sure bet that Lieutenant Bruinsma would come looking for Tiffany. Let Mary find out that way. I depressed the button on my phone and dialed Tiffany’s home number. I got a recording of Tiffany’s voice, inviting me to leave a message after the tone. I hung up instead.
That doesn’t mean she’s not home, I thought. Maybe she was sick, in bed, not wanting to bother with the phone. Then again, maybe she wasn’t.
Nineteen
I DROVE DOWN TO SAN LEANDRO TO SEE FOR MYSELF. Tiffany Collins’s designated parking slot at the Estudillo Avenue apartment was empty. I went up the metal stairs at the front end of the stucco building and knocked on Tiffany’s door several times, but there was no answer. The elderly neighbor lifted her curtain and glared at me. I tapped on her door, hoping to ask if she’d seen Tiffany, but she wouldn’t answer.
I drove back to Oakland, to the motorcycle repair shop where Acey Collins worked. Maybe he could tell me where his sister was. But Acey wasn’t at the shop. He’s off Mondays, said another mechanic. When I parked in front of the Victorian on Miles Avenue, the old Plymouth I’d seen on my earlier visit was in the driveway, along with Acey’s Harley.
As before, music poured out the open screen door, but this time it was Bob Seger wailing “Night Moves.” I rang the bell, pounded on the door and called out. Finally Genevieve Collins appeared from the back of the house, in shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals, drying her hands on a dish towel. She looked at me, her mouth drawn down at the corners, then crossed the living room, turned the music down a notch, and unlocked the screen door.
“He’s on the back porch,” she said.
I followed her to the kitchen, a big rectangle with a round oak table at this end, its surface scarred and stained, four pleated cloth place mats arranged in front of four mismatched chairs. The counter that ran down one wall was as old-fashioned as the house, constructed of tiny squares of brown and white tile. Above the counter I saw tall cabinets painted white, so high that they were the reason for the metal step stool propped nearby. On the opposite wall was a big refrigerator, its door covered with papers held by magnets. The big gas stove in the far corner looked older than I was.
Genevieve dropped the dish towel onto the counter and walked to the back door, motioning me to follow. We stepped out onto the enclosed porch, about five feet square, holding a washer and dryer, with a shelf above both appliances for laundry supplies. The dryer had been pulled away from its hookup. Acey Collins sat on the bare board floor, an open toolbox within reach.
“Gen, why’d you turn down the music?” he asked. Then he looked up, saw me and scowled. “Shit. What’re you doing here?”
“I’m glad to see you too, Acey. Let’s talk.”
He tossed a pair of pliers into the toolbox and scrambled to his feet, wiping his hands on the legs of his faded blue jeans. He wore a sleeveless white athletic shirt that revealed his muscled shoulders and arms.
“What the hell do you want?” he barked as he strode into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door with such force that a magnet and a child’s drawing fell to the floor. He plucked both items off the linoleum and slapped them back into place. Then he seized a can of Budweiser, popped it open and took a long swallow.
“You knew I was going to turn up sooner or later,” I said. “What were you doing outside Ruth Raynor’s apartment building early Sunday morning?”
Acey slammed the beer can down on the counter and some of the amber brew splashed onto the tiled surface. He raised his arms toward the ceiling, palms up in angry supplication as he directed his words to his wife.
“See? See? What did I tell you?”
Genevieve sighed and looked at him with the same mixture of patience and exasperation I’d seen in her eyes the week before, when she looked at her children. She reached for a dishrag and wiped up the spilled beer, then took a sip from the can as she leaned against the counter. “Don’t tell me, tell her. Or you’ll be talking to the cops.”
By now the music had stopped and it was quiet in the house, so quiet I hoped someone would fill the silence. Acey put his hands on his hips and lowered his ponytailed head, like an angry bull that’s been backed into a corner. Then he looked up at me and drew in a deep breath.
“Okay, I was there. For the same reason everybody else was. Curiosity. I heard the sirens, saw the lights, walked over to check it out. Hell’s bells, I didn’t know Raynor’s old lady lived there till I read about it in the paper.”
“You walked over from where? What were you doing on Piedmont that night?”
“A buddy of mine owns a bar on Piedmont, between Forty-first and Linda. It’s called the Royal Flush.” I nodded. I’d seen the place, a neighborhood tavern with a stained-glass window and a wooden door, its neon sign decorated with the five cards of that particular poker hand. “I had a few beers and played darts,” Acey continued. “You got a problem with that?”
“Since Sam Raynor was murdered a block away, maybe I do. Just tell me everything you did that night, especially from eleven o’clock on.”
“The paper said the cops have the wife in custody,” Genevieve said. “Ruth, isn’t that her name? You don’t think she shot him?”
“She says no. I think she was set up, by someone who saw an opportunity to kill Sam Raynor and let Ruth take the blame. My guess is that person was with Sam when he went up to Ruth’s apartment. Maybe a friend, a person he trusted. Someone he’d turn his back on.”
“That lets me out,” Acey said. “Raynor knew how I felt about him. Wouldn’t’ve turned his back on me.”
“Especially since you sent your buddies to rough him up in the parking lot at Nadine’s. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”
He took the beer from Genevieve’s hand and raised the can to his mouth. As he did, a look passed between husband and wife. “Yeah, that was me,” he admitted after he’d swallowed a mouthful. “Bastard didn’t scare like I thought he would. But I didn’t kill him. Sam Raynor’s not worth going to jail for.”
“So where were the two of you Saturday night?”
“I was working,” Genevieve said.
“And Acey was at the bar? Where were the kids?”
“Sleep-over at my sister’s. She and her husband took all the kids to Marine World on Sunday so Acey and I could have a day to ourselves.”
�
�Where do you work?”
“New Sunshine Pizza on Piedmont.”
“Let me take a wild guess,” I said, my eyes moving from Genevieve to Acey. “Sam came into the restaurant Saturday night. With Tiffany.” Neither of them said anything. “You know, Tiffany called in sick this morning. She’s not at work. I just went by her apartment. She’s not there either, or she’s not answering the phone or the doorbell. Any idea where she is?”
Acey swore under his breath. “No, I don’t. I tried to get her on the phone all day yesterday. Kept getting that damn answering machine.” He shook his head. “She can’t be involved in all this. She just can’t.”
“But she was with Sam Saturday night.”
Genevieve walked to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. “They came into the restaurant about nine and ordered a pizza. It wasn’t my table, so I didn’t wait on them. When I spotted Tiffany, I called Acey over at the Royal Flush.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew he wanted to talk to his sister. I thought since Acey was just down the street, he could sort of drop in by accident, to see me, you know? Except Tiffany knows I work there. I didn’t know if she’d buy it.”
“And the reason for this brotherly concern?” I asked, turning to Acey.
“You,” he said, shooting me an outraged look. “You told me Raynor’d been beating up on his wife. I never laid a hand on my wife and I sure as hell don’t want anybody slapping my sister around. I told Tiff that the last time I saw her, on Friday. She said she didn’t believe me. I said, you ask that guy straight out if he’s ever hit his wife and you look at his face when he answers. That’s what I wanted to talk to her about. That, and the car.”
“Why the car?”
“This whole business with that goddamn Mercedes stinks to high heaven.” Acey leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “When Tiff told me she and Raynor bought this fancy car, I thought, this jerk took her money, kept most of it and bought some junker. But I looked the Mercedes over and it was in good shape, nothing wrong. So I figure maybe Raynor’s up to something else, like a VIN switch.”
