by Janet Dawson
A jet took off at the airport, and I waited until the roar died away. “You were out in the hallway waiting for Sam. Then you heard Sam and Ruth fighting. You heard the gun go off. When you went into the apartment, Sam had his hands around Ruth’s throat. You pulled him off her and shoved him out the door. But the gun was right there, with opportunity written all over it. So you picked it up and followed Sam outside. You shot him in the back, wiped the gun and dropped it down the trash chute. Then you hopped in your Camaro and drove over to the enlisted club at the air station. You walked in looking for a fight, jumped those two Marines and got yourself tossed into the brig. It gave you an alibi and it kept me away from you. Until now.”
I could probably prove most of it. Harlan didn’t help matters by confirming anything I’d just said. Instead he reached behind the driver’s seat of the Camaro and pulled out a shiny metal object. Without a word he launched himself at me.
I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid of being beaten up. I’ve encountered physical violence before. I’ve come to blows several times during my tenure as an investigator, though I usually rely on a quick tongue and quick reflexes to avoid getting punched out. But sometimes that isn’t enough. A couple of years ago I was pistol-whipped in a parking lot and I wound up in the hospital. It left me with a scar on my forehead and some trepidation about mixing it up. I was several inches taller than Harlan and no doubt outweighed him. But he was flailing at me with vehemence born of desperation.
All these thoughts flashed through my head as the shiny object Harlan held connected with my left shoulder. Now thought flashed into pain. What the hell was that thing? A tire iron, the kind that looks like a large plus sign, used to loosen lug nuts. Harlan swung at me again, this time at my head. I dodged, but the end of the tire iron grazed my head. Was that pain roaring from my cranium, or another jet blasting down the runway?
I moved to the right, kicking at his feet. Then I grabbed the crossbars of the tire iron and we struggled over it, our heads close together, close enough for me to see his ugly little face, contorted with fury, glistening with sweat in the waist-level light from the Camaro’s headlamps. We partnered each other in this awkward dance, then I shoved him back against the hood of the Camaro and kneed him hard in the groin.
Harlan bellowed in pain and outrage, but my blow to his scrotum didn’t put him out of commission. It just made him madder. I tried to wrench the tire iron away from him, but he sprang forward, his tightly coiled body shoving the tire iron hard into my stomach. I stumbled backward and fell, my butt smacking painfully on the asphalt in front of the Camaro.
I felt gravel on the roadway surface, poking at me through the fabric of my jeans. Harlan moved in for another try, his right foot drawn back to kick me, his right hand holding the tire iron above his head, ready to bring it down on mine. He landed one kick on my hip, painful, but it would have been worse had he not been wearing high-topped sneakers.
I scrambled to my feet, left hand scooping up a handful of gravel. I peppered his face with the rocks. He bellowed and his right arm dropped. Now our struggle over the tire iron took us into the middle of Harbor Bay Parkway, toward the grassy median strip. Where were all those cars that passed us earlier?
I snatched the tire iron from him, but I had little time to savor that victory. Harlan rushed me, knocking me off my feet once more. I fought for balance but my left ankle twisted painfully. I fell onto my left side, landing hard on the pavement at the edge of the median strip, my head just grazing the concrete curb. I lay there for a few seconds, stunned, expecting to ward off another kick. What I got was the roar of the Camaro’s engine and the sudden bright flash of the headlights as Harlan jerked the car out onto the parkway.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain in my hip. I ran along the grassy median toward Maitland Drive, as though I had the defensive line of the ‘Niners on my tail. I might have had a better chance with the ‘Niners. Harlan Pettibone intended to mow me down and leave me as flat as road kill.
Harlan zoomed the Camaro up onto the median strip, where it bounced and slewed in my wake. He hit something, a bush maybe, that slowed him down for a moment. I ran back across the parkway to the sidewalk that bordered the street and the golf course, gaining some distance. Then I was pinned in the merciless glare of the headlights as he barreled off the median, angling across the roadway toward me.
Suddenly I realized I still clutched the tire iron I had wrenched away from Harlan. I tossed it away and made a running jump for the golf course fence. Harlan aimed the Camaro at the fence and lurched forward, hitting hard as I reached the top. My grip on the steel mesh loosened and I fell, managing to get my feet under me, knees bent to cushion my landing.
I dented the hood of the Camaro when I landed. As I leapt to the ground I spotted the tire iron I had dropped, just a few feet away. I seized it as Harlan threw the Camaro into reverse. But he was stuck. He’d run over a small tree to get to me. Now his wheels spun furiously as the car’s rear end backed up against the broken trunk. The Camaro wasn’t going anywhere.
“You crazy son of a bitch,” I yelled.
I brought the tire iron down hard on the driver’s side of the Camaro’s windshield and it cracked. Harlan bellowed at this affront to his beloved tigermobile. I hit the glass again, feeling childishly satisfied as the crack widened and deepened. By the time Harlan got the door open I was at his side. I grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring his flailing fists as I hauled him out of the driver’s seat. I shoved him back against the car and drove my fist into his stomach. That knocked sufficient wind out of him so that I could hold him pinned with my right hand while my left quickly reached for the keys, killing the Camaro’s engine. Then I pulled him away from the car, bent his arms behind him and frog-marched him toward the road.
When we reached the sidewalk under the nearest streetlight, I kicked his high-tops out from under him. He was sprawled belly down on the concrete as I knelt on his back. My adrenaline rush had faded. My aches and bruises were in full cry as I wondered what to do with him.
I saw lights and looked up. A car drove toward us, big and sleek and boxy. It came to a stop beside us and I heard soft music as a window rolled down. In the yellow streetlamp glare the woman’s face was round and middle-aged. She looked quite appalled at what she saw.
“Here now, you leave that man alone,” she warned. “I’m going to call the police.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” I told her, with a weary grin.
Forty
“DON’T LET HER STAY TOO LONG,” I TOLD JOE Franklin.
We were on the patio in back of the Franklins’ home in Alameda. It was the second Saturday in September, late in the afternoon on a sun-splashed day with a clear blue sky, the kind of day we Bay Area residents have in mind when we tell visitors that the best weather is in September and October.
I sat in a lawn chair, sipping a cold beer while Joe examined the coals on his barbecue grill. Judging them to be ready, he removed the lid from a plastic container. With a spatula, he arranged fat red hamburger patties on the surface of the metal grill.
I looked across the yard to where Ruth sat by herself, cross-legged on the lawn. Her back was to us, her head down as though she were examining the blades of grass before her.
The Raynor case was still pending, only the suspects had changed. Wednesday morning I met with the Oakland police and the District Attorney to outline Harlan Pettibone’s movements the night of the murder. I also turned over the evidence against him. The paper trail that led from Sam Raynor’s bank accounts on Guam and in San Jose to Harlan’s multiple accounts provided ample motive, and the D.A. agreed.
Serendipity provided some physical evidence placing Harlan at the murder scene. It was a tiny scrap of a partial print, lifted from the underside of the handle of the trash chute at Ruth’s apartment building. The partial matched Harlan’s left index finger. By Friday he’d been charged with Sam’s murder.
Meanwhile, the charge against Ruth
had been dropped and Bill Stanley had moved on to his next case. If Harlan had asked for the criminal lawyer’s services, I’m sure Bill would have obliged. But Harlan would have to avail himself of the public defender. Bill Stanley had been retained by a wealthy Piedmont entrepreneur charged with shooting his partner, a high-profile, high-drama case involving embezzlement, infidelity, and junk bonds, splashed all over the past few days’ editions of the Oakland Tribune. Bill called me late Friday to inquire whether I was available to do some investigating, but I had other plans.
For Ruth, the Raynor case should have been over, but it wasn’t. The scars remained. Whether they were permanent scars would only be revealed in time.
“It was her idea.” Joe sighed. He glanced across the yard at his daughter, then used the spatula to lift one of the burgers, examining it for doneness.
Ruth quit her job at Kaiser. She’d given up the apartment on Howe Street and moved back into her parents’ house, to live in that pink and white bedroom that looked the same as it had when she was in high school. If Joe and Lenore weren’t careful, Ruth would stay there, fearing to venture out into the world again.
“I know it was her idea. It’s a normal reaction. She’s shell-shocked, frightened. Ruth’s been through a lot. But she can’t hide in that bedroom forever. She has to get out eventually and go on, for Wendy and for herself.”
“I agree.” Joe reached for his beer and gave me a sideways half smile. “When it’s time, I’ll boot her out.”
He pressed each burger against the grill before flipping it over. The sizzle and smell of roasting meat made my mouth water.
“You want yours plain or with cheese?” he asked.
“Cheese.” I got up and handed him a plate piled with sharp cheddar, and he dealt slices onto the sizzling burgers. As the heat of the coals melted the edges of the cheese, I reached into a bag of buns, separating each one and placing the bottom half on each burger.
The back door opened and Kevin came out onto the patio. He carried a large tray loaded with dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and Wendy followed him, bearing bottles of mustard and ketchup. Kevin set the tray on one end of the red-and-white-checked cloth that covered the picnic table. Then he stepped past Wendy, headed back inside for another load, just as Lenore came out of the kitchen with a big pitcher of iced tea in one hand, the other carrying a large bowl filled with potato chips.
Wendy reached up and set the bottles she carried on the corner of the table. Then she walked to the edge of the patio and stared at her mother. I still thought the child looked more solemn than any four-year-old should normally be. Perhaps my contribution to dinner, a half gallon of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, would help me coax a smile from her, as I’d done that Friday afternoon before the murder.
“Mommy, come help set the table.”
Wendy’s voice piped like a reed. Ruth gave no sign she’d heard. I saw Lenore and Joe exchange glances. Wendy called to her mother again, and I thought I saw Ruth’s head move. Then Wendy set out across the lawn, propelled by determination. She took her mother’s right hand and tugged insistently. “Mommy, burgers almost ready. Come help set the table.”
Ruth slowly got to her feet. Her right hand still held Wendy’s, and with her left she stroked the little girl’s fluffy red-gold hair. All of us watched in silence as Ruth and her daughter walked together to the patio. When they reached the picnic table, Ruth picked up the stack of plates and set five places. Wendy climbed onto the bench and began sorting out the cutlery, handing her mother a fistful of forks.
Kevin bustled out of the kitchen with another tray, this one with bowls of sliced tomatoes, onions, lettuce, pickles, and relish. He set down the tray and reached for a handful of chips.
“Don’t let the burgers burn, Dad,” he warned Joe, whose attention had been on Ruth instead of the grill.
The Admiral harrumphed as he turned back to his duties. “I’m not going to let the burgers burn. I never do. In fact, they’re ready. Jeri, I’ve got one here that’s medium rare.”
“I’ll take it.” I picked up one of the plates and met him halfway as he lifted the hamburger from the grill.
I returned to my apartment later Saturday night, replete with cheeseburgers, chips, and ice cream, a full stomach making me drowsy and content. Abigail greeted me at the door, tail up and in full cry, so I spooned up a bowl of cat tuna and filled her water dish. Then I stripped off my clothes and got ready for bed. I was propped up against the pillows, book in hand, when Alex called.
“I got orders. The Pentagon. It’s a terrific job, a real career-enhancer. I leave in January.”
“Congratulations,” I said, and meant it. Alex’s career was as important to him as mine to me. I suspected he harbored ambitions to be the first Filipino-American admiral. “I know you’ll do well. We’ll have to make the most of the next three months. Any plays or movies you want to see?”
“That’s the other reason I called. You ever been to the Asian-American Theater Company, over in San Francisco?” When I answered in the affirmative, Alex continued. “This guy I went to school with, he wrote a play. About Filipino immigrants. This company is putting it on. It opens next week. He sent me a pair of tickets to opening night. Want to come with me?”
“I’d love to. My calendar’s still clear, this week. After that I’m going to Monterey.”
“Aha,” he said, chuckling. “You’re finally going to see your mother.”
“I’m going to see family. And friends.”
“You always qualify it. Why can’t you just admit you’re going to see your mother?”
“Alex, don’t start.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and stretched one leg out under the sheet, poking a toe at my cat, who had joined me on the bed. She’d washed herself from ears to tail and was now settling in for the night. Abigail opened one eye, then shut it and tucked her nose under her paws. Alex wisely didn’t start what he couldn’t finish. Instead we talked about where we’d have dinner before attending the play.
I called Monterey Sunday morning. I was having coffee and bagels along with my Sunday comics, but Mother was still in bed. Her voice sounded sleep-fuzzed but it sharpened when she recognized mine.
“Well, after three tries, I’d given up on you.”
“I was busy.”
I spread cream cheese on half an onion bagel. I’d also splurged on some lox, but if I didn’t keep an eye on that plate, Abigail intended to steal it from under my very nose. In fact, she’d abandoned her favorite toy, the yellow yarn mouse, and her round tabby body was perched on one of the dining room chairs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of ears rise slowly and a set of whiskers twitch. I reached for the plate and moved it out of paw range. Then I added salmon to the bagel and took a bite. Pure heaven.
“Yes, I thought as much,” Mother said. “The murder investigation, right?”
“That’s all wrapped up, as of Friday.” I didn’t go into any detail and she didn’t ask.
“We had quite a picnic on Labor Day. Everyone missed you. I guess I should fill you in on all the family gossip.”
“Save it until I get there.” I wiped a bit of cream cheese from my lips. Abigail made her move, up onto the table, feinting for the lox, and I swatted her paw. She retreated to the chair.
“You’re coming to Monterey after all?”
“If I’m still invited.”
“Of course you’re still invited. You’re always welcome, Jeri. When can I expect you?”
“I’m having dinner with Dad next Saturday,” I told her, “so I’ll drive down the following week. I don’t know how long I can stay.”
“Stay as long as you like.” Now Mother’s voice sounded wide-awake and cheerful. “It’ll be good to see you.”
After I hung up the phone, I toasted the other bagel half and reached for the cream cheese. As I spread on a thick layer, Abigail stared at the lox.
“Do you know how much this stuff costs?” I pointed the knife at the salmon
. “More than a can of kitty tuna, that’s for sure.” I layered salmon on my bagel. “It’s too rich for you. The vet says you’re too fat. You’re spoiled rotten.”
Abigail twitched her whiskers and stared at the last piece. Then she stared at me and brought forth a pitiful quavering meow.
“And I’m a pushover,” I said. I cut the remaining salmon into tiny pieces and set the plate on the floor.
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DONT TURN
YOUR BACK
ON THE OCEAN
by Janet Dawson
Read on for the intriguing opening pages from
DONT TURN YOUR
BACK ON THE OCEAN...
Chapter 1
ON LAND, THE BROWN PELICAN LOOKED BIG AND UNGAINLY. This one perched on a fence near the end of the Coast Guard jetty, a bundle of gray-brown feathers dwarfed by its huge dark bill and the loose dark brown throat pouch beneath. The pelican stared at me with one round unblinking eye, set high in its white-feathered head, then spread its powerful wings and took flight. I marveled at the bird’s unexpected grace as it glided with military precision between the turquoise water of Monterey Bay and the clear blue September sky.
Suddenly the pelican altered course and plunged some twenty feet into the water, breaking the smooth glassy surface. I counted the seconds until the bird emerged from the water, a silvery fish wriggling in its beak. The bird straightened its S-shaped neck and swallowed its prey.
“We’ve got some sicko at it again,” Donna Doyle said, joining me near the fence. “Just like back in 1984 and 1987. The creep catches the pelicans, cuts off their beaks or slashes their pouches. Or both. Then he releases them. Pelicans can’t fish without their beaks, so the birds starve to death.
I shuddered at the image, chilled despite the warm late-September sun. I turned to look at my cousin. As a private investigator, I’m well aware that there are a great many evil people loose in the world. Quite often they treat their fellow human beings the way they treat animals.
