by Janet Dawson
“Our children, Kevin and Ruth, are the same ages as Mark and Beth,” his wife added.
“You spent a lot of time together?”
“We did.” She smiled. “Joe and Franny played golf constantly. They were both golf nuts. On Friday nights we’d make a foursome for bridge. Franny and I put in time in officers’ wives clubs from here to Guam. We did a lot of things together, especially while the men were gone. Barbecues in the backyard, camping trips, picnics. We were stationed in the same places so often that as soon as the movers delivered our household goods I’d look around for George and Franny.”
“I understand you heard the shots, Admiral, and called the police.”
“Yes, I did.” He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, pulled one out, and lighted it. He gestured toward the back of the house. “It was shortly after nine o’clock. I stepped onto the patio to have a smoke. I heard something in the bushes. I walked over to the fence to investigate. Then I heard gunfire. I came back to the house and called the police.”
“Did you hear anything, Mrs. Franklin?”
“I wasn’t home,” she said. “I’d gone to a movie with some friends. Sort of a ladies’ night out.”
I turned my attention back to the admiral. “Did they ever find out what it was you heard in the backyard?”
“No. It was dark. I imagine it was a stray cat. It’s hardly important considering what had just happened.” He made an abrupt dismissive gesture with his hand. “It was a difficult time for all of us. I don’t think rehashing it will help find Beth now.”
Or you just don’t want to talk about it. The admiral was giving off unmistakable signs that he didn’t care to continue this conversation. I wondered why.
“What was Elizabeth like?”
“She appeared to be a normal teenage girl. Nothing unusual about that.”
“We lost track of the girls afterwards,” Mrs. Franklin said. She gave her husband a quick sidelong glance, assessing his mood. “They went to live with their grandparents in Stockton. We transferred to San Diego in August of that year and we didn’t keep in touch.”
“Did Mark and his parents get along?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” The admiral glared at me over his coffee cup.
“Did he fight with his parents? Did they yell at each other? Was there ever any indication of physical or emotional abuse?” With those words I nudged the hornet’s nest. I got hornets.
“That is absolute nonsense,” Franklin said angrily, his eyes blazing. He got to his feet and leaned over me, punctuating his words with the hand that held the cigarette, railing at me as though he expected me to snap to attention, like some recalcitrant seaman recruit. “Complete and utter nonsense. Who told you that? It’s slander and I won’t listen to it, not then and certainly not now. You’re poking around in something that doesn’t concern you. I’m not even sure I buy this story about looking for Beth. Who are you, some cheap media hack looking for a sensational story? Trying to smear my campaign?”
“Thank you for talking with me.” I reached in my purse, pulled out one of my cards, and gave it to Mrs. Franklin. Then I stood. “If you think of anything that might help, call me.”
As I went down the front steps of the Franklin house I heard the admiral’s angry voice from the living room. All I had to back up the child-abuse theory was Leo Mercer’s story about seeing Mark Willis covered with bruises. But it was worth exploring. Since the Franklins and the Willises had been good friends, I expected the admiral and his wife to deny any possibility of abuse in the family next door. But the admiral’s response was too vehement.
Not then and not now, he’d said. Had someone else raised the issue of child abuse fifteen years ago?
Six
SHORTLY AFTER NOON I WENT TO SEE MY CLIENT, to quell the uneasy feeling I’d had since leaving his hotel room the day before. Philip Foster had said he still wanted me to find his wife. But Edward Foster had the stronger will. He’d also had all night to work on his son.
Philip opened the door. I looked past him and saw an open suitcase on the bed, clothes folded neatly inside.
“Were you planning to tell me?” I walked into the room and saw Edward Foster standing on the other side of the bed. “Or maybe you hoped I wouldn’t notice.”
Philip’s pale face flushed with embarrassment. “Of course I was going to call you. This afternoon. I intend to settle my bill.”
“But you’re leaving.” I swept a hand toward the suitcase. “Without letting me finish what I’ve started.”
“I don’t think there’s any point in it. Do you?”
“Of course I do. Or I wouldn’t be here.”
Philip shook his head, avoiding my eyes. “Renee left me and she’s not coming back. Dad’s right. It’s time to pick up the pieces and go on with my life. We’re going back to Los Gatos.”
Edward Foster gazed at me with hard brown eyes and a smug twist to his thin mouth. He’d been running his son’s life for so long that persuading Philip to drop the case must have been a cakewalk. I wondered what he’d used for leverage.
“I want to talk to Philip alone,” I told him.
“I think whatever you have to say...”
“I don’t give a damn what you think, Mr. Foster. Until Philip pays me off he’s my client. This is between my client and me. You can get a full report later. Now get out.”
Anger flickered over his face, but he kept it under control. He felt secure enough in his victory to smile tightly as he walked toward the door. “Call me when you’re finished packing,” he said, directing his words to me as much as to Philip.
When the door closed I looked at Philip. He sat down on the bed, looking drained, as though his father had sucked all the life from him.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know if I can explain.”
“Try.” I narrowed the space between us. “Two days ago you hired me to locate your wife. You really wanted me to find her. That’s what you said yesterday, right here in this room. Find her. Today you’ve changed your mind — or your old man changed it for you. I’ve put in a lot of time on this case. You owe me an explanation.”
“I know. I intend to pay you.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about unfinished business.” I touched his arm. “I want to know why. I found out some things about Renee’s past you didn’t want to hear. But that’s no reason to drop the investigation just when I’ve come up with some good leads. I believe you love her.”
“I do,” he whispered.
“Then let me find her.”
“It’s too late.”
“Too late for what? Philip, you know your father’s manipulating you. Don’t let him do it.” I examined his face to see if my words were having any effect. He stared at the suitcase on the bed, a man having a debate with himself. “If you’re going to fire me, at least tell me why.”
He was silent for a moment, then he raised his head. “My son. It’s about my son, Jason,” he said, his mouth working. I waited. Maybe he’d say something that made sense.
“My mother noticed a bruise on Jason’s back. She was concerned about it, but in all the confusion after Renee left, Mom didn’t get him to her doctor until Monday. The doctor was suspicious, so he did a complete examination. Then he contacted Renee’s doctor, the pediatrician who’s been taking care of Jason since he was born. It turns out the pediatrician was suspicious too. After he talked to my mother’s doctor and my parents, everybody was convinced.”
“What are you talking about?” I knew the answer before the question was out of my mouth.
“My wife’s been abusing my son. Our baby.” A wave of pain swept over Philip’s face. “And I didn’t know.”
“If something like that was going on, why didn’t you know?” I said brutally.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question ever since my father told me. A couple of months ago I got home from a business trip. Jason had a bruise on
his arm. Renee said he fell. He’d just started to walk, so I didn’t think anything about it. Babies fall down, don’t they?” I didn’t answer. He wasn’t really asking for one.
“Everything sounds like excuses. I work long hours. I’m not there enough. I’ve been willing to leave the responsibility to Renee. So it’s as much my fault as anybody’s.”
“If it’s true.”
I wasn’t sure what I believed now, especially after talking with Leo Mercer. But somebody had to play devil’s advocate for the absent Elizabeth Renee whoever-the-hell-she-was.
“You haven’t heard Renee’s side of this story,” I said. “Just your father’s version. Besides, if it is true, it makes more sense to find the woman and get her some help. You say you love her. At least find her, so you can be sure what your next move should be. Don’t leave her out there in limbo.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Philip looked at me uncertainly.
“You’re the only one who can decide. Not your father, not me. Think about it, Philip. Then call me and let me know what you want to do. I’ll be in my office the rest of the afternoon.” I got up and walked to the door.
“The bill...”
“You gave me a retainer. That should cover most of it. I have your address in the file. If I don’t hear from you I’ll send you a bill, along with a report and the papers you gave me.”
He said nothing as I shut the door behind me. It didn’t matter. I knew what he was going to do.
In the hard-boiled novels the private investigator always has a bottle in his bottom desk drawer. I didn’t, so I stopped on the way back to my office and bought a six-pack of cold Anchor Steam. I was midway through my first when the phone rang. I set the bottle down and picked up the receiver.
“Howard Investigations.”
It was my ex-husband. “Who did you piss off in Alameda?” Sid asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody called the Alameda Police Department to complain about you.”
“How did you find out?”
“Sergeant Montoya called me.”
“Are you going to tell me what Sergeant Montoya told you, or do I have to drag it out of you?”
“My, aren’t we testy this afternoon. A male civilian named Franklin, Joseph Franklin. Retired Navy admiral, prominent citizen, running for state senate. He called the Alameda Police Department this morning, said you were harassing him and his wife. He wanted to know what he could do to have your license pulled.”
“He’s been watching too many cop shows,” I said, taking a long pull from my beer. “I barely scratched his surface. I ought to go back over there and really rattle his cage.”
“What’s going on?” Sid asked.
“What do you think’s going on? I’m working on a case.”
“The Foster case? It’s got something to do with the Willis murders and it’s getting complicated, right? Are you in over your head, Jeri?” I couldn’t tell if he was concerned or delighted at the prospect.
“I’m just trying to find the guy’s wife.” Not anymore, though. I’m sitting here drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon because my client changed his mind.
“Having any luck? Or are you just irritating prominent Alameda citizens?”
“I’m not in the mood to argue with you, Sid.”
“That’s a switch.”
“Go to hell.” I hung up on him. The phone rang again and I picked it up, ready to peel a layer of skin off Sid Vernon if he’d called again.
“Miss Howard? This is Lenore Franklin.” She didn’t give me time to respond. “I’m afraid my husband called the Alameda police to complain about you.”
“So I hear.”
“I had no idea he would react that way. He was extremely upset.”
“I’m doing what I was hired to do, Mrs. Franklin.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about it since you left. About the Willises and some other things. I’d like to talk to you, privately. Can we meet tomorrow morning? There’s a coffee shop called Ole’s on Park Street.”
“I know where it is. I can be there at nine.” My case might very well be over, but I wanted to hear what Lenore Franklin had to say.
After Mrs. Franklin hung up, I unlocked the filing cabinet and pulled out the Foster file. Elizabeth Renee Willis Foster looked out at me from the Christmas photograph I’d clipped to the left side of the manila folder, her face revealing nothing as she smiled at the camera over the head of the child she had supposedly abused.
I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up on the desk, staring at the phone as I nursed the rest of my beer. Funny how things work out. Some afternoons I would sit here for hours without so much as a wrong number, and now I couldn’t even drink a six-pack without interruption. I hoped the phone would ring one more time, though. I hoped Philip Foster would change his mind.
I finished my beer and set the empty bottle on the edge of the desk. I tuned my radio to a local jazz station. They were playing a Billie Holiday set. “Gloomy Sunday” didn’t exactly improve my mood, so I pulled a second bottle from the six-pack and twisted off the cap. The phone didn’t ring at all, and the hands of the clock kept going around.
Midway through the second beer my stomach lurched and I put the bottle aside. I’d had no lunch, nothing since breakfast. I found a box of wheat crackers in my bottom desk drawer, and the little refrigerator at the back of my office yielded a hunk of salami and some Monterey Jack, a bit green on one side. I spread the feast out on my desk blotter. using my letter opener to scrape the mold off the cheese as I gnawed on the salami.
At a quarter to four the door to my office opened. Cassie came in, like some exotic bird in her blue linen suit and a silk blouse the color of raspberry sherbet.
“Won my case,” she said triumphantly, then she stopped at the sight of me and the debris on my desk. “What’s all this?”
“Have a beer. You’ll probably save me from myself.”
“A little early, isn’t it?” She took a handful of crackers.
“It’s a wake. For my latest case. Or maybe I should say my late case.”
Cassie kicked off her shoes and settled into one of the chairs in front of my desk, her feet tucked under her. “What happened?”
“My client bailed out on me.” I gestured toward the clock. “He went back to Los Gatos. I’ve spent the afternoon hoping he’d change his mind. But he won’t.”
“Why? Did he think you weren’t doing the job? Did he pay you?”
“He wanted me to find his missing wife.” I gave Cassie a rundown of the case. It didn’t matter now. The Foster file was closed.
“He’s afraid to look any further,” Cassie said when I finished talking. “Afraid he might find out he’s as much to blame as she is. Maybe it’s better if you don’t find her.”
I shook my head. “I like to leave things a little less confused than the way I found them. Damn it, Cassie, I like to finish what I start. And there’s more to this case than a missing wife who may be a child abuser. Those murders fifteen years ago have something to do with the fact that she’s missing. I know it. Ever since I talked with the investigating officer and read those articles in the Tribune, I can’t shake the feeling it’s all tied together.”
“You want to know why Mark Willis killed his parents,” she said.
“Yes, I do. There has to be a reason.”
“There’s always a reason,” Cassie said. “We’ve both heard lots of reasons.”
I nodded. After law school Cassie put in two years in the public defender’s office, a great place to hear reasons. In my six years as a private investigator I’d heard reasons too, all kinds of reasons. Some were amusing, some heartbreaking, others made me shake my head at the twists and turns of human nature. Sometimes when I find out the reason I wish I hadn’t, but anyone who turns over rocks for a living should be prepared to deal with whatever crawls out.
“Suppose what Leo Mercer says is true,” I said, “th
at the Willises were abusing their kids, or at least Mark. There’s a pattern in abusive families, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” She sighed and shifted position in the chair. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be physical abuse. It can be emotional as well. It can be neglect.”
I swung my feet off the desk and leaned forward in my chair. “If a child is abused, there’s a good chance that child will become an abusive parent.”
“Is that what you think happened with Elizabeth Willis?”
“It makes sense. We learn how to be adults by observing adults. The nearest grown-ups are usually our parents. If the parent is an abuser, the child can learn the abusive behavior.”
“But it can go the other way,” Cassie argued. “The child can grow up saying, ‘I’ll never be like Mom or Dad,’ and make a conscious effort to be a loving parent.”
“Granted.” I moved one of the beer bottles to the right side of my desk and the second to the left. I pointed at one of them. “Here I have a missing woman who may or may not hurt her child. And over here I have a source who tells me her brother may have been physically abused. There’s a connection. I think I’m looking at two generations of an abusive family. If I’m right —”
“She’s still missing and you don’t have a client.”
“I know. But she’s out here somewhere. I want to find her, Cassie.”
“So you can fix her? Is that why you’re in this business, Jeri? To fix all those broken people?”
“Maybe.” Jeri Howard, I thought, people fixer, windmill jouster. “I think she needs help.”
“I’m sure she does. But if she wanted help she could have gotten help in Los Gatos, or San Jose. They have shelters and counselors there, too. Maybe your client was right and there’s nothing you can do. You’re getting emotionally involved. Time to detach and let go.”
I pushed back my chair and put the remainder of the six-pack in my little refrigerator. Despite the beer I felt sober. Self-reflection is always sobering. Don’t get emotionally involved, Cassie said. But I always invest a piece of myself in my work. That’s what gives me the edge, the impetus I need to see a case from start to finish. I’d grabbed the Foster case and I was running with it when Philip Foster untied my shoelaces.
