by P. J. Morse
He stared at the number. “916. Sacramento.” He went to get his kitchen phone while I stationed myself in his living room so I could pick up. I sat on Harold’s sofa, next to an old rotary phone.
Harold brought his more modern wireless phone into the living room and punched on the keys while I watched. I held my breath, snapped up the receiver, and held my hand over it. It rang three times, and I prayed that someone would answer.
Eventually, a young woman picked up. “Hello?” I asked. I could hear emo music in the background. I thought that was strange. If I were to make a playlist for Jorge Vazquez, it wouldn’t have included emo. Crunk, maybe. Reggaeton, maybe. But not emo.
“May I please speak to a Jorge Vazquez?” Harold asked formally.
“Are you a telemarketer? Like, I’m not putting you through if you’re a telemarketer.” The girl spoke louder as the song reached the chorus.
“I’m not a telemarketer. I need to speak with Jorge Vazquez.” He paused for a moment, and I could tell he forgot what I told him to say. “It’s about a shovel.”
I guess that was good enough for the girl to pass the phone to Jorge. She yelled, “Jorge! It’s some old guy wanting to talk with you about a shovel!”
“Huh?” a surprisingly young voice answered. The phone rattled a bit, and a voice that was quite clearly not my Jorge Vazquez said, “This is Jorge Vazquez.”
When my mouth dropped open, Harold wasn’t sure what to do. “Uh, hi, Mr. Vazquez, I have your Mastercard, and I want to give it back.”
“Give it back?” The Real Jorge sounded angry. “Are you the guy who bought all that shit at Boxes Galore on my card? My mom’s gonna kill me! My credit rating is, like, shot to shit, dude!”
I began mouthing, “It’s not him! It’s not him!” Harold pointed at me and frowned, so I dropped the pretense of eavesdropping. I started talking on my line. “Mr. Vazquez?”
“Who is this?”
“Clancy Parker, private detective.”
“I didn’t do anything! I don’t have to pay that bill! I filed a police report! I have friends who are pre-law!” His voice veered toward the screechy side.
“Jorge, listen to me. I think you just got charged for some Chinese food last night.”
“What? Dude, I don’t even like Chinese food! I don’t even know where this Boxes Galore place is!”
I felt terrible. Here was this kid who happened to be named Jorge Vazquez who was dealing with a loose credit card and I had just scared the hell out of him. “There is no way you will have to pay that bill. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the other Jorge Vazquez is going to be in some serious trouble with the law for other things. But, do you mind if I ask who you are?”
“Look, I’m just a student. I have a big paper coming up, and I don’t want to deal with this.”
Then something clicked. Just because this kid wasn’t the same Jorge who kidnapped me didn’t mean he wasn’t important to my investigation. “Do you happen to go to school at the UC in Sacramento?”
“Wait. Dude, how did you know? Are you Sherlock?”
“I don’t know a lot of people over 25 who actually like emo, for starters.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harold mouth, “Who’s Emo?” I continued, “And there probably aren’t a lot of emo-lovers in Sacramento who aren’t high school or college students. Do you know anyone else who is named Jorge Vazquez?”
The Real Jorge thought a moment. “No. But the people at the credit bureau said there are a million of us.”
“Do you happen to know where you lost your card?”
“I’ve been missing it since Monday. It sucks.”
I slipped into surfer-speak out of sympathy. “Totally, dude. Do you know where you lost it?”
“Somewhere in the admin office, I think. Last I saw it, I ordered a Neil Young record on Amazon.”
The rock side of me wanted to ask, “Oh, is that record any good?” But my detective side had an absolute fit. Mr. Buckner was the heart of the admin office at UC Sacramento. “The admin office at Sacramento? Do you mean the chancellor’s office?”
“Yeah. I’m the assistant to his assistant. I file papers. Why?”
Somehow, that credit card made its way from Mr. Buckner’s workplace to the Fake Jorge Vazquez. I wondered if Fake Jorge himself took the card. “What time did it happen?”
“In the morning,” the Real Jorge replied. “I work there in the mornings, Monday and Wednesday every week.”
That ruled out Fake Jorge. He had been working at Dr. Redburn’s office. Then it occurred to me that maybe Mr. Buckner himself stole the credit card and passed it on to Fake Jorge. If he did that, then there was no telling what else Mr. Buckner could do—like maybe steal his own wife’s necklace and pin the loss on her. “Did you see the chancellor that day?”
“Yeah! He had that meeting with the grad students, and he was real pissed because one of them threatened to key his Beamer. He likes that Beamer. He talked to me some. Nothing that exciting.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Don’t go to grad school because it turns you into a bitter asshole.”
“Nice. Real nice.” I grabbed a notepad. “Did you leave your wallet alone at any time?”
“I guess. The assistant sent me out to make copies when I was about to get that record.”
“What does his assistant look like?”
“What’s that got to do with my card?”
“I need to consider all the suspects. What does he look like?” I thought maybe the assistant was Fake Jorge’s big buddy, Travis.
“It’s a she. I think she likes to be alone with the boss, but you totally didn’t hear that from me.” He paused. “Oh, shit. I shouldn’t have said that. For real. That has nothing to do with my credit card. She’s, like, skanky, but she’s not a thief.”
I shook my head. Perhaps Mr. Buckner took the card and gave it to Fake Jorge so he wouldn’t be leaving tracks of his dirty work all over town. It made a lot of sense since the chancellor had the oldest motive in the book. If Mr. Buckner liked being alone with his assistant, then the money he got from unloading that necklace might come in handy. He could have hired the Fake Jorge and installed him in Dr. Redburn’s office so Fake Jorge could intercept the necklace.
I asked the Real Jorge, “When did you start seeing charges on your card?”
“Ooooh!” The Real Jorge started to get steamed. “It started about a month ago. The credit card company called me and asked me why I was buying all this stuff at the San Francisco Boxes Galore. The guy said I’d been there five times in one night. I haven’t been to San Francisco in a year!”
“Jorge, I’m going to hang on to your phone number. You just sit tight for a few days, and all this is going to get straightened out. And Jorge, here’s a little advice—don’t go leaving any valuables around anywhere, and that includes your job. Not until you hear from me. Got that?”
“Got it, lady. What’s your name?”
“Clancy Parker.” I gave my number. “You better cancel that card, and if the company calls you about new purchases, you call me, okay?”
“Okay. This is weird.”
“You got that right.” I said goodbye to the Real Jorge and slammed the phone on the receiver. “Son of a bitch!”
“What’s going on?” Harold asked. “And who’s Emo?”
“I gotta run to Boxes Galore first. Then I’ll tell you all about it, and I’ll explain the latest music trends besides.” I gave Harold a hug. “You’re a prince!”
CHAPTER 31
YOU ARE NOT CRAZY
I WAS OUT OF THE HOUSE in ten minutes. Cherry 2000 was still stuck in Pacific Heights, so I ran down Brannan to the train stop, mulling everything over. When I got on the train, I began laying out all the players in my head, as if they were on a chess board. Mr. Buckner and Dr. Redburn were connected by Sabrina and the Fake Jorge Vazquez. I was positive that three out of the four of those figures were scum, and Sabrina was a pawn, but the real key was getting
Fake Jorge Vazquez to tell me what the game was.
Fake Jorge didn’t live behind a fortress of respectability. He was an easy target. Fake Jorge and Travis were getting around town with new identities on an expense account courtesy of the unfortunate Real Jorge. If could put pressure on the Fake Jorge, then he might explain his connections to Mr. Buckner and Dr. Redburn.
But, first, I had to protect my primary client, and that wasn’t Mr. Buckner. I was worried that, if I called Sabrina on the phone, her husband might pick up, and I didn’t want to deal with him unless I could confirm that he didn’t steal the Real Jorge Vazquez’s credit card. I took the bus up to Pacific Heights and, after walking a circuitous route and cutting through yards to avoid anyone familiar, I picked up Cherry 2000 where I’d left it and floored it to the Buckner residence.
I parked again, only on the street perpendicular to Sabrina’s residence. I called Sabrina and asked her to meet me at South Park. As soon as Sabrina’s car executed a perfect turn and came around the corner, I lurched out of my parking space, cutting off Sabrina and making her hit the brakes.
Once Sabrina stopped, I ran out and gestured for her to roll down the window. “Is your husband around?”
“But you said to meet you in South Park?” Sabrina asked. “What are you doing?”
“Is your husband around?” I repeated.
“No. He went to Sacramento. Why?” She looked hopeful. “Did you find the necklace? Why couldn’t you just come to my house?”
Because somebody might do me like they did Rosa, I thought. And that somebody might be your husband. Instead, I said, “I need to tell you something,” I said.
“What?” Sabrina asked.
“Your husband hired me. Right after you hired me.”
“What?” she asked. “Why?”
“He knew you hired me. He said he came to me because he was worried about you,” I said.
Sabrina looked at me over the top of her sunglasses. “As much as I wish it were true, that doesn’t sound like my husband.”
I added, “He was also worried that you’d do something to hurt his reputation.”
Sabrina’s laugh was hollow. “That’s more like it.” Then she looked at me. “And you took the job? Isn’t that unethical?”
I shrugged. “I needed the money. And it wasn’t any less ethical than what Dr. Redburn does to his patients. Right?”
Sabrina looked away. “My husband would do that sort of thing. He always says I need a minder. Like I can’t take care of myself.”
“He wanted me to take lots of pictures of you,” I said. “He even yelled at me when I didn’t have enough pictures of you.”
Sabrina breathed in. “I thought he was joking.”
“About what?” I asked, taking a quick look around for any cars bursting out of nowhere.
“He said once that … if I didn’t straighten up … he could have me committed.”
“Committed?” I asked. “You can still do that?” I opened the door to the back seat and slid in. “Okay. Pull to the side of the road and tell me what happened.”
Sabrina turned around in the driver’s seat. “It was a horrible, horrible fight. I threatened to leave him. But he told me that was a crazy thing to say, that I couldn’t survive without him, that I’d burn the house down. He said he’d have me committed, and I said only the family trust could do that. That was the end of it.”
“That wasn’t the end of it,” I said, finally figuring it out. “He wants me to take all those pictures so he can prove to the family trust that you’re crazy.” It explained why, every time I told Mr. Buckner to get his wife help, he changed the subject back to Dr. Redburn and what a bad guy he was. Dr. Redburn served as an effective smokescreen. If Mr. Buckner had hard evidence that Dr. Redburn was making his wife worse, then he could move her to a mental hospital and gain full control of her money.
“This means I’m sane?” Sabrina asked. She smiled.
A car passed, so I ducked down, not wanting Sabrina to be seen with me. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re pretty crazy to stay with him.”
Sabrina groaned. “Well, he was nice to me at first. And the rest of the family loves him. They’d have me committed if I tried to get out of it.”
“Then they’re crazier than you are,” I said. “Listen, I think I can get your husband off your back and find the necklace, if you give me some help.” I had to hurry, lest Travis, Fake Jorge or even Mr. Buckner himself try to mow me down. “Do you have my cell phone number? Do you remember it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I programmed it into my phone, and I wrote it down on a piece of paper. I didn’t want to lose it.”
“Good. Now, you need to tell me where you are going to be at all times. Do you hear me? Any plans, any schedules.” I handed Sabrina a sheet of paper and a pen. “Write it down. Fast.”
When Sabrina was finished, I took the sheet and looked at the list. The next afternoon, Saturday, she was going to a Giants game. She had written “donors, Redburn.” I asked, “Will your husband be at the baseball game?”
Sabrina looked down. “Yes, but he said he would be late. I told Dr. Redburn I’d give him the necklace before my husband shows up. Dr. Redburn needs it because he’s going to New York to auction some items on Sunday. Can’t you find the necklace by then?”
Looking around me, I leaned in. “I hate to tell you, but you’re not going to have it by then. Give him a fake. Give him one that’s not so good.”
“But Dr. Redburn might cut me off! I promised him this necklace. Do you think it would be better if I told him the truth?” she asked.
“In general, yes,” I replied. “But not yet. I’m going to find the person who took your necklace.”
Sabrina seemed genuinely surprised. “You don’t believe I lost it?”
“Absolutely not.” I reached forward and put my hand over Sabrina’s, which remained on the steering wheel. “You. Are. Not. Crazy. Got it? Not at all. Now go back home, and don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
CHAPTER 32
BOXES GALORE
THE NEXT STEP WAS TRACKING down Fake Jorge, and preferably not at Dr. Redburn’s office. My first stop was the Boxes Galore on Fourth Street, where the Fake Jorge Vazquez went on a spending spree. Since it was one of the last bright, sunny days before the winter fog descended, San Francisco’s shopping neighborhood was packed. Street musicians, break dancers and prophets of obscure religions were fighting hard over tourist dollars.
After parking and threading my way through the crowds down Fourth, I entered Boxes Galore. The shoppers and employees were calm and quiet. The employees were known for acting like the happiest workers on the planet. Within a minute of my arrival, two guys in Boxes Galore T-shirts, one older and one a trainee, walked up to me and asked if I needed help.
“Actually, I do,” I replied. “It’s pretty specific. Can I speak with a manager?”
The older guy was taken aback. “What? Didn’t you have a good experience at Boxes Galore?”
“Actually, I think somebody had too good of an experience here on my friend’s credit card. Is a manager around?”
The guys hustled off to get their manager, a short, fortyish woman with a butch haircut and a bright yellow T-shirt. “Hello. How can we improve your Boxes Galore experience?”
I stretched the truth a little. “A stolen credit card has been used here—up to five times in one day. The real owner of the card lives in Sacramento, and we want to track this guy down before he tries any more identity theft.”
“Isn’t this a police matter?” the manager asked.
I was ready for that. Professional private detectives never impersonated police officers, as police officers had enough trouble from criminals who liked to play cop. But I knew that a plausible story given in an authoritative voice went a long way. “I’m with corporate. The loss prevention department. Someone complained a guy stole his card and used it in your store. Are you checking the signatures on the credit cards against the ones
on the driver’s licenses? It’s company policy.”
The Boxes Galore manager gasped. “I can assure you that I run a tight ship here—”
I shrugged and tried to reassure the manager that she wouldn’t be out of a job. “Look, I understand. This is a busy store, and these criminals are so sophisticated these days. But I think we can get this guy. We have a physical description. He’s about yay high -” I held my hand up to my shoulder. “Short, black hair. Bad skin. I’m gonna give it to you straight—he’s not a looker. And he favors blazers with T-shirts under them.”
“Like on Miami Vice?” the manager asked.
“Like that.”
“Come to think of it … follow me.” The manager walked me over to the checkout line where a pretty but thug-ish young woman with hoop earrings was working the register. “Whitney? Can you shut down a minute?” The manager pointed at me and mouthed, “Corporate.”
Whitney didn’t look thrilled to be speaking with corporate or anyone remotely related to corporate. “What’s up?”
The manager said, “Remember that creep who was buying all that stuff a few days ago?”
Whitney put her hand on her hip and sneered. “Yeah? He came back this morning. Where was corporate then? This little motherfucker -”
“Whitney!” the manager gasped. Boxes Galore employees didn’t curse.
Whitney corrected herself, “This little ugly person bothered me and thought that if he got enough crates I’d give him my phone number. Hell no!”
I nodded. “Ugly person. Yep. That sounds about right. Do you remember his name? Jorge?”
“I don’t know. Just keep him out of here!” Whitney flicked her hand away from her body as if swatting away a fly.
The manager shook her head in agreement. “People like that are bad for business.”
I added, “Well, what’s interesting about this little ugly person is that he made all those purchases on a stolen credit card.”
“You came at the right time!” Whitney cheered. “He’s got a job next door, and he told me this morning he wanted to take my fine ass to lunch sometime.”
