Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  “NPS Security.”

  “There was someone in my office. I scared him. He almost took my backpack.”

  “We’ll be right there. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lock your door. Someone will be there immediately.”

  Within a few minutes—what felt like a very long few minutes—there was a knock.

  “Trisha, are you in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open the door. It’s okay. It’s me, Jon.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Trisha, please. I need to talk to you. I need a description of the man you found in your office.”

  I opened the door a few inches. It really was Jon.

  “He was trying to steal my backpack. I yelled at him to get out.”

  “Not the best of moves. You could have been hurt. Next time, either go back into the storage room and lock it or run out of the building. You’re okay?”

  “Just a little shaken up. I thought all he wanted was my backpack. But look over there at Bill’s side of the office. His files. They are all over the place.”

  I walked over to Bill’s desk and started picking up the files on the floor. Jon came over and crouched down besides me. He picked up a manila folder and handed it to me.

  “Why would someone be looking through the files?”

  “I don’t know.”

  For the next few minutes, Jon asked me questions about the thief’s description and radioed my answers to other guards in the area.

  “Did anybody know that you were coming back to the office?”

  “No, I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  Jon’s radio buzzed. The NPS security had stopped someone matching the description I gave. He was near Hyde Street Pier.

  “Want to take a ride and see if this is your guy?”

  “Not my guy,” I said as I securely locked the door behind me and followed Jon down the steps.

  I sat in the passenger side of the security car as we headed down Bay Street toward the popular tourist attractions near Ghirardelli Square.

  “What were you doing back here? Did you stop to have a drink with some friends…go to a movie…what?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Well, if someone knew where you were and that the office was empty…?”

  “Okay, I was having dinner with someone.”

  “Did that someone have any connection with Nor Cal Swimming Association?”

  “No…well…maybe. Kind of, I guess. It was the guy I was talking to earlier today.”

  Jon never batted an eye.

  “What is his association with your office?”

  “Not much. He has a booth at the open water swims for nutritional products, mostly rehydration drinks.”

  “Did he know that Bill was out of town?”

  “I think I mentioned that to him.”

  We crossed the cable car tracks at Hyde Street. Then, at the corner of North Point and Leavenworth, we turned left heading toward the Bay and the historic waterfront. July is the middle of tourist season in San Francisco and it is usually very chilly, especially by the water. But tonight was a rarity in the city, a warm summer night. By warm, I mean high sixties. Not a whisper of wind. The streets were jammed with visitors.

  How could I pick someone out in a crowd like this.

  Turning left on Jefferson, we slowed down. A block from the cable car turnaround, an NPS security guard was outside his car. Standing next to him, leaning against a bike, was a tall lanky man wearing a dark knit cap, black hoody, old Levi’s and Converse tennis shoes. The cyclist stared off into space.

  We drove slowly by him and continued past the entrances to the South End Rowing Club and Dolphin Club, two swim clubs that encouraged Bay swimming. The narrow street near Aquatic Park was a dead end. We turned around and drove by slowly again so I could see his face.

  “Nope, not him,” I said. “Right clothes, but wrong guy.”

  Jon radioed the other guard. “Not our suspect. Let him go.”

  With that, he turned right up Hyde Street past the crowd of tourists standing in line for the cable car and drove me back to the parking lot in Fort Mason.

  “It’s none of my business, but you didn’t seem too happy to see that fellow earlier today. And didn’t you say, he stood you up? You sure this is a man you want to have dinner with?”

  I didn’t answer. As soon as he parked the car, I jumped out.

  “I need to do one last check on the office. Make sure everything is turned off, really turned off, and locked up.”

  I trotted over toward the front door.

  “Let’s get you safely in and out of here,” Jon said, following me.

  “What’s that?” he said, looking at the tall green prickly shrubs that bordered the front door. I followed his gaze and saw some folders caught in the bushes. He pushed his hand through the greenery and picked up about three crumpled manila folders.

  “Just a guess. Since these weren’t here earlier today, do they belong to your office?”

  The tab on one folder said ‘Accident File, Richard Waddell.’ I opened it up but all the papers were gone. The other folders were labeled ‘Open Water Schedule’ and ‘Pool Meet Schedule.’

  “Are you sure there aren’t any more papers stuck back behind the hedges?”

  We both bent over the shrubs and poked our arms around. Jon turned on his flashlight. All we found were candy wrappers and a few empty soda cans.

  “The thief took the insurance forms plus a few pages of notes. He wanted information about the Waddell accident. My backpack was just the cherry on top of the sundae. An unexpected bonus.”

  Jon looked at the Waddell folder. “Can I have that? I’d like to show it to my supervisor.” He looked at me closely. “Did you ever talk to the SF police about your suspicions regarding the two accidents and your cards?”

  “Not really.”

  “Does that mean ‘no’”?

  “That means ‘no, I didn’t.’ It seemed silly.”

  “It’s not silly any more. This doesn’t fit the profile of the burglar who has been hitting the Fort Mason buildings during the day, and running out with purses, jackets, wallets, even laptops. Snatch and run. Like the damage done to your car, this is much more deliberate. There’s a specific intent here. This is getting serious and you and anyone working in the office could get hurt. I’m going to talk with the neighborhood police and alert them. Someone, either the SF cops or the NPS security guys will stop in tomorrow to talk to you.”

  When we walked into the building, the automatic lights didn’t turn on. Jon walked over to the switch on the whitewashed wall. It had been unscrewed and pulled out. The switch plate was on the floor. The wires were cut and dangling from the wall.

  Jon picked up his radio and called for another guard to come to the building. He kept his flashlight on and we walked up the steps.

  “I feel like I’m walking in a dark closet,” I said.

  I unlocked the door once again, picked up my backpack resting on the desk, and switched off the light. Jon held his flashlight on the door while I locked it. Then he walked me back down and out to my car.

  “You okay to drive?”

  “I guess. Thank you.”

  He nodded as I got in my car.

  “Lock it,” he said. When he heard the door lock, he nodded again and watched me drive to the exit of the parking lot.

  The drive back home over the Golden Gate Bridge is normally the highlight of my day. Tonight the huge blazing sun was about to explode. It dropped behind a thin layer of fog. Sun above the fog; sun below the fog—an enormous ball cut in half. Then the top half sank into the thick grayness. When it emerged, the vibrating orange ball began to melt into the ocean. It was hard to make out the color of the water, as inch by inch it swallowed up the sinking sun.

  I watched it and felt nothing. I wanted to be off the Bridge and home.

  It was after 9:30 p.m. when I walked in the quiet house. I h
eaded for the kitchen, sat down and pulled out the 3 x 5 cards from my backpack. I started a new one. Thief—male, late twenties, thin, watch cap, black hoodie, jeans, and Converse tennies.

  I pulled out the card for Justin. I added, ‘Chemist, RazzleD. Friend of restaurant owners.’

  20

  I stared into the mirror.

  I looked like a human radio communication satellite ready to be launched. The small pieces of tinfoil wrapped around sections of my hair stood straight out or straight up.

  After last night’s scare, I felt I deserved a little me time. I took the next afternoon off and was in downtown San Rafael. Just around the corner from Fourth Street, the main shopping street was Mandraka’s Salon. I passed it almost daily, going and coming to the west end of San Rafael. The name had always intrigued me. This time, I parked down the street across from the San Rafael Fire Station, walked in, looked at the woman behind the reception desk and said, ‘Is it possible to help this?’ and I held my hair out with both hands.

  Mirana, the owner of Mandraka’s, looked up at me, threw back her head and laughed. Her chocolate skin was deeply oiled and it glistened under her short-sleeved white blouse. And when she smiled, her full oval face lit up like a Hollywood spot light.

  The beauty parlor was small and narrow, just four stations, two on one side of a long mirror and two on the other side. Shades of rosy red and green dominated the room. I slipped a lightweight robe on over my clothes and she went to work on my lifeless hair. I was now in the holding pattern all women experience when they are having a color boost. It would take 20-30 minutes for the color to set.

  With nothing to do, I dug around in my backpack looking for my phone. Instead, I pulled out Waddell’s old address book. I had forgotten all about it. It had to be at least 10 years old. Many of the area codes were from Dallas, Texas. I started calling numbers. Most were disconnected. Some went to businesses. Others went to message machines. Those that did pick up said they never heard of a Dick Waddell.

  I was about to put the address book away when I saw a receipt from a fast food restaurant taped to the last page. I carefully pulled it off. That day, Dick had bought two orders of burgers, fries and two chocolate milkshakes. Why would he keep this? The location of the restaurant was Fresno, California.

  I turned the receipt over. On the back was written “Jeremy Reid,” and two phone numbers. I punched in the first number. A little boy answered the phone.

  “Is your daddy there?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Is his name Jeremy?”

  “Mom,” called out the small voice.

  I hung up. I had no idea what I was going to say if ‘daddy’ was Jeremy and he came to the phone. Then I dialed the second number.

  “You have reached University High School, located on the campus of California State University, Fresno.” The recorded message continued. I listened absent-mindedly then clicked off. So, Waddell had friends in Fresno. No crime in that.

  Lena’s picture came up on the screen of my phone. I punched the talk button.

  “Hey.”

  Lena was at full throttle.

  “New client. I have a new client and I have you to thank for it. So thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Me? I don’t remember recommending you to anyone…not that I wouldn’t, of course.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Maybe it was someone who knew you or knew me. Anyway, they liked my work on the Nor Cal Swim website.”

  “What’s the name of this company?”

  “Don’t remember, but their products have something to do with health and fitness. I have it written down somewhere.”

  I could hear her shuffling through papers. Lena chatted on while I adjusted the tin foil flaps on my head so I could position my cell phone and hear better.

  “They want me to come in on Monday to talk to them, get a feel for their products and their company. Then I have a few weeks to develop a formal plan.”

  She paused for a split-second and I jumped in, telling her about last night.

  For one of the few times in her life, she was speechless.

  “You have to get out of there…too dangerous…much too dangerous. Need to change the subject for a minute. Will you be home soon?”

  “In a few hours, why?”

  “Can you help me pick out what I’m going to wear for this meeting with the new clients? I have to meet all the partners and I want them to like not just my work, but me, too. Maybe they can become my main client. Put me on retainer. With a guaranteed monthly income. Then you can quit your job at the Swim Association. You shouldn’t work there anymore. You can look for something you really like.”

  “Right now, that dangerous job is my only source of money. Wait…did you say all the partners? How many are there?”

  “Three, I think.”

  “Look, Ms. Dress for Success, why don’t you pull out a few things that you are thinking of wearing. I’ll see you at home.”

  Mirana looked at me or rather my tinfoil flaps. She undid one, studied the color. It must have been to her liking because she said, “Okay. We’re ready. Time to wash.”

  I followed her back to a small rinsing station with two sinks, sat in the chair and rested the back of my neck on the edge of the deep sink. She pulled out the foil and clips and rinsed my hair with warm water. Then she wrapped my head in a towel and we walked back to her station.

  While she was taking out her scissors and combs from a small drawer, I pulled out my cards and looked them over.

  Mirana glanced at me through the large mirror.

  “Flash cards? You are a student?”

  “No. Just trying to figure something out.”

  Holding up a damp section of newly darkened hair, she asked, “What do we want to do?”

  “I have no idea. Whatever you think would look best on me, I’m for.”

  Mirana put her hands on her hips and stared at my reflection.

  “Okay, I have an idea.” She began to comb and snip.

  “Your cards. They are a puzzle?” she asked as she kept her eyes on my hair and her comb.

  “Kind of. Each card represents someone or something that is related to two accidents. In one, someone died.”

  Mirana looked at me through the mirror with raised eyebrows, “Died?”

  The chatter in the rest of the beauty salon came to an abrupt halt. Everyone was listening.

  “Yes, died. I think the accidents are related and someone in this pack of cards did it.”

  I put down the cards of Jackie and Dick Waddell on the counter.

  I explained to Mirana what had happened to both of them. Then I pushed back the cans of hair spray, containers of gels and mousse and laid out the remaining cards in a circle around the two middle cards on the counter. Aina, the other stylist in the shop, walked over and looked at each card for a moment and picked one up.

  “This person, Pamela. I think it is her. She did it.”

  “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  “Look. She kills her brother. Now, brother is dead. He has no other family but her. She gets everything he owns. But to make sure it all comes to her, she gets rid of girlfriend. Simple. Now she is rich.”

  “Possibly. I met her. She doesn’t seem like a killer to me.”

  “This is about love, isn’t it? These two people were lovers, yes?” asked Marina.

  I nodded.

  “There are all kinds of love. Love between a man and a woman. Love in a family, mother child, father child. Love of money. Love of self.”

  The customer whom Aina was combing out, left her chair to come over and look at the cards. “Love of self. That’s my husband. He doesn’t need anyone else in our marriage. Not sure what I’m doing there.” Everyone chuckled. “That’s right” and “Amen” were heard in the little shop.

  Mirana continued, “Hate is not very far from love. You agree? I look at these names and think, these are probably good people. Maybe some better than others. Why would a good pe
rson do something bad to someone else? Maybe jealousy or revenge.

  “In Madagascar, my country, we say ‘To be two things like a bat: flying it’s a bird, resting it’s a mouse.’”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Think about this…the person who did these bad things is not what he or she appears to be. Because they have two sides. You are only seeing the mouse side of them. That is the side they want you to see.”

  Aina’s client looked at me. “The whole picture, sweetie. You have to see the whole picture.”

  “Easier said than done,” I said. “Everyone wants to look good.”

  Mirana smiled. “I think the answer is right here in front of you,” and she reached over, picked up my cards and handed them back to me.

  “You mean, if I find the ‘other’ side, I’ll find the killer?”

  “Could be. You will figure it out, I’m sure.”

  Mirana hummed as she snipped away. I actually felt lighter. She picked up a black blow dryer and a round large bristle brush and spent the next 10 minutes rearranging my hair. The shape of my face began to change right in front of me. Was this the other side Mirana was talking about? Could you change your insides, by changing your outside?

  Then she looked at me through the mirror. “So, what do you think?” My hair was a rich reddish-brown with golden streaks running through it. It looked like I’d spent afternoons at the beach. Mirana had created a simple but elegant style, easy to care for and nice to look at.

  “Much better,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked like a different person. I felt like a different person.

  “I’m speechless. It looks great.”

  I thanked her, wrote a check and was walking to the door when she called out to me.

  “One more thing—in Madagascar we say, ‘the rolling stone…’”

  “Gathers no moss,” I added.

  “No, in Madagascar, ‘the rolling stone never stops till it reaches the bottom.’”

  “I get it. The person responsible for these accidents—he or she—will not stop until they’re caught.”

  As I headed down Fourth Street, I kept thinking about that rolling stone. Was the person behind all this done? My gut said, ‘no.’