by Janet Dawson
“Not a problem. I’ll have my hands full with Mom. She’s still being awfully weepy, even though she did go back to work. About that place she works, I got some more information for you. It’s Rittlestone and Weper, Embarcadero Four, San Francisco.” She gave me the floor and suite numbers and spelled the names. “She makes good money, and I guess she likes the place okay. She’s complained about it less than the last job she had. She said one of the bigwigs has a real bad temper, though. Shouting, slamming his fist against the wall, that kinda thing.”
I knew the type, a pain to work with. “Thanks. Did anyone from Bates contact your mother about returning Rob’s personal items from his office there?”
“Yeah,” Robin said. “One of the secretaries he worked with called Mom last night. She said she’s planning to bring some stuff by the house later in the week.”
“I’d like to look at it, if we can figure out how to get me into the house without your mother or Leon finding out.”
Robin thought for a moment. “I’m home from school by four-thirty, so I could let you in. Doug’s here, too, though, unless he’s off somewhere with one of his friends. Mom gets off work at five and takes BART, so she’s usually home by six. The big problem is Leon. Since the plant’s in East Oakland, close to where we live, he’s in and out of the house a lot. I can’t predict when.”
“We’ll figure out a time. What about Rob’s apartment? Same reason. I want a look at his things.”
“His rent was paid till the end of September,” Robin said. “But I guess the sooner we get the stuff out of there, the better. I’ll let you know for sure.”
“Did you find out anything about that argument Rob and Leon had?”
“I can’t remember. I must have just tuned it out. But my kid brother was there, too. He says he thinks it was about work.”
Robin told me she’d check in later in the week. Once she’d hung up, I finished the report I’d been working on, printed it out, and addressed an envelope to my client, an attorney in Concord. I was just about to lock up my office when Sid opened the door.
My ex-husband is a tall man with broad shoulders, blond hair that’s going gray at the temples, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a pair of unsettling yellow cat’s eyes. He looked as handsome as ever in his gray suit, so I sat back in my chair to admire the view. Sid and I have been divorced for awhile. As far as I was concerned, I liked the guy but we weren’t meant to live together. I loved him once. I must have, or I wouldn’t have married him. Well, there was a lot of water under that particular bridge.
“To what do I owe the honor, Sergeant Vernon?”
He smiled and removed a letter-sized envelope from the inner pocket of his suit coat. “A copy of the autopsy report on Rob Lawter. I believe you have something for me, Ms. Howard.”
“I do indeed.” I stood up and crossed to my filing cabinet, unlocking it and removing the copy I’d made of the note Rob had received. I handed it to Sid, then sat down again and motioned him to the chair in front of my desk. I gave him an overview of my conversation with Rob last week.
“It’s not much,” Sid said. “You don’t have any idea why he was going to blow the whistle?”
I shook my head. “Bates is a good-sized company. It could be anything. Since Rob worked in the legal department, I’m guessing whatever it is, it’s illegal.”
Sid nodded, staring at the note as though hoping for inspiration. I opened the envelope he’d given me and glanced through the autopsy report. “He was struck more than a few times,” I said. “From the looks of this, he was badly beaten before he was shoved out that window.” Sid gave me a look. “Oh, come on. You and I both know he was murdered.”
“A good homicide cop keeps all his options open,” he told me, getting to his feet.
“Did you ask his sister and her boyfriend where they were Thursday night?”
He nodded. “Playing cards with some friends, he says. She didn’t have much to say.”
“No, she doesn’t. And you believe them?”
“Look, Jeri, I don’t have any reason not to believe them. Leon Gomes says they played cards with a buddy of his from work and his wife. They were there until about a quarter to eleven and got home around a quarter after eleven.”
“Robin says they got home after midnight.”
“Maybe Robin’s timepiece isn’t as accurate as it could be,” Sid said, his hand on the doorknob. “Gomes says the host and hostess will back them up.”
“The buddy lives where?”
“Oakland, off Seminary Avenue.”
“Rob went out that window sometime around eleven-thirty. Between eleven and eleven-thirty, he had visitors, at least two of them, possibly a man and a woman. It takes about fifteen to twenty minutes to drive from Seminary Avenue to Alice Street, if you take the MacArthur Freeway.”
“That’s a real stretch, Jeri. The neighbor’s not clear on what she heard. Besides,” Sid added, “give me a reason why Carol Hartzell and Leon Gomes would want to kill her brother.”
I couldn’t. At least, not at the moment.
I spent Tuesday morning out in Contra Costa County, first delivering the report to the Concord attorney. Then I headed for the courthouse in Martinez to look up some information on the plaintiff in a personal injury lawsuit. From there I headed east on Highway 4 to take photos of the accident scene. I dropped the roll of film off at one of those quick-developing places, had lunch at a nearby deli, then picked up the photos.
I headed back to my office, somewhat frazzled because of all that traffic trying to get through the maze where Highway 24 and Interstate 680 connect in Walnut Creek. The California Department of Transportation, better known to the state’s drivers as Caltrans, had been working on the interchange for what seemed like decades, and I didn’t anticipate completion until I was old and gray. I swear, each time I drove through there, they’d moved the road.
There were several messages on my answering machine, including one from Eva, my real estate agent, with a list of things we needed to do in order to acquire my dream house. I returned calls, then I booted up the computer and wrote a report on the background check on the plaintiff in the personal injury case.
I had just sent the document to the printer when Ruby Woods came barreling through my office door. Her eyes blazed with fury.
“I’ll do it,” she declared.
Ten
“WHAT BROUGHT THIS ON?” I ASKED. “YESTERDAY IT WAS A NO GO.”
Ruby settled into the chair in front of my desk, her face a study in indignation. “I’ll tell you what brought this on. My contact at Bates is somebody I went to high school with at McClymonds. Her name’s Laverne Carson. Worked for that company damn near thirty years. Well, she called me this morning to tell me that a week from Friday is her last day. She’s being forced to retire. And she’s being replaced by some sweet young thing who probably doesn’t have half the knowledge and skills Laverne does.”
“It happens a lot these days. Am I sensing a possible age discrimination lawsuit?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. They picked the wrong person when they decided to mess with Laverne. There’s already a class action wrongful termination case against Bates as a result of that first round of layoffs they had after their buyout last year.”
“Something tells me it’s not just your friend Laverne’s fate that brought you here,” I said. “You’re giving off sparks, Ruby.”
“You better believe I am. Laverne told me after she’s gone not to expect any more work requests from Bates. They’re not going to use the services of Woods Temporaries anymore. As of the end of the month, in favor of some big outfit over in the city. According to Laverne, that temp agency is owned by a subsidiary of the outfit that took over Bates in that buyout. And that’s where her replacement is coming from, too.”
That sounded like dirty pool to me. So did the forced retirement of Laverne Carson. I was just glad that both had made Ruby Woods so angry she was going to do what I’d asked.
&nbs
p; “So you’re going to send me in there as a temp, the sooner the better.”
“It’ll have to be before the end of the month,” Ruby told me with a frown. “I haven’t had any requests from Bates this week. But when I do, where is it you need to be?”
“The legal department. Or something on the floor where the legal department is located. And I don’t have any idea where that is.”
Ruby frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a request for a temp from the legal department. Not that I can remember, anyway.”
“I happen to know they are short one paralegal,” I said grimly.
“I’ll figure something out. I don’t want to tell Laverne what I’m doing. She’s got enough on her plate, training her replacement.” Ruby snorted.
“I agree with you there. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“Well, we’ve got work to do in the meantime. We have to update your résumé and pretend you haven’t been a private investigator for the past few years. Maybe you’ve been on sabbatical or going to school or something.” She looked at me, her head tilted to one side. “And we’ve got to do something about your clothes.”
I looked down at the brown slacks and green checked shirt I wore. Okay, there was a mustard stain on my collar, from the pastrami sandwich I’d eaten for lunch. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” I asked. But I knew what Ruby was driving at.
When you’re self-employed, you can dress the way you want I like comfortable slacks and shoes. And in my line of work, I don’t want to stick out too much. So I hadn’t worn pantyhose in months. Suits? Forget it. My wardrobe was definitely on the casual side.
“I suppose Cassie might let me borrow some suits,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the prospect. “I can buy some pantyhose. But I draw the line at high heels.”
Ruby looked at me critically. “You’re a few pounds heavier than Cassie, and lighter than me. I probably have some things in my closet you can wear. Now, Laverne dresses to the nines. But hell, she gets gussied up to do the laundry. Bates may be more casual than those high-powered law firms over in San Francisco. I just don’t think your usual slacks and shirts will be appropriate.”
I followed Ruby back to her office, where we embellished my résumé. That evening, I reported to her house in North Oakland, and we embellished my wardrobe. It wasn’t easy. Ruby, perhaps because of her name, favored red, not a color I wear much because of my auburn hair. She was also shorter than my five feet eight inches, and wider through the hips. When I left her place, it was late, but I had three outfits in neutral shades that would look good in any office.
Okay, I thought, as I hung the clothes in my closet. I’m ready. Just as long as I don’t have to wear high heels.
There was a message from Diana Palmer on my answering machine when I arrived at my office Wednesday morning. After I returned the call, I left my office and walked over to the Oakland Museum, on Oak Street between Tenth and Twelfth, near the Alameda County Courthouse. The multi-leveled museum is surrounded by terraces, courts, and gardens, a pleasant island in the urban landscape.
The museum is the only one in California dedicated to the state’s art, history, and ecology. As I reached the upper level, where the Great Hall featured changing exhibits, I passed a group of elementary school children whose teachers were trying to herd them down to the first level, for a walk through the exhibit that covered the state’s diverse ecology. I stopped at the information booth, where Diana Palmer and I had agreed to meet. While I waited, I glanced at a brochure that gave me information on the exhibits at the Gallery of California Art and the Cowell Hall of California History.
On the phone, Diana Palmer told me she worked in an office somewhere in the bowels of the building, but that morning she was putting together a display in Cowell Hall. The history exhibits were on the second level. Five minutes after I arrived, I saw a slender woman in crisp blue linen slacks and a matching jacket moving briskly up the stairs toward me. Under the jacket she wore a white silk blouse with a scooped neckline that showed off the gold chain around her neck. She had straight blond hair, cut asymmetrically, showing more gold, this time in her earlobes. Her face was oval, with a pale complexion that wouldn’t take much sun. Her eyes were blue, quick, and intelligent. I guessed her age as late twenties, same as Rob’s. An employee identification badge was clipped to the lapel of her jacket.
“Diana Palmer?” I asked, glancing at the badge.
“Yes. You’re Jeri Howard?” Her voice was as brisk as her stride.
“Yes. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Well, I can’t talk long. I have a meeting to go to. You said you wanted to talk about Rob Lawter.” She seemed subdued under her businesslike manner. “I was sorry to hear he was dead.”
For someone who had been engaged to the deceased, she showed very little grief. But then, she and Rob had ended their relationship in July, according to Robin Hartzell. Maybe Diana Palmer was one of those people who didn’t show emotions readily. She looked me over, waiting for me to say something else. I let the silence grow, hoping she’d fill it.
“You said you’re a private investigator,” she asked finally.
“Yes. He hired me because of something that was happening at work. But he died before he could give me any details. I thought you might know what was going on.”
Her mouth curved down. “Sorry, I don’t think I can help you there. I hadn’t seen Rob in...” She thought for a moment. “Nearly two months.”
“His sister thinks he killed himself. So does his sister’s boyfriend.”
“That’s ridiculous. Rob would never have committed suicide.” Now Diana Palmer grimaced. Contempt colored her voice as she spoke of Carol Hartzell. “That’s typical of Carol, and that oaf she’s living with. I’ll never understand that relationship. They met at a Bates picnic last year. He’s an idiot, and she acts as though she can’t function without him. I couldn’t carry on a simple conversation with the woman.”
“Maybe she hasn’t got your independent spirit.” Diana Palmer wasn’t the easiest person to converse with, either, so I let some sarcasm show in my words.
She picked up on it, her mouth curving into the barest of smiles. “Obviously not. What do the police think about Rob’s death?”
“They haven’t shared any theories with me. Personally, I think he was murdered.”
She regarded me thoughtfully. “So the question is, why would anyone want to kill Rob? I don’t know the answer to that. He was a perfectly nice human being.”
Which, I thought, was a rather tepid way to describe someone she’d been planning to marry. “I need background information about Rob.”
“You could talk with his sister.” Then Diana Palmer shook her head vehemently. “But why am I even suggesting that? She didn’t know him at all.”
“I need to talk with someone who did know him. I guess that’s you.”
“I guess it is.” For a moment she looked sad, as though the news of Rob’s death had hit her harder than I thought.
Another school group clattered by, this time made up of loud and boisterous teenagers whose voices echoed through the courtyard where we stood, near the entrance to the history exhibit. “Is there somewhere we can talk that’s quieter?” I asked, now that she seemed to have thawed a little. “Your office, maybe.”
“I’ve been here such a short time that I share an office,” she said. “And my office mate is there, working diligently at the computer. Let’s go to the café and get some coffee.”
We went back up the steps to the upper level, where the museum café was located near the entrance to the Great Hall. The café was empty except for the workers behind the counter. With coffee mugs in hand, we took a table near the window that looked down on one of the museum gardens.
“Tell me about the last time you saw Rob.”
Diana Palmer cupped both hands around the coffee mug on the table in front of her and glanced sideways at the greenery in the garden. “It was early Jul
y when we stopped seeing one another. I think he would have liked to get back together. I’m the one who broke it off and I’m not... I wasn’t interested in regrouping.”
“Why’d you break up?”
She slewed her eyes back toward me. “I decided I didn’t want to get married. And that’s all I intend to say on the subject.”
My, she was the prickly one. “What did Rob say to you, before you broke up? Did he talk about work, about whatever else was going on in his life?”
“He was planning a bicycle trip to Point Reyes,” she said, tracing an abstract design on the tabletop. “A long weekend. He’d had to delay it once, because he couldn’t get time off from the office. Work was hectic, but it always was. The legal department at Bates needs two paralegals, not one, and the workload was getting him down. Supposedly, with all the cutbacks, there was never any money in the budget to hire someone. At least, that’s what the bean counters always say in situations like that.”
I noticed the emphasis she’d placed on the word “supposedly,” as well as a note of contempt in her voice as she discussed the Bates legal department. It reminded me of something Robin had said Friday night when I was at the Hartzell place.
“You met Rob at work. That’s what his niece told me. Did you work at Bates before coming to the Oakland Museum? You sound as though you’re familiar with the company.”
Diana Palmer’s smile didn’t extend to her eyes. “I was there. Not as an employee, though. But I have more than a passing familiarity with the inner workings of the place. You see, my mother is Bette Bates. She and her brother Jeff inherited the whole damn company from their father, Clyde Bates. Mother’s not involved in the company anymore, but she was on the board for quite a few years. Uncle Jeff is still the chief executive officer. Not that he has any power left since the buyout last year.”
My ears pricked with interest. I needed information about the company. It looked as though Diana could provide it. “What were you doing at Bates? How did you meet Rob?”
