Nobody's Child (The Jeri Howard Series Book 5)

by Janet Dawson

  Thirty-nine

  WHEN I PUSHED THE BUZZER OUTSIDE KARA Jenner’s LeConte Avenue apartment building, there was an answering buzz and the door released. I went upstairs. The apartment door was opened by a young woman, one of Kara’s roommates. She wore black tights under a thick black and red sweater. Her spiky black hair, its inky darkness accenting her ivory complexion, stood up from her head as though cemented in place. She had a tiny gold ring in her nose, matching the half dozen or so that pierced her earlobe. The music on the stereo sounded like Mozart. Her index finger was stuck between the pages of a paperback book, Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers.

  “Is Kara here?” I asked.

  She shook her head. When she spoke, her voice was pure Midwest, despite the sophisticated college student Berkeley Bay Area God-I’m-hip veneer. “She’s spending Christmas with her folks. I think she said they were going skiing up at Kirkwood for a few days.”

  I tried not to show the dismay I felt If this was true, that would put Kara out of my reach for the moment. And I needed to talk with her. Any port in a storm, however. I’d borrow a phrase from my Navy acquaintances and see what if anything, the roommate knew.

  “May I ask you a few questions?”

  The young woman looked startled. “What about?”

  “Kara’s friend from high school. The one who stayed here earlier this year.”

  “Friend from high school?” she repeated.

  “Maureen Smith.”

  “She was in high school with Kara? I wondered how they knew each other.” The roommate wrinkled her nose and the little gold ring glinted. “Why do you want to know about her? Who are you anyway?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really?” She hugged the paperback to her chest intrigued and ready to drop Lord Peter Wimsey for a real honest-to-God P.I. “Are you really a detective?”

  “My name’s Jeri Howard,” I said reaching for one of my business cards. “What’s yours? May I come in for a minute?”

  “Amanda.” She thought about it for a few seconds, then opened the door wider. I walked into the cramped living room. Presents were piled under the little Christmas tree. It appeared Amanda was hunkering down in Berkeley over the holidays. “Are you looking for Maureen?” she asked, shutting the door behind us.

  I didn’t see any need to go into details. “Something like that. It’s kind of complicated. She was here in July, wasn’t she? For a couple of days.”

  “More like a week.” Amanda crossed the room to the stereo and turned down the volume on Wolfgang Amadeus. “The situation was really untenable. Kara and Gemma—that’s our other roommate—and I were all in summer school. This place has three bedrooms but really it’s not very big, especially when all three of us are here.”

  “When did Maureen move in?”

  Amanda set the book down on an end table. “End of July. Kara’s friend Emory showed up with this Maureen and all her stuff. She said Maureen was going to stay here for a while. Because she lost her job and she had to give up her apartment. Gemma and I objected, of course. And if truth be told, I don’t think Kara was all that keen on having her here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they just didn’t act like they were friends or anything. I wondered how they knew each other. Kara didn’t say anything about knowing Maureen in high school. In fact, I heard them arguing once, right after Maureen got here.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, I was trying not to listen.” Amanda fingered some of the rings in her right ear. “But Kara’s room is next to mine.” Amanda frowned as she thought for a moment. Then she brightened. “‘You owe me.’ That’s what she said. ‘You owe me. And I’m here to collect.’”

  Now it was my turn to frown. When I first talked with Kara, her sporadic assistance to Maureen could be interpreted as kindness. But if what Amanda just told me was true, it appeared Kara’s actions were motivated by some obligation. Or guilt. What could Kara owe Maureen? Kara kept holding out on me. And I was going to pounce on her like a cat on a mouse as soon as she got back from her Christmas ski trip.

  “Anyway,” Amanda continued, “it just wasn’t working with Maureen camping out here in the living room. We sort of took up a collection, put money in a kitty, so she could get a room of her own, just temporarily. So Maureen left. Kara had some of her stuff stashed in her closet. I thought Maureen would come back for it.”

  “How much money did you give Maureen?” I asked.

  “We each came up with a hundred dollars,” Amanda said.

  Three hundred dollars. That would have housed Maureen in one of the cheap hotels on Telegraph, for a while at least. And Maureen would have had the five hundred dollar deposit from the apartment she’d just given up. That represented money she’d brought with her when she and Dyese left Sonoma. Yet she’d immediately gone back on the streets, sleeping in People’s Park and panhandling. Where, according to Rio, he had also given her two hundred dollars, in early October, right before her death. That brought the tally up to an even thousand.

  What had Maureen done with the money? Rio had said he thought she was trying to get enough cash together for her and her child to go back to Sebastopol. Logical. But she sure as hell wouldn’t have carried that much cash on her. She must have opened an account somewhere. But the only bank book in the pitifully small array of things she had left with Kara was from her closed account in Sebastopol.

  “Kara told me Maureen got her mail here,” I said. “Do you recall if she ever got bank statements?”

  Amanda shrugged and tilted her head to one side. “She didn’t get much mail, and what little there was, Kara took to her. There might have been something from a bank. I seem to remember a Bank of America envelope. But I’m not sure about that. Our other roommate, Gemma, has an account at B of A.”

  Could be a dead end there, at least where Amanda was concerned. But there were other ways I could get an answer to my question. I tried a different subject, one I’d already covered with Kara. Considering Kara’s fluid truthfulness, I wanted her roommate’s version. “Tell me about Emory. He’s Kara’s boyfriend, right?”

  “Emory?” Amanda widened her brown eyes. “Emory’s not Kara’s boyfriend. Though he hangs around so much, I think he’d like to be.”

  “Really?” I shrugged. “My mistake. It’s just that whenever I see Emory and Kara together, he acts, well, possessive.”

  Amanda nodded. “Like he wants to run her life. Yeah, I know what you mean. Once, right before we were having a party, I saw Emory in the kitchen, ordering Kara around. He was telling her how to cut vegetables, for God’s sake. I’d have told that dweeb to get out of my face.”

  “But Kara didn’t,” I finished. “Why does she tolerate Emory if she’s not dating him?”

  “Hell if I know,” Amanda said, wrinkling her nose again. “I guess they’ve known each other since grade school. And Kara’s been dating Emory’s brother Stuart for ages, all the time he was in school here at U.C., ever since high school. She figures she has to put up with Stuart’s kid brother, since they’re so close. I really don’t like Emory. He’s over here a lot.”

  “What about Stuart? Is he here frequently?”

  “Kara mostly goes over to his place in the city.”

  “Where does Stuart live?”

  “Why do you want to talk to him? He’s got nothing to do with Maureen.”

  “I’d like to find Emory. Kara said he lived with his brother.” That wasn’t quite the way she’d put it. Kara told me Emory stayed with his brother when he was working in San Francisco, but she’d also said he had a place in Oakland. I was hoping Amanda would tell me where.

  “No, he’s on this side of the bay. I’m sure his phone has a 510 area code.” Unfortunately, Amanda couldn’t provide me with addresses for either Marland brother.

  Good old Emory. He always seemed to be hanging around. He’d helped Maureen move out of her apartment. And Rio had
seen Maureen getting into Emory’s little green Honda. Like Kara, Emory had been selectively truthful in answering my questions. I wanted to find out more about him. Maybe Stuart could provide that information. Besides, it was time I met Stuart as well. Kara didn’t like talking about Stuart either.

  It was past eight when I left Berkeley, but I stopped at my downtown office and called the landlady who had briefly rented Maureen Smith the studio apartment. I apologized for disturbing her and asked her if she had copies of canceled checks. I was specifically interested in the refund check she’d mailed to Maureen. I needed to know if there was anything on the back of the check that indicated where it had been cashed or deposited. It took a while, but eventually she came up with the answer, one that confirmed my suspicions.

  “I’m on my way out the door,” Sid growled when I reached him later that evening at Oakland Homicide. “It’s been a long day. You’d think people would stop killing each other during the Christmas season.”

  “Maybe someday they will. Listen, Sid, about that Maureen Smith case. I need a favor.”

  “Will it help me close the case?”

  “Can’t promise anything. But maybe.”

  He sighed. “All right. What is it?”

  “Maureen had an account at Bank of America, but I don’t know which one. Since she was panhandling on Telegraph Avenue and sleeping in People’s Park, I’m betting it’s one of the Berkeley branches. You can get that information a whole lot quicker than I can.”

  He grumbled a bit. “You’re sure about this B of A thing? Okay, I’ll do it. But it might take some time. It’s the week before Christmas, people are on vacation. Besides, I’ve got more recent homicides to worry about.”

  “I know. And Sid, you’ve got contacts with the Piedmont Police Department. Could you nose around and find out if there were any crimes reported around the time Maureen Smith disappeared?”

  “That’s two favors, Jeri.”

  “Call it your Christmas present to me.”

  “What do I get from you?” he shot back.

  When I mentioned undying gratitude, he snorted and hung up.

  Forty

  IT DOESN’T TAKE A CAT LONG TO FIGURE OUT WHOSE hand holds the can opener. But I still couldn’t get close to Black Bart.

  Every time I made a move to touch his midnight-black fur, he’d run for cover and stare at me quizzically, eyes wide and yellow in his white mask. Since I’d originally captured him while he was eating, he was careful not to approach the food dish in the kitchen until I left the room. It would take time for the kitten to move from acceptance of his new fate through tolerance to friendship. However, for the past few nights I’d sensed his presence at the foot of the bed, as far away from me as he could get, but still taking advantage of my down comforter on these chilly December nights.

  Abigail wasn’t having any of this tolerance stuff. She took great umbrage at the fact that he dared to jump on the bed, and moved her sleeping spot from my feet to my pillow. For days she staked out Black Bart’s hiding place near the sofa as though she were stalking a mouse, hissing and spitting at the kitten each time he stuck his nose out. Once she cornered him in the kitchen, with great yowls and cries. He scrambled for cover behind the step stool, knocking it over in the process. The resulting crash frightened both cats.

  This evening Black Bart came out of hiding to watch me wrap Christmas presents. He sat with all four paws tucked under him, fascinated by the spectacle of this large human seated in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by boxes, rolls of colorful paper, and all that shiny ribbon. I cut off a length and tossed one end in his direction, teasing him with its movement. He ignored it at first, but after a few minutes he couldn’t resist snaking a paw out to twitch the narrow strip of red.

  I left the ribbon in his reach and got back to work, watching the pile of presents grow. Not one to be left out, Abigail sauntered over to sit in the middle of the paper I was attempting to measure out to wrap my mother’s gift. I shooed her off and she retaliated by filching the roll of tape. When I retrieved that, she made off with a glittery bow, tossed it into the air, and pounced on it. The next time I looked up, she was on her side, the bow between her forepaws and her mouth as she kicked, gnawed, and shredded. Black Bart watched her carefully, as though taking notes.

  Finally I finished wrapping and shoved the paper, ribbons, tags, and tape into the cardboard box where I kept them and stashed the box in the hall closet. Presents for my mother and my brother and his family went into a big shopping bag. I’d have to send them to Monterey tomorrow by the quickest means possible, which meant a long wait and a lot of expense. Served me right for waiting so long to do my shopping. I would take the other presents with me Christmas morning when I went to my father’s town house in nearby Castro Valley. We’d unwrap them together as we shared coffee and pastries. Then later he and his friend Isabel Kovaleski were cooking Christmas dinner.

  I scattered the colorful packages on top of the oak sideboard that had been my grandmother’s. Past Christmases with Abigail had taught me to keep the presents out of reach. She would invariably rip the decorations from the packages and do to them what she was doing now to the remains of the gold bow. It was in tatters as I knelt and gathered up all the little bits of ribbon and paper I’d strewn on the carpet. Black Bart, curious, crept closer to observe this behavior. Suddenly Abigail saw him, laid back her ears, and hissed at him. He hissed back. She looked so startled, I laughed out loud as I disposed of the rubbish.

  Next morning’s Tribune headlined a story about a shooting in Oakland’s upscale Montclair district that left one dead and two injured, the result of an argument over the placement of a family Christmas tree. I pondered this over coffee and a bowl of oatmeal, recalled Sid’s remark last night about having more recent homicides to worry about.

  ’Tis the season, I thought, when loving families come together—and dysfunctional families magnify their schisms.

  My first stop was United Parcel down by the Oakland airport, where the lines were long but, for the right amount of money, my gifts would get to Monterey before Christmas. Just barely.

  I went to my office and started the coffee. As water dripped through the grounds I fielded phone calls from Bill Stanley and Duffy LeBard. Both of my Nutcracker dates wanted to know if I was free New Year’s Eve. But Dr. Pellegrino had beaten them to the punch. As I wrote alternative dinner dates on my calendar, it appeared I suddenly had an embarrassment of riches in the date department, all in the last week in December.

  I settled at my desk and made a series of phone calls to accounting firms in San Francisco. A pot of coffee later I found the one where Stuart Marland, Emory’s older brother, had gone to work after he graduated from college. It was a well-known firm, in the Financial District not far from the Montgomery Street BART station. I locked my office, walked over to Oakland’s City Center and downstairs to the Twelfth Street station, where I caught a train to San Francisco. It was past commute time, but the train was full of people, no doubt heading over to the city to finish their Christmas shopping. Now that I was done with that, I allowed myself to feel smug for a few minutes. Then I frowned and went over a mental list. Had I forgotten anyone?

  The accounting firm took up several floors of a high rise where Montgomery Street angled into Market. The security guards on the first level didn’t seem to think I was dangerous so they let me through. On the way up in the elevator, I considered the possibility that I wouldn’t find Stuart Marland at work. This close to Christmas, people were taking time off. But he’d just graduated from U.C. Berkeley a year or so ago, according to Kara Jenner’s roommate, and had started this job. Which meant he was low on the vacation pecking order. Besides, accountants had all that fiscal year-end financial stuff to worry about.

  No, I didn’t have an appointment, I told the receptionist. I gave her my name and she picked up the phone, saying she’d try to locate him. I took a seat on a nearby sofa, next to a man who was reading the Wall Stree
t Journal. He was dressed in gray pinstripes and a maroon tie. Thus attired, he went well with the reception area, which was decorated in shades of gray with muted cranberry accents, looking appropriately sober and fiscally responsible. Even the Christmas tree in one corner looked conservative, with its gold tinsel and monochrome silver balls.

  Ten minutes or so passed before the receptionist looked up and said Stuart Marland was on his way to the reception desk. Someone came through the door leading back to the firm’s offices. It was a woman. Before the door closed, I glimpsed a big room divided by fabric wall partitions into a seemingly endless rabbit warren of cubicles. A moment later the door opened and a young man strode into the reception area, glancing around until his eyes found me.

  Was it my imagination? Or did Stuart Marland look wary?

  There was definitely a physical resemblance between the Marland brothers. Stuart had the same sandy hair and blue eyes as his younger brother, but he had a polish that Emory lacked. It went far beyond his conservative well-cut blue pinstripe with its snowy white shirt. They were both tall and broad-shouldered, with similar features on their faces. On Emory these attributes were gawky, awkward, and half formed. Stuart was handsome and self-assured, smooth, and sophisticated. At least that’s what he projected as he looked me over.

  A lady-killer, I thought, aware of the irony of the old term. I was about ten years too old for him, but something in his eyes told me he might consider that a challenge.

  “I’m Stuart Marland,” he said, with just the right touch of professional interest “You wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yes. About Maureen Smith.” I watched his face to see if he had any reaction to Maureen’s name. If he had one, he’d masked it. He frowned at me, but the expression held little emotion.

  “Maureen Smith?” He looked as though he were trying to figure out who she was. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “She went to Piedmont High School. Same class as your brother. And Kara Jenner.”