Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Nor, as far as I had been able to tell, on fancy cars or a fancy lifestyle. “His wife has cancer,” I said. “He might need money for medical bills.”

  Then again, some people didn’t need a reason. They simply couldn’t see the point in taking any less than what they could get away with.

  We finished our beers and headed back to the truck. “You find what you were looking for?” Tom asked.

  “I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Sometimes it helps just to get a firsthand impression.” Although I had to admit, in this case, it hadn’t. In all honesty, I couldn’t even say that Foothill Cleaning did anything less than a first-rate job.

  Then I sent all the ugly, uncomfortable thoughts packing, and focused on enjoying myself.

  The Round Up was more my kind of place, lively and funky, and homey too, in a different sort of way. We drank beer, and munched on chips and guacamole while we waited for our burgers. Then we switched to French fries and onion rings, and a second pitcher of beer. At nine, the band came on and the place began to buzz with a high-keyed energy. Intermittent whoops and hollers rang out from around the room. And occasionally a long coyote-like howl.

  The band was surprisingly good. Their songs ranged from foot-stomping bluegrass to soft ballads, and we danced and laughed like a couple of teenagers. Later in the evening, the crowd thinned out, and the songs became slower.

  Our dancing slowed, too. I found myself draped against Tom, feet barely moving. I could feel his breath on my neck, his hands anchored against the small of my back. It was a nice sensation. Hell, more than nice. And I felt it through my entire body, like ripples in water.

  It was after midnight when we left. The rain, which had been threatening earlier in the evening, was coming down now in earnest, pelting the roof as though it were being dumped from the sky by the bucketful. The hum of the heater, the regular rhythm of the wipers, the windows clouded with mist — it was the kind of night that makes you feel that time has stopped, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist

  Sliding over, I rested my head against Tom’s shoulder. I had that warm, fuzzy, delectable feeling, like the weightlessness of a dream. I thought of the several foil packets of Trojans I’d slipped into my purse earlier that evening, and smiled.

  The smile was short-lived, however. Tom pulled into my driveway, walked me to the door and kissed me lightly. He was gone before I had a chance to invite him in.

  Talk about wounded pride. I kicked open the door, slammed it shut behind me and hurled my purse, with its damned packets of Trojans, against the floor. The warm, fuzzy feeling evaporated somewhere in the process.

  In the corner of my mind, I remembered seeing something on the porch. Something I’d overlooked in my anger. I flipped on the light, and sure enough, there off to the side of the doormat was a long florist’s box. Guiltily, I thought of Ken, who had a way of surprising me sometimes. Maybe he wasn’t as aloof and insensitive as I’d begun to think. Maybe he simply had a different style.

  I took the box inside and ripped open the card.

  "Bon Voyage. ’’And it wasn’t signed.

  I felt a flicker of disappointment. The flowers weren’t from Ken, after all. They weren’t even for me. How could a delivery get so fouled up when there were only three houses on the entire road?

  Then I opened the box.

  And screamed.

  I ran to the bathroom and vomited. When my stomach had stopped rolling up into my throat, I rinsed my mouth and splashed water on my face and tried to think what I should do about the pulpy, bloody mess in the box.

  I could try the police, although it was hardly an emergency. In any case, I would rather wait until morning when I could reach Benson directly. I could call Ken, who might or might not offer solace, and who would certainly be annoyed at being woken from a sound sleep. Or I could swallow my pride and call Tom. Which is what I did.

  But Tom wasn’t in, or wasn’t answering. I cursed him anew and hugged my arms tightly across my chest.

  Loretta wandered into the room and peered at me with deep brown eyes. Then she put her head in my lap, gently nuzzling me with her nose, and whimpered in commiseration. I scratched her head and whimpered back. When the phone rang, we both jumped.

  After an initial silence a voice said, “Did you get my message? Better start packing, missy. Unless you’re waiting for a formal sendoff.” And then the line went dead. The words were faint and muffled, but they sent ice through my veins.

  I tried Tom again, and he answered on the second ring.

  “Tom. Something awful ...” I burbled, not at all lawyerlike, not at all ladylike. “I got this package, this . . . this . . . oh God, and then this phone call. Would you mind coming over? Please?”

  He was there in less than a minute, clearly worried, but unruffled at the same time. It was the kind of stoic, take-charge attitude the situation required.

  “Fish guts,” he said, inspecting the florist box and then dropping it into a large plastic sack. “Lots of them.”

  I swallowed hard and tried to force a laugh. “Oh, only fish guts.” But the laugh caught in my throat and came out as a croak instead. I’d stopped shaking, but my insides felt like Jello.

  “Tell me again what happened.” Tom sat down opposite me and cupped my hands in his, giving them a quick, reassuring squeeze.

  I told him about finding the box and the card, and then about the phone call.

  “What about the voice?”

  I shook my head. “It was disguised. I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything as you were coming into the house?”

  I shook my head again. “It has to be tied into my investigation of Eddie’s murder.”

  I suppose I should have been feeling pleased. Threats were usually a sign you were on to something. But logic lost out. There was nothing at all good about the way I felt. “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” I added. “Jose must have told George about my visit this afternoon, and now George is trying to scare me off.”

  “Even that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, though. You’ve already uncovered the fact that George was lining his own pockets. Scaring you off now isn’t going to change that.”

  I nodded numbly. Tom had a point.

  “Unless,” he said slowly, “it isn’t simply the fact that George was taking money, but what he was doing with it.”

  That made sense, too. But what sort of trouble could he have bought himself into? And what sort of trouble was grave enough to lead a man to murder?

  I shivered, thinking of the possibilities.

  “You sure you don’t want to call the police?” Tom asked.

  “I’m sure. There’s nothing they can do tonight except take a report. I’ll talk to Benson in the morning.”

  “How about some brandy then? You look like you could use it.”

  We each had a glass of brandy. And then another. Somewhere along the way we moved from the kitchen chairs to the living room couch, and from supportive hand-holding to more amorous snuggling.

  At one point I nuzzled my head into the crook of his neck and asked where he’d been the first time I’d called.

  “I took a walk,” Tom said.

  “In the rain? Whatever for?”

  An embarrassed smile. “It seemed preferable to a cold shower.”

  “There was another alternative, you know.”

  “That was the problem,” he said. “I didn’t really know.”

  So I showed him, and in the end we made use of the Trojans after all.

  Chapter 20

  “You got a florist box containing what?” The young desk sergeant had that fresh, all-American look you find in Pepsi commercials, but his eager smile had given way to wary skepticism.

  “Fish guts,” I said for the second time, handing him the plastic sack. Benson wasn’t going to be in until Monday, and I wasn’t eager to hold onto the evidence in the interval.

  The sergeant
opened the bag, then closed it again quickly. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a couple of times as he held off a choke. “You want to make a report?”

  I nodded. The young man rolled a printed form into his typewriter. When everything was adjusted to his satisfaction, the sergeant cleared his throat and blinked at me. Then he took down my story, typing carefully, one painstaking word at a time.

  “I think it might be related to the Marrero murder,” I told him when we’d finished.

  His eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed again. “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s a long story. Chief Benson knows all about it. You’ll make sure he gets a copy of this as soon as possible?” I hoped that was enough to keep the report from finding its way to the bottom of the processing pile. “I’m a lawyer. Jannine Marrero is my client.”

  “Ah,” he said, sitting up straighter, “I see.” But his expression said he didn’t see the connection at all.

  “You want my fingerprints or anything, for comparison?”

  “Someone will contact you later if that’s necessary.” He smiled another wholesome American smile. “You have a nice weekend now, ma’am, and thank you for coming in.”

  At least he hadn’t added, “Hope to see you again real soon.”

  He turned back to the baseball game he’d been watching when I came in, and I went off to retrieve Loretta. I’d left her tethered to a tree in the plaza in front of the station. She was curled up contentedly on the warm cement, but she lifted her head when I approached.

  The vet had given her a clean bill of health, and me a list of dos and don’ts - don’t worry being number one on the list. Easy for him to say. Until a week ago, I’d never so much as walked a dog, and now, suddenly, I would be responsible for a whole family of them.

  Loretta, who seemed to be taking the vet’s advice to heart, sauntered blithely along behind me on the way to the car. She climbed in and settled herself by the window, then whimpered softly until I rolled it down a crack. I backed out of the parking space, trying hard to ignore the nose smudges on the windows and the muddy paw prints stretched across my lovely leather upholstery.

  Back home, I poured her a bowl of Kibble and made myself a cup of instant coffee — vile-tasting, fully caffeinated stuff that I hoped would keep me awake through the afternoon. It had been late when Tom and I made it to bed, and a whole heck of a lot later by the time we made it to sleep. And then Tom had bounced out of bed at 6:00 that morning.

  “Cub Scout camping trip,” he explained.

  “At this hour?”

  He looked at his watch and grinned. “I guess if I skipped breakfast, I could wait till seven.”

  He did, though we hadn’t used the extra hour for catching up on our sleep.

  I yawned and wrapped myself for a moment in the pleasant memory of Tom. As long as I didn’t think about it, didn’t try to make sense of it, I was okay. The thinking part left me feeling shaky and a little short of breath. Without really reflecting on the matter, I’d sort of gone with the moment, yielding to what felt good. The fact that it still felt good was troublesome.

  Then I took another gulp of the brown swill, got out the phone book and went to work.

  There are a limited number of financial institutions in the towns neighboring Silver Creek, and I got lucky on my fourth call. The woman at Great Northern Savings was happy to verify that Foothill Cleaning did indeed have an account there, but she was unable, or unwilling, to tell me anything further.

  I didn’t actually expect to be any more persuasive in person, but I was running out of ideas. I hopped into the car, which now smelled decidedly doggy, and drove to the Sierra Vista branch of Great Northern, a different and smaller branch than the one I’d called. Along the way I tried to figure out what it was I was after, and how to best go about getting it. I had only a murky idea about the first part, and none at all about the second.

  Sierra Vista is a sleepy little hamlet about twenty minutes from Silver Creek, and far enough off the main highway that it’s been more or less overlooked in the great rush of development. Great Northern, situated at the far end of the town’s main street, was housed in a narrow masonry building that looked as though it had been there since the Gold Rush days. The interior had been refurbished, but none too recently. The floor was uneven, the desks wooden, the walls painted a dingy gray. If it hadn’t been for the massive grill at the vault entrance and the computer terminals posted about the room, you’d have thought you’d stepped into an authentic assayer’s office rather than a modern-day bank.

  The teller, a gentleman almost as old as the building itself, suggested I speak with Mrs. Lee and pointed me in the direction of an open office at the back.

  Mrs. Lee was a tiny Asian woman with a dusting of gray at her temples. Looking up from the pile on her desk, she greeted me with a smile. Standard banking practice, I know. But hers was a genuine, from-the-soul smile that caused me a momentary tremor of guilt. Nice people deserve better than I was about to deliver.

  “Lovely children,” I said, nodding at the large photograph on her desk. That part was sincere. They were two girls, one about three, the other maybe nine or ten. Both had the same chin-length hair, dark eyes and exquisite doll-like features as their mother.

  Mrs. Lee laughed. “They’re lovely sometimes, not so lovely others. Those angelic faces fool everybody. Now, what can I do for you?”

  And here is where it got hard.

  “I’d like to verify an account,” I said, taking a seat across from her. Start with what you already know and build momentum. It’s an old lawyer trick. “Foothill Cleaning. They’re a new customer of ours. They want to purchase supplies on an open account and, well, we’ve had some trouble in the past collecting from these small, family-owned businesses. They always have the best intentions, but things don’t work out quite the way they expect. Cash gets short, you know how it goes.

  She turned to the computer on her left, flipped on the screen, hit a few keys, waited and then typed in a name. “Yes,” she said, smiling, “they do have an account with us. No problems to date.”

  “Could you give me a ball park figure on the balance, and maybe some feeling for overall activity?”

  The dark eyes grew darker. “I’m so sorry. I can’t do that without a written release. Do you have one? Or maybe a letter from them authorizing us to give you the information?”

  “Yes, I do. Or did.” I began to fidget, which wasn’t a hard act to pull off under the circumstances. “But that’s the trouble. See, I was supposed to do this yesterday, and I forgot. The file is at the office.” I lowered my eyes. “I’ve only worked there a couple of weeks. If I don’t have this information for Mr. Gregory by Monday morning, he’ll be really angry. And with my being a new employee and all...”

  Mrs. Lee smiled sympathetically. “I really am sorry. I wish I could help, but I can’t. Not without a signed release.”

  “Maybe you could ask your supervisor?”

  She looked dubious.

  “Please? Then I’ll at least know I’ve done everything I can.”

  She dimmed the screen and went into an office at the back. Quickly, I scooted my chair closer to the screen, and turned it up again. There seemed to be regular deposits of $600, then withdrawals of an equal amount one or two days later. There were always exactly one hundred dollars left in the account, probably the minimum required by the bank. There were no other deposits or withdrawals.

  It confirmed what I’d already suspected. Foothill Cleaning was a shell, a vehicle for skimming money from the tavern.

  Mrs. Lee still hadn’t reappeared. I hit the “page up” key and scanned the screen. The names on the account leapt out at me almost immediately. George Marrero and Carla Newcomb. It was the second name that gave me a jolt. What connection could there possibly be between Cheryl’s mother and Eddie’s uncle?

  I turned the screen off again and slid my chair over just as Mrs. Lee returned with her supervisor, an older man with a
stem face. I repeated my song and dance, although I had trouble sounding as desperate as I had the first time around.

  “Sorry,” he said, when I’d finished. “The rules are clear.”

  Another person might have gloated, not Mrs. Lee. She looked at me with those soft brown eyes of hers, and I felt like a real heel.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You come back first thing Monday morning with the letter and I will get you the information you need. We will do it quickly, and you can get back to your boss right away. He will never know you let it slip on Friday.”

  <><><>

  As I stepped outside into the bright afternoon sun, my head was swimming. Carla Newcomb. What did that mean? What could it mean? I wound the information through my brain and came up with nothing. I was pretty certain Foothill Cleaning wasn’t a legitimate business. Not with only one deposit and one withdrawal each month. But I had no idea what it was.

  I started with the one thing I was sure of. George Marrero was skimming money. And he wasn’t in it alone. So what was he up to? Drugs? Gambling? Was he feeding the money through Carla or was he paying her off? And where did Cheryl fit into all this? I was, by now, convinced her disappearance was no coincidence.

  It was only mid-afternoon, but I felt drained, ready to settle in with a mind-numbing evening of television. Or better yet, skip the television and head straight for bed, diving into the soothing nothingness of sleep.

  But I must have something of the Puritan in me, because instead of heading home, I drove straight to Carla’s.

  She was sitting on the top porch step, next to her collection of plastic pink geraniums, painting her nails and getting an early start on her tan. The radio was pulsing out a tune about love gone bad, and Carla was humming along between drags on her cigarette and chugs of her beer. She didn’t hear me approach, and looked up only when my shadow darkened die steps. The hand holding the nail brush jerked, sending a streak of scarlet up the back of her finger.

  “Geez, you scared me,” she said, squinting into the sun. “I didn’t see you until just now.”