Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  I leaned forward. “Do you know something about what they could have wanted from the restaurant? I know someone was there that night—someone who made an anonymous phone call after Mr. Xiang was killed.” I nodded to Munchkin. “It may have saved his life. Is making a 911 call like that something you think one of the homeless people might do?”

  Ed raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. He sniffed the air, almost like Munchkin or Belle would do. “Maybe.” He thought for a moment more. “Possibly. The street people can’t all be irresponsible heroin-addicted vandals. They didn’t all trash my shop. But tonight is not the night to contact anyone. Rain is coming. The homeless who are uncomfortable in shelters will be riding the buses all night or burrowed under thick cover somewhere. You will not find them and you will not want to be out and about yourself.”

  That made sense, but I shivered and scooted back in my chair to put some distance between us. I feared he was warning me of something more sinister than bad weather.

  “They ride the buses?”

  “Yes. Up and down El Camino. Stop after stop, all night long. It’s warm and dry and relatively safe with the bus driver there to watch over them and call if there’s trouble. Like me, I guess, they get used to the noise and learn to tune it out. Some of them are so doped up it wouldn’t bother them if the bus crashed.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew the papers on Ed’s desk and both dogs looked up. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Rumors you’ve heard of trouble?”

  He tapped his fingertips together and stared at the ceiling. “There is one thing . . .”

  I leaned forward, straining to hear as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s the health inspector. I’ve heard he’s no good, but nothing specific. He’s been around here more than I’d expect though, way more than his predecessors and some of the restaurant owners seem afraid of him.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No clue. Maybe he’s ultra-strict about his inspections. Or is asking for money before he’ll hand over a certificate of compliance with the health and safety laws.”

  “What about the neighborhood? You live here and work here, so you see all sides. Is it safe?”

  Ed shrugged. “Safe enough for me, I guess. It’s probably not a great idea to be wandering around alone after the stores and restaurants close.” He peered at me over the top of his glasses like a beloved professor verifying that his class had absorbed the key point of his lecture. “A lot of people would like to see all these old shops pulled down and replaced by modern, green, energy-efficient buildings with high-density housing above the storefronts, solar panels on the roofs, and underground parking. That can’t happen unless those of us with long-term leases throw in the towel. There’s a lot of money in real estate around here, of course. It might be in someone’s interest to encourage us all to leave. If that’s the case, the violence is likely to get worse before it gets better.”

  “You think Mr. Xiang could have been killed over a rental agreement?”

  Ed shrugged. I thought he was going to say more, but his demeanor changed when a customer called out from the front of the store.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course,” I said, in a more formal tone than I’d intended, but one that matched Ed’s old-fashioned manners. “I’ll take the dogs out through the back,” I said, “and let you get to your customer.”

  Ed nodded and grasped my hand. “Thank you for coming. Give my best to Stephen. If you are going to continue looking into this, take Munchkin with you. He will protect you but the street people also know him and trust Stephen. The mastiff will unlock doors for you.”

  I thanked him solemnly and gathered up the leashes. He turned back and said, “Go to Cuesta Park at night—whenever the YMCA shuts its doors. They offer showers before closing. A discreet service, you understand? No one is supposed to know who is homeless and who is a member. Look for a woman with long gray braids. She walks at night like Stephen does, and she will want to help him. She may have seen something. I think her name is Annie.”

  He disappeared into the front of the store and I left through the back, into a deserted alley that smelled of dumpsters and the coming rain. I shook my head. On one hand, Mr. Bloom was angry with the homeless people. He blamed them for the damage to his shop. He also seemed frustrated with the police who weren’t, in his opinion, doing their utmost to resolve the problems. But on the other hand, he seemed so gentle and protective of those who used the services provided by the YMCA, and he’d provided me with a number of leads. I made a mental note to check the local paper online for stories about the break-in at Mr. Bloom’s shop. I’d ask Paolo whether he had access to police reports in Mountain View. I wasn’t sure how far the cooperation agreement between Orchard View and Mountain View extended, but if anyone could gain access to the records, it was Paolo. He was the computer whisperer and knew better than anyone, even Max, how to find back doors and workarounds that would coax even an otherwise secure file to give up its secrets.

  Raindrops spattered on the pavement, ending my rapid assessment of everything Ed Bloom had told me. The dogs and I raced back to the car, but we were drenched and cold within minutes. I was tempted to try another shop, but the wind howled through the alley and the clouds made it seem much later than it actually was. No store owner would want us dripping on their displays. Nor would they welcome dogs who might shake their coats dry without a thought to the expensive inventory they could damage.

  It was time to give up for the day. The boys might have to change their plans given the unexpectedly hard downpour, and I’d heard nothing from Max or Paolo. If the rain let up, I could go out later on. Or tomorrow.

  A squirrel ran down the fence next to us and leaped onto one of the dumpsters with a loud bang. Munchkin and I both jumped and then glanced at each other and looked away, embarrassed. In a world where someone like Stephen could be in jail and we were cold, wet, and tired, it was easy to imagine that danger could lurk anywhere.

  Chapter 7

  When you’ve separated everything that doesn’t belong from the things that do, it’s time for the next step. Gather all your containers of culled items and sort them. As always, “toss,” “recycle,” and “donate” are your first three piles. You’ll also find items that obviously belong in another room. Separate those belongings and deliver them to the rooms where they belong. If you know where the items go, great. Put them away. If not, confine the pile to a box or bag you can get to later.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Saturday, February 18, Afternoon

  On my way home, David and Brian each called to say they were spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the homes of their respective friends. The rain turned to hail and my teeth chattered. The dogs were curled up on the backseat, snuggled close together for warmth. I’d turned the heat and the defroster on high, but both were having trouble keeping up. I wiped the inside of the windshield with my sleeve so I could see the street and rolled my window down so I could check for cross traffic on the windy and winding roads leading home.

  Our driveway had turned to a slick muddy track, and I skidded twice between splashing great spouts of water from the potholes. I grabbed the dogs’ leashes and ran with them onto the back porch. All three of us were equally bedraggled, and I wasn’t sure that toweling off the dogs would do any good, but I unlocked the back door, grabbed our raggedy old dog towels from the shelf above the freezer, and gave each dog a good rub down, working gently around Munchkin’s wounds. I knew they’d shake themselves off the minute they got inside, but at least I’d contained some of the mess.

  Inside, I turned on a small space heater to warm up the kitchen, closed the door on the dogs to keep them from drying themselves on the living room sofas, and dashed upstairs to indulge in a long hot shower.

  Shivering, and with my post-shower skin tingling, I dressed in my warmest socks, two sweaters
, and a pair of flannel-lined jeans I typically saved for ski trips. Downstairs, I fed the dogs and fired up the coffeemaker. I hadn’t seen the cats since we’d come home, but I didn’t think it would take them long to figure out that the heat was on full blast in the kitchen, so I topped up their dishes with kibble and fresh water.

  Max and Paolo walked in together just as the coffee finished brewing.

  “Paolo, what a surprise! What brings you here?” I held up the pot and they both responded eagerly, stomping their feet and shaking their hands to get as much water as possible off their jackets.

  Paolo was appropriately outfitted for a California rainstorm in waterproof storm pants and a lightweight breathable rain jacket with high-performance moisture-wicking layers underneath. My poor husband looked like a drowned rat in a sopping wet sweatshirt. He peeled it off and threw it in a laundry basket filled with my own wet things. I grabbed a hoodie from the line of pegs near the door and gave him a quick kiss as I handed it over. His face was freezing against mine.

  They each gripped their coffee mugs as if I’d tossed them a lifeline.

  “Let’s head into the living room and light the fire,” Max said. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

  “I checked the temperature earlier. It was about thirty-five degrees,” I said.

  “I’d better get warmed up quickly then,” Paolo said. “If the rain weren’t enough, temps like that will bring some ice tonight, which means overtime for me.”

  “I’ve got some leftover chili if you want an early dinner,” I added.

  Paolo shook his head. “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  I still wasn’t sure what had brought Paolo to see us today, but I knew he’d tell us in his own time. Max lit the fire and we each found a spot on our two enormous denim couches. The cats appeared out of nowhere and demanded lap space. Belle sat on my feet and Munchkin curled under the coffee table with a sigh. We all waited until Munchkin was settled to put our mugs down. He was more coordinated than his bulk would suggest, but I was never convinced that he could maneuver under the coffee table without wearing it on his back like a turtle wears his shell.

  I asked Max about work, and he shook his head. “I won’t have to go back until the morning, but this roll-out has been a beast. It’s the last thing I want to talk about.”

  I knew enough about Max’s work to understand that one phone call from engineers in India or Germany or Santa Clara about an unexpected bug could change his plans in a hurry. “Well, I’m glad you’re home for now. The boys will be back later. They’re both at friends’ houses for dinner.”

  Paolo looked at me over the top of his coffee mug. “I need to bring you up to date on the Stephen situation. But first, I’ve decided I am hungry. Any chance of a sandwich? A cookie?”

  I laughed. “I’ll get Max caught up on Stephen while you go scrounge. There’s leftover chili or stuff to make sandwiches and you know where the cookies are. Will you bring a plate of them in with you when you come back?”

  Paolo nodded, as comfortable in our home as any of our family members. Belle followed him. Munchkin shifted and sighed in what I hoped was comfort.

  Max kissed me again, more thoroughly this time, and sighed in a manner that duplicated Munchkin’s so closely that I laughed.

  “So, the old boy looks a bit banged up. What’s he doing here with us and how is the Ninja Marine? For that matter, where’s Jason? If Munchkin is with us, they must both be otherwise occupied.”

  “I’m not sure where to begin.” I filled him in on Jason’s emergency corps trip to Texas and how difficult it was to get in touch.

  “But why would you need to talk to him?” Max asked. “I’m sure he’s doing fine and that every law enforcement group they’re working with is now planning to revamp their procedures to match Jason’s. He’s a wizard when it comes to team building and organization.”

  “I agree, but that brings us to the bigger problem.” I outlined Stephen’s predicament and my list of tasks.

  “Not another murder investigation,” Max said. “Can’t you leave this to the police? This case sounds dangerous. Someone . . . or more than one someone . . . killed Mr. Xiang and could have easily murdered Stephen, Rafi, and Munchkin. Whoever they are, they aren’t going to like you poking around trying to get the police to expand the list of suspects. And questioning the homeless people? Don’t get me wrong, I feel for them but, Maggie, so many of them are, for lack of a more precise phrase, downright loony. And some of them are dangerous, particularly if you run around asking questions that make them feel afraid or threatened.” He shook his head and put a hand on my leg. “This is a terrible, terrible idea. I don’t like it. Not at all.” He and Munchkin and Belle all sighed.

  Paolo returned with a sandwich piled high with cheese and sprouts, pickles, tomato, and anything else you might consider putting on a sandwich. A plate of cookies was balanced on top.

  I looked to Paolo for help, but he took a big bite of his sandwich and said in a barely intelligible voice, “My mouth is full. Go ahead.”

  “I haven’t talked to any of the homeless people yet,” I said. “I haven’t even seen any of them, actually. I spent the morning talking to shop owners in the Mountain View neighborhood near the Golden Dragon. None of them knew anything, but the flower shop owner suggested I look for a woman named Annie with long gray braids. She hangs out around Cuesta Park after the YMCA closes for the night.”

  “That’s a great suggestion,” said Paolo. “The Y has fresh coffee and showers for people in the morning before the gym opens at 6:00 a.m., and sometimes offers more substantial food if they’ve had donations. After that, the homeless people disperse. Some for jobs—a surprising number are well employed but can’t afford housing. Others head out toward various panhandling locations, to ride the buses, or for programs at the Mountain View Day Laborer Center or the veterans hospital in Palo Alto.”

  “Jobs?” said Max.

  “Absolutely,” answered Paolo. “You know the state of the economy around here. How many people, especially those with mental health issues, can afford market rates for rent let alone a security deposit and initial payments?”

  Max took a big sip of his coffee. His face reflected a complex combination of fury, surprise, and problem solving. Unless I was completely wrong about my husband, he soon would be making a visit to his company’s human resources department, insisting that they offer roommate-matching services to all employees and try to learn whether any of them were homeless. If anyone on his team was living in a car or sleeping on the streets, I could bet they’d have a roof over their head within a few days. The problem of the homeless might be difficult to solve on a global, national, or even a local scale, but Max would make sure that everyone on his team was cared for and had the help they needed.

  I feared we’d all lost focus on our primary goal. “We have to get Stephen out of jail,” I said. “The fact that he’s in the infirmary or the hospital wing or whatever you call it proves that he’s not safe. I have no idea how long he can stay cooped up and remain sane. He’s got no Munchkin, no Jason, no endless nightly walks, no veterans or dogs to help with their own PTSD issues. He’s been completely stripped of every single one of his coping mechanisms and is afraid to talk to anyone for fear of spilling the beans and getting Rafi deported.”

  “Have you connected with the lawyer?” Paolo asked. “What has he said about the odds of finalizing Rafi’s citizenship papers? Is it even possible? Has the lawyer even met this Rafi kid? Have you? Is he worth all of Stephen’s sacrifices?”

  Paolo was picking up my AK-47 style of firing questions. I shook my head and pushed my hair back, holding it in a ponytail and tugging on it gently, as if that would help me think better. “I’ve left a message with Forrest Doucett but I don’t even know if he’s the right person to call. Stephen gave me his name, but he’s a criminal lawyer and doesn’t deal with child welfare issues or immigration concerns. I’m sure he farmed it out to someone else, maybe this Nell Bevans
person who is also on the list Stephen gave me.”

  I leaned back, dejected. From where I sat, all warm and cozy with my animals, friend, and Max for comfort, it looked like we’d never be able to get Stephen home and safe. At least not before he went stark-raving mad.

  Max rose from the sofa and grabbed a cookie. “I’m going to call Forrest right now. I’ve got his home number and a couple of other work numbers for him. Unless he’s somewhere without cell coverage, I should be able to catch him. Whether he can help is a whole other matter, but at least if I can talk to him, we’ll know where we are. He may be able to tell us more about why Stephen thinks Rafi is worth going to jail for.” He moved into the adjacent dining room, which had become our family office in lieu of the work areas we were still planning to set up in our rebuilt barn. We were a perfectly normal family with two busy young teens, which meant that ninety percent of the things that Max and I wanted to do for ourselves never got done. And that was okay with us. But right now, Stephen’s problem was a priority. Family first, with friends a close second.

  I turned to Paolo.

  “Do you know a thin older man with missing teeth who panhandles at San Antonio and El Camino in the evening? Or this woman with the gray braids that Ed Bloom mentioned? Is Bloom his real name? Do you think it’s worth continuing to talk to the store owners? I get the sense that there is something else going on down there. Maybe in the alley behind the stores. I don’t think they’re telling me everything they know about Stephen and Munchkin and the Golden Dragon. Ed Bloom mentioned a dodgy health inspector and a property development scheme, and a possible pattern of vandalism that might be related to both.”

  Paolo looked bewildered by my barrage of questions. I sipped my coffee and dismembered an Oreo while I waited for him to process it all. Trying to clarify my concerns would make it worse for him. It was amazing that the two of us could be friends or work together. Our thought patterns were so different. But we both wanted the same thing and were willing to work for it.