“Ever hear of Lionel Stroud Investments?” I said.
“Of course. Most prestigious firm in Sacramento, maybe all of Northern California.”
“Have you ever met Stroud?”
“No. I’m not worth a quarter of a billion dollars. And I don’t play golf, so I’m not of any value to a guy like him.” She laughed. “I did try to meet him once. It was at a chamber of commerce mixer a couple of years ago. He was standing at the bar ordering a drink, so I went up next to him and flirted a bit.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Something suggestive but in a classy and cute way.”
“That’s you all over, classy and cute,” I said.
“Watch the sarcasm.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, it didn’t work. He grunted something at me, took his drink at left. Dickhead.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally. His daughter says she doesn’t think he’s dated anyone since his second wife divorced him. That was years ago.”
“His daughter? Would that be Jill Stroud, beloved softball coach, former paramour of one Ray Courage?”
“It would.”
“Are you two back together?”
“We’re not.”
“Too bad. I thought you two had a good thing.”
“She asked me to help her father out. He’s having an employee issue.”
“Your sandwich looks very good, by the way.”
“It is, but they might throw you out of here if they heard you referring to their ‘panini’ with a term as common as ‘sandwich,’” I said.
“So shoot me.” She paused to finish her martini. “Who is the employee Stroud’s having issues with?”
“You’ve got to promise to keep this between us, okay?”
“Of course,” she said, crossing her heart. “So who is the employee?”
“A guy named Andrew Norris. Ever heard of him?” Now I had firmly crossed Stroud’s line. I didn’t care. I needed a better picture of both Norris and Stroud if I was going to get anywhere.
“Really? Norris is the straightest arrow in town. A real Boy Scout.”
“Mormon actually.”
“Figures.”
“What do you know about him?” I said.
“Like I said, very conservative. I can’t imagine he’d be a source of trouble.”
“Anything else?”
“If he works for Stroud he’s got to be good at what he does, which basically means keeping the clients happy. Stroud likes preppy white guys in their twenties and thirties, with two or three college degrees to kiss his clients’ well-heeled assess twenty-four seven.”
“What about their skills investing the client’s money?” I said.
“Please! From what I’ve heard, none of Stroud’s brokers ever touches a client’s portfolio. Stroud does all the investing and makes all the decisions. No one touches the money but him.”
“You’re telling me all these associates do is literally wine and dine clients?” I said.
“That’s what I’ve heard. And Stroud pays them big bucks to do it. Two hundred thousand to start, car allowance, expense account, and a country club membership. The whole nine yards.”
“Wow,” I said. “Maybe you should go work for him.”
“If I had a dick and another degree there might be a slim chance. Besides, I like the investment side. Sucking up to clients is the worst part of this business.”
“Maybe that’s why Norris doesn’t like his job,” I said, thinking out loud.
“You know, I did hear that he might be leaving town,” Rebecca said, taking her napkin from her lap and placing it next to her near-empty plate. “I’m stuffed.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“His house is for sale. A guy in my office went with his real estate agent and looked at this house in Granite Bay and saw some mail with Norris’s name on it so he figured it was his house.”
“Maybe Norris is just upgrading, moving to a bigger place?” I said.
“I doubt it. The place is something like thirty-five hundred square feet and he’s single. He wouldn’t need anything bigger. And anyway, the agent said the seller was in a hurry to sell because he was leaving town. He told my colleague that he could probably low ball the seller because of it.”
“Did your friend say where Norris might be moving to?”
“I didn’t ask him but I doubt he knows.”
I thought about Norris leaving town for a moment as I pulled out enough cash from my wallet to cover the bill and the tip. If he was leaving town then it was unlikely he was planning to steal any of Stroud’s clients. This made me wonder what Norris was up to, if anything, or if maybe Lionel Stroud’s self-proclaimed brilliance in recognizing human behavior had erred this time.
Rebecca used the restaurant’s valet parking service. I waited out front with her as they retrieved her car. When it arrived she paused before sliding into the driver’s seat.
“This is where you usually make an inappropriate sexual suggestion to embarrass me and make me tell you to knock it off,” I said.
“I decided to give you a break today.”
“Promise me you’re not feeling sorry for your old professor.”
“Nah, just this once. And you’re not old. Next time I’ll bring my A game and you’ll be blushing like a virgin at a porn convention.”
eight
I sat at the bar inside the Say Hey later that afternoon, moping. The pace of the Norris case, if it could be called a case, frustrated me. So far I had already burned nearly three days of the week Stroud had given me by exploring every avenue he had permitted. Hell, I had defied him by approaching Norris and by talking about him with Rebecca Tampini. If Stroud found this out he’d be livid.
“You look like you lost your best friend,” Rubia said.
“It’s not that bad. This case just isn’t going anywhere is all.”
“You mean the one for your ex?”
“As a matter of fact.”
As soon as I said it, my entire perspective shifted. Lionel Stroud may have hired me, may have signed my contract, but in my heart I wanted to solve the puzzle of Andrew Norris for Jill, not her father. Jill had come to me. She had the concerns about a Stroud employee and how it troubled her father. I wanted to satisfy her by nailing the assignment. My motives, I reluctantly admitted, were pure high school. I wanted that base hit with the bases loaded to win the championship game while my girlfriend watched, proud, infatuated and wanting me more than anything. So, yeah, I wanted to impress Jill now for much the same reason. Sad and desperate? Probably. But that wouldn’t stop me.
I got up from the bar and asked Rubia if I could use the back office. Within minutes I made four phone calls. If Stroud found out what I planned he would fire me. If he didn’t find out then I’d have a much better chance of finding out what was going on, perhaps something Stroud would be glad to know. It was worth the chance.
At seven-thirty the next morning I pulled my car into the nearly empty strip mall parking lot on Howe Avenue. I was in and out of Alta Vista printing in five minutes, the order I had called in the day before in hand. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the Burke Building with five minutes to spare.
I hoped the suit would pass muster, not one of the two thousand dollar jobs Lionel Stroud’s charges typically wore. I think the last time I wore it was at Sara’s college graduation dinner. When I stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, Charles Burke, not a phalanx of receptionists and secretaries, stood there to greet me.
“You could have slept in and saved yourself a drive if you had listened to me yesterday on the phone,” Burke said.
He stood cross-armed, dressed impeccably in a blue suit and a yellow tie. Seeing him up close rather than across the restaurant at Lucca, Burke looked older, the skin around his eyes deeply lined and sagging, a ripe candidate for one of those face lifts that seemed all the rage for old, rich white guys.
“Ray Courage,�
� I said, extending my right hand. When Burke ignored my handshake, I reached into my shirt pocket and gave him one of the business cards I’d just picked up from the printer.
He took the card and read it aloud. “Raymond Courage, Quality Control, Lionel Stroud Investments. Like I told you on the phone, I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“It will take only five minutes. As I mentioned, mine is a new position with the firm. Mr. Stroud wants to make sure that all of his client representatives—in your case, Andrew Norris—are providing top quality service. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“No thank you,” Burke said. He handed me back the card, as if keeping it might infect him with an incurable venereal infection.
“Are you satisfied with Mr. Norris’s handling of your account?” I said, persistent bastard that I am.
“Oh, for god sakes!” he said. “Is this about the ‘improprieties’ that Andrew mentioned the other day?”
“I’m sorry? Improprieties?”
“As I told Andrew, I will talk to Lionel Stroud only, not to him and not to you before I decide what I plan to do with my portfolio.”
“What exactly did Andrew tell you?” I said.
“He told me he saw some improprieties in my account, and he advised that I either withdraw my investments from Stroud or meet with Lionel directly to get some clarification. For the past two days I have been pursuing the latter course, thus far to no avail. Now if you would please leave.”
Burke’s face reddened. He looked like a stroke waiting to happen. If I was wearing my communications studies professor hat, I would have identified his non-verbal cues as distressed, his demeanor agitated if not downright hostile. Of course, a ditch digger would have come to the same conclusion so I did not bask in my ability to read Burke’s mood.
“Did he say what kind of improprieties?”
“No, he did not and I do not want to discuss it with you. Since you appear to be an errand boy for Lionel, please tell him this: either he returns my phone calls and we meet face to face or I am going to withdraw my investments with his firm—all $120 million of it. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes it is.” The $120 million got my attention, though I tried not to show it.
Without a good bye, Burke turned and walked away, leaving me holding my own business card. This first part of my plan for the day could not be labeled a success. I’d pissed off Burke, found out little, and almost certainly opened myself to firing once Burke told Stroud about the visit. On the plus side, the brief meeting left me with plenty of time to make it to my next appointment closer to downtown.
Mr. and Mrs. Erik Tyler lived in a neighborhood known as the “Fabulous Forties,” named for the spectacular homes that occupied the streets that ran from 40th Street to 49th Street. Ronald Reagan, during his tenure as California’s governor, lived on either 44th or 45th Street. I’d never seen the actual home but had on occasion cruised both streets in the past to admire the glorious mansions. For all I knew, the Tyler’s home on 45th Street could have been the former president’s residence.
I parked on the street in front of their three-story home, a white-painted brick affair that probably had been built in the early 1900s and looked solid enough still to make it to the next century. A crew of five Mexican gardeners worked the front yard, mowing a sprawling, weed-free lawn and planting a colorful array of flowers in freshly turned beds.
When I rang the doorbell I was not surprised to be greeted with sincere formality by a comely woman in a black dress and white apron. It was an understated uniform but a uniform nonetheless. I lived five miles away and doubted that between this house and mine there were more than three fulltime domestic staffers like this woman. The woman and her uniform told me one thing—the Tylers were old money, lots of old money. She informed me that Mrs. Tyler would join me shortly in the “parlor,” a sun-filled room over-decorated with porcelain gewgaws and ornate paintings of ballerinas and Tahitian landscapes. The room gave me the creeps, like I had time traveled backwards eighty years.
Mrs. Tyler entered a short time later, dressed in a heavy gray suit that my mother’s mother might have worn to President Harding’s inauguration, had she gone to President Harding’s inauguration.
“I take it you are Mr. Courage?” She pronounced my name Cur-aahj, like it was French or something, as she extended a dainty hand. She was mid- to late-seventies, petite with short but stylishly coifed gray hair, and with what could be called a handsome if not pretty face.
“Nice to meet you Mrs. Tyler.” I took her hand, unsure if I should shake it or kiss it. I opted for a light pump and let it go.
“And you are with Lionel’s investment firm?” She did not offer me a seat, tea or crumpets, or any of the other niceties a woman of her refinement might have extended. Instead, we stood in the middle of that creepy parlor, firmly planted in a hundred-year time warp.
“That is correct. As I mentioned on the phone, Mr. Stroud just wanted me to follow up with you to make sure you are receiving the kind of client service you deserve from Mr. Norris.”
“Is Andrew in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. This is simply something we do on a routine basis.”
“My husband and I have been with Lionel for nearly thirty years now and this is the first time we’ve had someone other than Lionel or our account executive contact us.”
“This is a new position,” I said. “Mr. Stroud simply wants to make sure that the service you receive is of the highest order. Are you happy with Stroud Investments?” I withdrew a small notebook and pen from my inside jacket pocket, opened it and prepared to take notes.
“We were until the other day,” she said.
“What happened the other day?”
“My husband and I met with Andrew at his office downtown. He’s usually quite an affable fellow, but not at that meeting. He told us there were improprieties in our account and that we should consider withdrawing our funds or at the very least discuss our investments with Lionel.”
Improprieties. There was that word again. I wrote it down in the notebook. Ray Courage, skilled note taker.
“What else did Mr. Norris say to you?” I said.
“That was the extent of the conversation. It was a very short meeting, frankly.”
“Have you contacted Mr. Stroud about this?” I said.
“My husband is handling that, but he just hasn’t had the time. It’s been only a couple of days and he and I know that Lionel is taking good care of us. He always has.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where is Mr. Tyler this morning? I was hoping to talk to him as well.” I didn’t want to offend her, but talking with her felt like talking to a hologram of someone from some bygone era; maybe just maybe her husband had some connection to the current decade and could provide more insight into the meeting with Norris.
“March is one of the busiest months for Mr. Tyler. We are in the floral trade, as I’m sure you are aware. Third generation. Mr. Tyler’s grandfather, Mr. Gentry Tyler, started here in Sacramento with a small flower shop on 12th Avenue and J Street and grew it into the fourth largest retail business in the state. Mr. Tyler’s father, Gregory Tyler, grew it into the second largest in the state. And my husband—”
“That would be Mr. Tyler, Erik?” I was getting confused by all the Mr. Tylers.
“Yes, that would be correct.” Mrs. Tyler was clearly annoyed at my interrupting her narrative. “Mr. Tyler has in his lifetime grown Tyler Incorporated into the largest retail florist enterprise not only in California but on the entire west coast.”
“So he’s away on business, your husband I mean?”
“Yes, as I said—”
“March is your busiest month. Right. Do you expect him home soon?”
“Oh, dear, I can’t say for certain. I would expect he should return by this weekend. He’s down in Los Angeles negotiating a contract on imported daisies.”
I wanted to learn more about how one could become a multi
-millionaire maybe even a billionaire selling imported daisies but decided it wasn’t relevant.
“Thank you for your time today Mrs. Tyler,” I said. We shared fake smiles and nods before I walked out of the house and back into the 21st century.
nine
I needed to kill an hour and had skipped breakfast before my meetings with Charles Burke and Mrs. Tyler. So, I headed to La Boulanger at Land Park Drive and Sutterville Road for a ham and cheese croissant and cup of coffee. Walking toward the restaurant I saw two large Mastiffs lounging next to their owner, who was reading the newspaper at an outside table. The sight made me want a dog again. It had been almost twelve years since Crimson had died, almost a year to the day after Pam died in that car accident. So long ago that it was hard to believe how strong and how fresh the pain in my heart felt every time I thought of her. She had missed Sara’s middle school and high school years, her little girl growing from child to woman. Then there was the elation when Sara had been accepted to Cal and then UCLA law school. Thirteen years had passed. Thirteen. Jesus.
After breakfast I called Rubia. She put me on hold for a minute, saying she had a protégé with her. That’s what she called the young gangsters she tried to steer straight. She thought protégé sounded more positive and caring than kid, client, or human scum, which is how most of society referred to her clientele.
“Save another life?” I said when she clicked back on the line.
“You have no idea,” she said. “This kid just served his entire sixth grade class marijuana brownies. Said he found the weed in his mom’s cooking cabinet. And I thought I was making progress with him.”
“You can only do what you can do,” I said.
“Profound.”
“I’ll bill you later. I need you to run some names for me.”
“Okay, give them to me.”
“Charles Burke with an “e” on the end. Then there is Eric Tyler and his wife Joanne Tyler.”
“Got it.”
“And there’s one more. Rios. Blake Rios.”
Courage Matters: A Ray Courage Mystery (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 4
