Courage Matters: A Ray Courage Mystery (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 2)

by R. Scott Mackey

The waitress came and we ordered. Jill chose the roasted chicken that came with a roasted sundried tomato and seared herbed polenta. I opted for a wedge salad and seafood risotto. I also ordered another round of drinks.

  “This last week I’ve only seen you drinking beer,” Jill said. “You used to drink the harder stuff.”

  “I did. I drank it like water there for a few months after… after we broke up. Beer, on the other hand, I can only drink two or three and I’m full. Figured that was better for me.”

  “It seems to be working,” she said. “You look good.”

  “Aw, shucks.”

  “You’re actually blushing.”

  “Don’t make it worse,” I said.

  “There’s something that I really need to know, Ray. It’s been bothering me for a long time.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. Her tone sounded ominous so I took a drink of the beer to prepare for what she might say.

  “Did our break up have anything to do with you leaving your teaching job?”

  “Absolutely not. Why would you ask that?”

  “I don’t know. The sexual harassment thing was a big deal. I get that, but I wouldn’t have thought that by itself would have caused you to quit.”

  I thought about that for a few seconds before I spoke. “I guess I don’t really know how to put our break up into the context of my quitting. To be honest with you, that year and half period starting with us breaking up was tough. The break up caused me to do some soul-searching, yes. I decided I wasn’t as happy teaching as I used to be, like I told you before. But until the accusations happened I never thought of quitting.”

  She looked at me to gauge my sincerity. I looked back at her, our eyes connecting in a way they had not in years. I smiled at her and she returned the gesture.

  “I want to apologize for the way things ended with us, Ray.”

  “You already apologized the other day and it was unnecessary.”

  “I apologized for saying you needed to get over Pam. That’s different. The way I handled our break up… let’s just say it wasn’t me at my best. I started most of the fights we had. When I look back on it I think I was scared. Scared that we were getting too close. I regret that now.”

  “What are you saying?” I said.

  “Do you think we could give it another try?”

  twenty-six

  We did give it another try. Boy did we. When I awoke the next morning in Jill’s bed my first thoughts were, for the first time in days, not of Andrew Norris, Craig Ziebell or Lionel Stroud. After showering, we shared a light breakfast of toast, orange juice and coffee. When I walked out of the house into a fresh spring day at seven that morning I felt recharged, and I caught myself whistling an inane show tune as I started my car. My newfound good mood would last all of about sixty seconds.

  Directly across the street from Sacramento State University, Jill’s River Park neighborhood was a middle class enclave nestled into a bend in the American River, which hugged three sides of the neighborhood, leaving room for only two roads in and one road out. This made it easy for my new friend in the white Honda Accord to accompany me yet again as he pulled behind me a few blocks after I left Jill’s house.

  I drove straight out Carlson Drive across J Street onto campus to see if the driver would continue his obvious tail on college streets sparsely populated at such an early hour. Unlike two days before when the car carefully kept its distance, now the Accord followed just a few feet behind my car, mirroring my every turn. Even at this close distance I could not make the driver, the front window tinted enough to prevent a look inside. They had also removed the front license plate preventing me from later running a DMV trace.

  Eventually, I looped back to J Street, turned right and continued as J became Fair Oaks Boulevard. After about a mile I turned left into the parking lot at Loehmann’s Plaza, home to a SaveMart, Noah’s Bagel, Java City and a dozen other businesses. Java City and Noah’s did a good early morning business with at least twenty cars parked in the lot.

  The tail was clearly an intimidation tactic, but I figured Trujillo would play everything mostly by the book. Just to be safe, however, I chose the public parking lot populated by upstanding citizens on their way to work or school. I hoped this would ensure a civil conversation with the detective or whoever he had employed to follow me. I pulled into a parking place near Java City. I had no sooner exited my car, when the Accord pulled into the space next to my driver’s side door.

  A man opened the Accord’s passenger side door. Not Trujillo. This guy was taller, heavier and younger than I, with a thick black goatee and curly black hair that fell almost to his shoulders. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans. The driver got out from the other side of the car and joined us. Though not as tall as Leather Jacket, he was stouter and older, maybe thirty-five or forty. Both men appeared to be Hispanic.

  “Do you have a minute?” the shorter man said, approaching to within a couple of feet. His companion stood just behind him, glaring at me, arms crossed.

  “I thought you would never get here,” I said. “I’ve been dying for a cup of coffee. Care to join me?”

  The stout man spit, a big fat loogie that landed with a splat between us.

  “Gross,” I said. “Do you have a cold? It looks like you might have some excessive phlegm in your system. I like Robitussen. Have you tried Robitussen? It might just help.”

  He spit again then wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Are you working for Trujillo?” I asked. Might as well try the direct approach since good-natured banter didn’t appear to charm him.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve been following me for a couple of days,” I said. “I want to know why.”

  The big buy started at me, but the spitter put out his arm to stop him. “Hold on a minute, Hector.”

  “I asked you why you have been following me?”

  “I think you know,” he said.

  “I think you have a lot of nerve. What’s your name? I want to see some ID.”

  “You can call me Angel.” He did not offer to shake my hand with the introduction. Nor did he pull out any identification.

  “And that’s your man Hector?” I said indicating the big guy.

  “Nothing gets by you,” Angel said.

  “And you’ve been assigned to do what? Keep an eye on me? Follow me wherever I go and report back to Trujillo?”

  Angel didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink.

  “Look, I need you to tell Trujillo that I understand that he has a job to do and I am not trying to interfere with his investigation. But harassing me every time I drive down the street is getting a little old and I’m tired of it.”

  “You should stay out of the way, then,” he said.

  “If he wants to charge me, then he should just go ahead and do it. But this constant harassment is just not acceptable.”

  That got a laugh out of Angel, which in turn made Hector smile. Nice to see that I could work an audience.

  “Harassment?” Angel said. “You don’t even know what harassment is.”

  “According to the dictionary, harassment is aggressive pressure or intimidation to—”

  “Shut up!” Angel said. “You are making life harder for everyone. You are making my life harder. You are making Hector’s life harder. Why don’t you just back off?”

  “You know,” I said. “You’ve been doing all the talking. Maybe Hector would like to join the conversation. I think you probably always exclude him and it’s hurting his self-esteem. Am I right Hector?”

  Hector re-crossed his arms, the smile falling to a frown.

  “You are a funny guy,” Angel said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He started to say something, stopped, then exchanged a look with Hector.

  “I didn’t come over this morning to engage you in a conversation,” he said. “We have talked too long already.”

  I didn’t like the sound
of that so I slid as subtly as possible towards the rear of my car, hoping to create some space between me and the two men, especially Hector. If this turned physical, they had the advantage in numbers and size. My best shot would be to deliver a blow to Angel, the closer and smaller of the two, before making an honorable retreat to safety. A quick scan of the parking lot told me we were now pretty much alone.

  “The purpose of my visit this morning is to deliver for the last time one message,” Angel said. He detected my movement away from him and slid closer than before. “You need to drop this whole thing. Quit talking to Lionel Stroud’s clients, quit talking to Lionel Stroud and quit showing up at places where people get killed.”

  “Or?” I said.

  “Or you’re the next guy turns up dead.”

  He might as well have hit me in the stomach. The cops could lean on me, follow me, threaten to put me in jail—all legitimate tools at their disposal. But threaten to kill me?

  “Who are you?” I said.

  Angel did punch me in the stomach then, a surprisingly strong shot that knocked the wind out of me. Staggered by the blow, I fell back onto the side of my car. He grabbed the lapels of my jacket and started to spin me towards Hector. I jerked up my arms and broke his grip and shoved him hard against his car. Dropping to the ground, I swept his legs out from under him with my right leg, before climbing to my feet and kicking him in the groin.

  I’d no sooner delivered the blow, when Hector was on me, catching me with a right cross to the side of my forehead that bounced me off my car and to the ground. I was able to get to my hands and knees but no farther. Hector’s first kick lifted me off the ground and sent a shot of pain that coursed from my gut to my spine. He kicked me several more times, leaving me writhing on the concrete.

  “You’ve been warned for the last time.” It was Angel’s voice, though I could not see him as I lay there, curled into a pitiful ball, eyes closed, waiting for the pain to dissipate. I started to speak, but there was no air in my lungs with which to form a single sound.

  As a final indignity one of them spat at me, the projectile landing on my cheek. A few seconds later I heard car doors slam and then Angel said, “Have a nice day” just before they drove off. I opened one eye as they peeled away and caught sight of the rear license plate. With my vision blurred and the car speeding away all I could make out were the first four digits: 6CUZ.

  twenty-seven

  I explored my ribs and the side of my head with my fingertips and assessed the reflection in my bathroom mirror. The bruising had not yet begun, though soon enough I knew my chest and temple would be a canvas of black and blue. Near as I could tell nothing had been broken. I worried more about how much Trujillo had dialed up the pressure and I wondered why. Heeding his warning didn’t feel right. I would need to be careful as I went forward. But forward I would go.

  I shaved, showered and changed into a pair of dark blue khakis and a maroon-striped dress shirt from Nordstrom that Jill had given me a couple of years before. I remembered that as I buttoned up the shirt and it made me smile, glad that I had kept the shirt after all. Some people after a break up toss everything that reminded them of the ex, including gifts. I’d thrown out the photo of her I kept on my desk at work, and one that I had of her on the mantle. But the gifts? Nah, I kept them. I wasn’t sure if that was because I was cheap, practical or sentimental. I would like to have said that I saved what she had given me because I knew one day we would get back together, but that wouldn’t be true.

  I brewed some coffee, poured myself a cup then went to the computer. I Googled Samantha Cleary to learn that she no longer worked in the District Attorney’s Office, resigning to become a criminal defense attorney five years before, according to her profile on the Website for Slater, Nunez and Schmidt, a law firm where she now worked as a senior partner. The efficient, if not entirely friendly, secretary who took my call informed me, after considerable prompting, that Ms. Cleary was due in court at 10:15 that morning.

  I arrived at the County Courthouse on 9th Street just after ten, parked illegally in the jury parking lot and jogged to the entrance of the building only to endure the long line of jurors, lawyers, employees, witnesses, cops, defendants and court gawkers waiting to pass through the metal detectors. I walked quickly through the second-floor hallway lined with jurors awaiting entry to the Ninth Department courtroom, spotting Cleary, who I recognized from the photo that accompanied her online profile.

  “Ms. Cleary,” I said as she was opening the door to enter the courtroom.

  “Yes,” she said, looking me up and down.

  “If you don’t mind I need a minute of your time.”

  “I’m sorry I’m due in court right this minute. It will have to wait.”

  “It’s important.”

  She must have noticed that the side of my face had swollen because she held her gaze there a second. My injury didn’t inspire her compassion. If anything it might have alarmed her because she moved the briefcase she was carrying at her side to the front, between us.

  “It’s about Craig Ziebell,” I said.

  That caught her interest. She looked into the courtroom. Apparently satisfied that she had a few seconds to talk, she released the door, and we moved a few feet away.

  “Terrible about what happened to him,” she said. “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” I pulled out my wallet and showed her my PI identification. “I’m working on a corollary aspect of the case and need your help.”

  “Corollary? What does that mean?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. It was some business Ziebell had going with a client of mine.”

  She checked her wristwatch before setting down the thick briefcase. About fifty, she looked fit for her age and dressed impeccably in dark blue suit pants and a matching blazer over an open-collared white blouse. Simple and classy.

  “I really do have to go inside soon,” she said. “As soon as the prosecutor arrives we need to start pre-trial motions.” She looked over my shoulder to see if the prosecutor might be coming at that second.

  “You prosecuted Ziebell. About ten years ago in a financial scam, right?”

  “We didn’t go to trial.”

  “But you handled the case. Why did you decide to drop the charges?”

  “It was very simple. Mr. Ziebell paid back all the investors. They didn’t earn the fabulous returns that he had promised them, but he gave back every cent they gave him.”

  “I’m confused. If he had the money then why did the investors accuse him of ripping them off?”

  “Because he intended to. Ziebell was a crook, make no mistake about that. In a very real sense he got lucky that someone blew the whistle on him when they did. If he’d run the scam another six months or so he probably would have been so far gone that he couldn’t have bailed himself out.”

  “What do you mean?” I wasn’t following her explanation.

  “Ziebell had big plans. He started this scam by holding several seminars offering a ‘select group of investors’ the opportunity to invest in what he called a futures hedge fund. He had this very creative PowerPoint presentation that supposedly explained it all. So he netted a couple of dozen relatively small time investors, people with a few thousand dollars to invest. I think one or two people invested close to a hundred thousand, but it was mainly smaller investors.”

  “It added up to $750,000, right?” I said, recalling the Sacramento Bee article.

  “That’s about right. So a friend of one of these investors thought the whole futures hedge fund thing sounded too good to be true. He looked at the prospectus that Ziebell had given his friend, thought it looked like a scam and called the District Attorney.”

  Two men in business suits and fat briefcases like Cleary’s walked toward us. One of them nodded at her in greeting.

  “Listen, I really have to go into court now,” she said.

  “Just one second, please. If it was a scam then how did
he pay everyone back?”

  “The short answer is that it never got big enough. In a Ponzi scheme the idea is that you keep luring more and more investors. The scammer keeps most of the money, saving a little bit of cash to pay some of the earlier investors who may want to withdraw a portion of their earnings. You know, so they don’t get suspicious. In Ziebell’s case he never got far enough along. He just started rolling when someone blew the whistle on him. Too bad. I really wanted to bust him. He was a scumbag, god rest his soul.”

  “So he didn’t spend the money they gave him and he was able to give it back?”

  “Pretty much like that,” she said. “He actually had blown about half of it on two new cars, a boat, a condo in Tahoe, stuff like that. But he was able to sell most of what he bought along with his primary residence to raise enough money to pay everyone back. The investors wanted their money back and agreed to drop charges if he paid them. It almost bankrupted him, but it kept him out of jail.”

  “Sounds like he wasn’t a very good crook.”

  “Oh, no. He was very good at what he was doing. If he hadn’t been caught early on like he was then I believe he would have jilted hundreds of people out of their life savings. There was a sleaze factor to him but he could be very convincing. Even when we interrogated him he sounded very credible. It wasn’t until our auditors went through his books and revealed that the whole thing was a con did he finally crumble. Now really, I have to go.”

  I thanked her for her time. She picked up her briefcase and started to the courtroom door, stopping just before she opened it.

  “The only thing that has surprised me since we dropped that case is that Ziebell never tried another scam,” she said. “He seemed like the kind of guy who was always looking for an easy buck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up to something and someone shot him because of it.”

  twenty-eight

  “What the hell happened to you?” Rubia said, before she could even settle into the passenger seat of my car.

  I filled her in on my run-in with the two goons earlier that morning, perhaps embellishing the part about my showing Angel a thing or two about messing with me.