Till The Old Men Die (The Jeri Howard Mystery Series Book 2)

by Janet Dawson

  Rick looped the handles of several of the shopping bags over his arm. Nina and Antonia picked up the rest. I followed them out to the landing, where Rick locked the office door. The four of us went down the stairs and started up the center aisle of the warehouse. As we reached the wide front doors, two old men came into view, followed closely by two young men in suits and sunglasses. The younger pair reminded me of a matched set of bookends, large and bulky. They also looked as though they had shoulder holsters under their jackets and blank eyes behind their shades.

  I was more interested in the first pair of men. Both, dressed in pastel barongs, showed time’s passage in silvered hair and wrinkled brown skin, but one looked diminished by age, bent and gnarled by the years. The other looked as vital as an old tomcat who had fought all the other toms in the neighborhood for his hard-won supremacy and was still capable of winning a scrap. I recognized him from the photographs in Dr. Manibusan’s file. Maximiliano Navarro himself.

  The two older men stood at the warehouse door, talking in low-voiced Tagalog. Max Navarro’s right hand held something that looked like a small white envelope. He pressed it into the other man’s hand, and the friend took it and folded it in half, tucking it into the back pocket of his loose-fitting tan pants. As we approached the two men, Max Navarro’s eyes moved away from his friend and glanced quickly at Nina, Antonia, and me before settling finally on his son.

  “Enrique. A cab for Efren.” Without a word Rick moved to a wall phone just inside the front door and did his father’s bidding. Navarro smiled as he introduced the old man to his wife and his future daughter-in-law. “My dear, this is my cousin Efren. We fought together in the war. Efren, my wife, Antonia, and Enrique’s fiancee, Nina Agoncillo.”

  The old man bowed over Antonia’s hand and murmured a few words in Tagalog, then moved politely into the background. Max Navarro turned to me and smiled, white teeth even in his broad face, and I was struck by the force of his personality.

  “I don’t believe we have met,” he said.

  I started to answer, but Rick was suddenly there beside us, a paler copy of his father. “This is Jeri Howard. A private investigator.” He said the words quickly, as though he were warning his father to guard his tongue.

  “A private investigator,” the elder Navarro repeated, enveloping my hand with both of his. His palms were firm and smooth, and his brown eyes twinkled with humor. “Now, this is a strange occupation for a beautiful young woman.”

  I’m not particularly beautiful, and some days I don’t feel young either. But Max Navarro’s charm was hard to resist, and I could understand why he’d come as far as he had and landed on his feet. I suspect that charm was only part of the package, though. Based on what I knew about him, I had no doubt the sparkle and the smile masked sheer ruthlessness.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But then, your own daughter is a photographer.”

  “A fancy on her part,” he said, dismissing Felice’s aspirations with a shrug. “Someday she’ll settle down. So we indulge her.” Until she comes to her senses, he implied, and becomes a proper wife and mother. “What are you investigating, my dear?”

  “I’m making inquiries about the death of a man named Lito Manibusan,” I said. “A history professor. He was from your home province, Pampanga.”

  Max Navarro looked thoughtful as he released my hand. I was going to ask him a question about his political aspirations, when Rick interrupted. “The cab is here,” he said, appearing at his father’s elbow.

  The elder Navarro turned from me and walked his friend to a Yellow Cab waiting at the curb, its motor running, helping Efren into the vehicle. Then Max handed a couple of bills to the driver, a bearded and turbaned Sikh. As the cab drove off, Max Navarro stood at the curb, flanked by his bodyguards.

  Rick had unlocked the silver Mercedes and was stowing the women’s shopping bags in the trunk. Antonia Navarro opened the door and slid onto one of the leather-upholstered seats. I found Nina Agoncillo standing to one side, a compact in her hand as she patted powder onto her perfect nose.

  “Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Thank you,” she said politely, snapping the compact shut. “Maybe I’ve got it right this time. Rick treats me like a queen.” She tilted her chin upward with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes and pushed a strand of hair away from her face with her left hand. The diamond engagement ring on the third finger winked and flashed, demanding notice.

  “How did you meet Rick?”

  “My brother introduced us. They have some business ventures together. How did you meet Alex?”

  “By chance. I enjoy his company.”

  “Don’t be fooled by my ex-husband’s charm, Miss Howard. It masks a lot of things.”

  “How long were you and Alex married?”

  “Too long.” A corrosive bitterness colored Nina’s words. Part of me understood. It hadn’t been that long since my own divorce. “Six years,” Nina was saying. “Six years of being a navy wife, having to move just when I got settled into a new area. Of course, I should have thought of that before I married him. But it’s easy to get seduced by a fancy uniform and a good line.”

  She sounded as though she was angry with herself for getting seduced at all. I had to admit she was right in that respect. Alex did have a good line and a full battery of charm. “I’m sure Rick has his drawbacks,” I pointed out, looking at her fiancé, who had joined his father at the curb.

  “At least he doesn’t move every two years. Or have a girl in every port.” With these words, Nina’s anger came to the surface, black and sharp and untempered. “Alex was never faithful to me. Not during the whole time we were married. I never looked at another man. And don’t think I didn’t have the opportunity.”

  I was sure she had. She was a beautiful woman. She had probably played the role of a good and faithful wife according to the expectations of culture and society. Alex’s betrayal and the breakup of her marriage still hurt.

  “A girl in every port,” she repeated, giving the words a savage twist. “That’s what people always say about sailors. I don’t think they meant anything to him. After a while I didn’t mind that he was sleeping with women while he was away. It was what he did while he was at home that I minded. Felice was the last straw.”

  “Felice Navarro?” Not a surprise, really. I had seen the way Felice looked at Alex Saturday afternoon at the fiesta.

  “Rick’s sister,” Nina said with a sour smile. “Little Felice. She was Alex’s last affair. That’s why I left him.”

  Thirteen

  DOLORES CRUZ WASN’T AT HER DESK AT THE OAKLAND branch of Mabuhay Travel. That was fine with me. I wanted to talk with Belinda, her officemate. As I walked in, the slender black woman looked me up and down through the lenses of her oversize glasses, remembering me from my last visit.

  “Trip to the Philippines, right? Ms. Cruz isn’t here. May I help you?”

  “Does Dolly spend a lot of time in the office?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Belinda asked, suddenly wary.

  “I’m not really interested in a trip to the Philippines.” I handed her one of my cards. “But I’m interested in Dolores Cruz. When I was in here last week, it seemed to me that you two don’t see eye to eye.”

  She inspected my card carefully, looking at it over the rims of her glasses. Then she tucked it inside her top desk drawer. “Private investigator, huh? Might have known. That bitch is trouble.”

  I looked at the clock. It was past three. “Is she out to lunch?”

  Belinda snorted and shook her head. “She says she’s taking a couple of afternoon classes at Cal State Hayward. To improve herself. Believe me, there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

  So Dolly had been hanging around the university before she made her debut in the role of Dr. Manibusan’s widow. That certainly made her a candidate for some of the things that had been going on in the History Department, like the woman who’d been seen in my father’s office.
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  “How long has she worked here?”

  “Since February. My Valentine’s Day surprise. It’s been the longest three months of my life, and I’ve about had it up to here.” Belinda made a sharp horizontal gesture at the top of her head, indicating that her bullshit threshold had indeed been reached. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “You want some coffee? It’s decaf.”

  I’d already had plenty of coffee, but if the java would lubricate the conversation, I was game for another cup. Belinda was already out of her chair, pouring us a couple of mugs from the pot at the back of the office. “You take anything in it?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, taking the mug she offered. “I gather Dolly’s a pain in the butt.”

  “Lord, you have no idea. She really grinds my gears.” Resentment sharpened in Belinda’s words as she resumed her seat. “I’m supposed to be the office manager. I’m supposed to have some say about hiring and firing. God knows I’ve been here a long time, and I work hard. I’ve complained to Arthur, but he tells me to give Dolly time. But I know what it’s all about. Those Filipinos stick together.”

  “You mean Perlita Randall.”

  “You better believe it.” Belinda grimaced as she took a swallow of coffee. “Dolly is Perlita’s sister. That’s why she gets away with the stuff she does.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’re supposed to be open from ten to six, but Dolly comes and goes as she pleases. In addition to being down at Cal State a couple of afternoons a week — she says — Dolly takes long lunches. She goes shopping, or runs errands, and spends a lot of time on the phone.” Belinda was really warming to the subject now, and her anger came boiling out, as hot as the coffee in our mugs. “That woman doesn’t do a lick of work. I don’t think she knows how. It’s like she’s never held a job before, like she doesn’t understand about regular hours and customer service. I’m the one who keeps this office going. I’m carrying the load, and let me tell you, I’m getting tired of it.”

  “Why don’t you move on? If you’ve got experience, you should be able to find work at another travel agency.”

  “The pay’s good,” Belinda admitted. “In fact, I just got a big raise. And I live around the corner. I can walk to work in ten minutes. My kids’ school is nearby, so they check in on their way home. I guess I got more reasons to stay than I do to leave.”

  “The Randalls must be paying Dolly well. That’s a new car she’s driving, and she lives at the Parkside Towers.”

  “She’s just housesitting,” Belinda said with a laugh. “Arthur’s brother owns that condo and that T-bird. He’s in the military overseas, but he’s coming back this summer, so Dolly will have to shape up and make it on her own. I don’t think she can. She acts like a woman who’s used to having other people take care of her. But Arthur and Perlita will get tired of carrying her.” She shrugged and sipped coffee, a cagey little smile playing on her lips. “I figure I can outlast Dolly. She’s gonna screw up bad sooner or later. Probably sooner. The fact that you’re here asking questions about her is proof of that.”

  Family obligation, then, had provided Dolly with a job, a place to live, and the use of a car, even if it jeopardized the goodwill of an employee like Belinda. But it sounded like the obligation was wearing thin. That wasn’t the only thing worrying the Randalls. I recalled my earlier visit to the Daly City branch of Mabuhay Travel, colored by Perlita’s anxiety and Arthur’s premature assumption that I was an immigration agent.

  I left the travel agency and headed across town to my office. As I took the messages off my answering machine, the door opened. My visitor was about my age, maybe a bit younger, a sleek, pale blonde with the kind of frosty cheerleader perfection I used to hate when I was in high school. Her ice blue suit matched her eyes and her chilly manner. She reached into her shoulder bag, took out a slim leather wallet, and flashed an ID at me.

  “Special Agent Patricia Campbell.” A neutral voice, bland and controlled. “Immigration and Naturalization Service. You’re Jeri Howard?”

  I nodded and sat down at my desk without a word. The ball was in her court, so I let her bat it around some more. After a moment she took one of the chairs facing my desk and crossed one slender leg over another.

  “What do you know about Dolores Cruz?” she asked, hands folded lightly on her knee.

  “Not much. Why?”

  Investigators like to ask questions but they don’t like to answer them. Ms. Campbell was no exception. To be fair, I’m the same. But she was a damned cold character and I thought it would be interesting to see if she had any sparks beneath her exterior.

  “Look, Jeri... May I call you Jeri?”

  “Be my guest, Pat.”

  She hated being called Pat. It made her nostrils flare for a second. But she maintained her cool demeanor.

  “I’m interested in Ms. Cruz,” she said. “Evidently you are, too.”

  “What has Dolores Cruz done to attract the attention of the Immigration and Naturalization Service? Besides the obvious?” She didn’t respond. “Look, if you won’t answer my questions, why do you expect me to answer yours?”

  “I’m on official business.”

  “I’m on business, too. I have a client.”

  We glared at each other, stuck in mutual standoff mode. INS agents don’t have that much clout compared to those from the FBI or DEA. Still, I had nothing to lose by cooperating, up to a point. Why antagonize Immigration when I might instead be able to use it as an ally? Maybe Special Agent Campbell would be more amenable to that sort of arrangement than Sergeant Gonsalves of the Oakland Police Department.

  “If Dolly is illegal, why don’t you just haul her in?” I answered my own question, ticking off the possibilities on my fingers. “Maybe she’s not illegal. But that wouldn’t explain why you’re here. So, she’s illegal but she’s a small fish and you’d like to catch a bigger fish. Jump right in if you want to confirm any of this.”

  She stared a hole through me, a frown on her face. I didn’t think a complete lack of humor was a prerequisite for government service. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and yell, “Lighten up!” Then she surprised me by cracking a smile. At least I think it was a smile. One corner of her mouth curved upward.

  “I received an anonymous tip about Dolores Cruz,” she said. And I bet I knew who had picked up the phone. I’d just finished talking with her. “I started a routine investigation and I spotted you. Several times. I ran a trace on your license plate and a check on your name. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you’re a private investigator.”

  I very nearly laughed at the thought of someone doing to me what I so often did to others. Now that we’d gotten past the “I’m a federal agent” introduction, Patricia Campbell sounded reasonable. It was certainly an improvement over Sergeant Gonsalves and his macho posturing.

  “So Dolly is illegal,” I said.

  The INS agent nodded. “Dolores Cruz entered the United States in late December, right after Christmas, on a tourist visa, and she stayed. Happens all the time. Normally we’d pick her up, send her back to the Philippines, and slap her employer with sanctions. But there’s a ring operating in the Bay Area, providing forged documents to illegals, mostly Asians. I’m sure Dolores Cruz got her papers from them. Also, her sister and brother-in-law operate a travel agency. We find that very often travel agencies are involved in document fraud, so we’re taking a look at the Randalls, too. The point is, Jeri, I’d like to bust this ring. I’ve been after them for over a year. So I won’t get in the middle of your investigation if you won’t screw up mine. Why are you interested in Dolores Cruz?”

  I debated for a moment before answering. “My case may also involve some forged documents,” I said, thinking of the purported marriage certificate. “Dolly claims she’s the widow of a Cal State Hayward professor. He was Filipino-American, a naturalized citizen, and he was murdered last January in San Francisco. The case is unsolved. Dolly says she and the professor were marr
ied last August while he was on a research trip to the Philippines. She has what she claims is a marriage certificate, but so far no one’s been able to get a good look at it. What do you know about Dolly?”

  “Just that she’s Perlita Randall’s sister. Do you think she had something to do with the professor’s murder?”

  “I don’t think she killed him, if that’s what you mean. But she may know who did. Does the name Eduardo Villegas mean anything to you? Otherwise known as Eddie the Knife?”

  She shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “According to one of my contacts at OPD, Villegas is connected to an Asian crime syndicate here in the Bay Area. They’re currently up to something at the Port of Oakland. As for Eddie, I think he’s somehow involved in the Manibusan case. I wonder if his organization’s activities include production and sale of bogus green cards.”

  Patricia Campbell raised one blond eyebrow. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll talk to the Oakland police.”

  “Ask for Sergeant Gonsalves in Theft. He’s the guy with a permanent frown and the winning personality. Maybe he’ll be nicer to you since you have a badge, but I doubt it.”

  “Thanks for that tip, too.” The INS agent smiled and consulted her watch. She stood up, extracting a business card from her handbag. “Keep in touch, Jeri, and I’ll do the same.”

  After Patricia Campbell left, I switched on my computer and wrote detailed notes of my visits to the Daly City and Oakland branches of Mabuhay Travel, and my encounter with Rick Navarro and his father. It took me over an hour, and I read through the notes, editing them and adding my impressions, mentally mapping out tomorrow’s course of action. While I printed out the notes, I dug Felice Navarro’s card out of my bag and called her. She picked up the phone on the first ring and her voice turned enthusiastic when I identified myself.