by Joanne Pence
Rebecca could scarcely believe her eyes as she got out of Richie’s Porsche. Some of the houseboats were beautiful, well kept up, with flower pots and planters lining their docks. Others looked like heaps of rubble that would crumble in a strong wind. All-in-all, it felt more like a dysfunctional Disneyland than a community where real people lived, and where her friend had died.
Karen’s houseboat looked as if it would sink like a stone if it ever ventured out on the bay.
Officer Sherri Grimes, short, white, and baby-faced, met Rebecca and Richie, handed them both gloves, and invited them inside. She appeared nervous and overwhelmed. Rebecca wondered if her most taxing duty before this had been to give tourists directions to the Sausalito ferry.
“Stay outside,” Rebecca said to Richie. She didn’t want him accidentally contaminating the crime scene even if Officer Grimes didn’t seem to care about it. She also asked for booties for her shoes.
Grimes had to be a rookie, Rebecca thought, for allowing outsiders to enter a crime scene. She wasn’t about to object, but she wondered why anyone so green had been left in charge.
Rebecca stepped into the main room. The first thing she saw was a marker in the middle of the floor where Karen had been found, and dried blood around it. Her stomach clenched. She had seen hundreds of crime scenes, but this one hit her hard.
The walls were filled with photos of Karen with a baby. Rebecca had no idea her old friend had given birth. In the most recent photos, the girl looked about two years old. Karen hadn’t changed much at all. She still wore her dark blonde hair in a pixie cut. On the job, she would comb it back in what was an almost manly style, but when she dressed up, she would form it into bangs and fringes, and would also wear big, dangling, colorful earrings. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she had strong features and a friendly, pleasant demeanor.
Rebecca continued to study the photographs. Several were of a young man Rebecca had met years ago. He had a wide, square-shaped face, and broad shoulders. His hair was brown, straight, and even though he was young, it was already thinning.
She remembered joining Karen for drinks one evening after their shifts ended, and he came by to pick up Karen for a dinner-and-movie date. Karen had met him only a week or two earlier, but she was already half in love. As Rebecca recalled, he was a college student from Russia or somewhere near there.
Karen only mentioned him a couple of times after that and then stopped. Rebecca assumed the relationship had ended. Obviously, she had been wrong.
“Do you know his name?” Rebecca asked, pointing at the man in the photo.
“Yuri Baranski. The neighbors say he lived here with her.”
Friends shouldn’t be part of a homicide investigation, Rebecca thought, but coming here, seeing photos of Karen, of her child, made her want to know, more than ever, why Karen had been killed, and to be sure someone paid for the murder.
Grimes took out a notebook and pen, and then asked Rebecca to tell her all she knew about Karen Larkin. Rebecca gave all the information she could, but as she did, she walked through the houseboat, with Grimes following behind. Off of the small, square main room were a galley kitchen and two bedrooms. The smaller one contained a baby’s crib. Up a narrow staircase she found the only special area in the houseboat—a tiny roof deck and sitting room with windows on all four sides. Throughout the houseboat, the furniture was uniformly worn and shabby.
“Do you have a time of death?” Rebecca asked. She stood on the outside deck facing Grimes.
“The Marin County coroner estimates between nine and eleven last night,” Grimes said.
“I heard she was shot,” Rebecca said.
“Three shots struck, close range.” Grimes swallowed hard. “Probably with a silencer since no one heard any gunfire.”
Rebecca nodded. This houseboat had thin walls, and the neighbors were nearby. A silencer usually meant premeditation, and three shots … someone wanted to be sure Karen died.
They went back downstairs.
“How was she dressed?” Rebecca asked, in the main room once more. “Bed clothes, street clothes?”
“Actually, she was dressed quite nicely. Black sheath, high heels.”
Rebecca looked at the photos again. “Have you questioned that man—Yuri Baranski?”
Grimes shook her head. “We can’t find him. The child is also missing.”
Not good, Rebecca thought, immediately putting him in the prime suspect category. She asked Grimes to send her photos of Karen, Yuri, and the baby, and said she would like to help in the search for Yuri Baranski.
Grimes agreed. She also said the baby’s name was Nina, and that Karen and the baby were receiving welfare and food stamps.
“Do you have Karen’s cell phone?” she asked.
“Yes, but there’s nothing on it.” Grimes showed her an old Nokia. “It was plugged in, but covered with other stuff, as if pretty much forgotten. I nearly jumped out of my skin when it started to ring with your call. A newer cell phone, however, isn’t anywhere in the house, but then, neither is a land line. If a person can have a land-line on a houseboat, that is.” She looked around wide-eyed, as if fearful the place might suddenly sink.
“Any leads at all?” Rebecca asked.
“Since the boyfriend is missing, and we suspect he took the child, he’s our main suspect. We also found some stolen jewelry under her mattress. We’ve had a number of jewelry thefts around here recently, as well as in Tiburon, and even Belvedere,” Grimes said, naming two of the most affluent towns in the country, both located on San Francisco Bay north of Sausalito. “The jewels that were found matched the description of those taken from the latest heist. We called the owner and she positively identified them.”
“You think Karen was involved with jewel thieves?” Rebecca could scarcely believe anyone would consider such a thing.
“We suspect the boyfriend was involved, and that the victim found out he was a thief and that’s why he killed her. At least, that’s Detective Wong’s theory. He’s the one in charge of the case, Detective Larry Wong.”
“Where is he?”
“Out somewhere investigating, I think.”
Rebecca nodded. “Does Detective Wong have any evidence that the boyfriend was a jewel thief?”
“Only that the jewels are here. I mean, the victim was on welfare. It’s easy to imagine the boyfriend stealing jewels to get some money,” Grimes said with a grimace.
Rebecca thanked Grimes for working on solving her friend’s murder and then she left the houseboat and joined Richie.
As she and Richie walked back to his Porsche, she eyed the neighboring houseboats. She would love to question the residents about the night Karen was killed, but knew the Sausalito PD would be unhappy about that. Maybe she’d talk to them later, after she caught up with the detective in charge and explained that she had been trained in homicide investigations.
Near the car, Rebecca saw a woman standing by a cart filled with cut flowers. The woman looked like a cross between a gypsy and an old-time hippie whose time had long passed. A floral scarf completely covered her hair and formed a knot behind one ear. She wore a long multi-colored skirt and a purple caftan top with a dark red sash at the waist. Many rows of silver jewelry were around her neck, and each finger had a silver ring. The only thing out of sync with the look were over-sized, dark sunglasses.
She didn’t speak, but lifted a rose towards Rebecca, as if offering it to her. It was dark red, the color of blood.
Rebecca shuddered, shook her head and hurried on, Richie at her side.
CHAPTER 3
Richie drove Rebecca back to Homicide. As she got out of the car, he asked, “If I call you later to see how you’re doing, will you answer the phone?”
She smiled. “I will, and thank you for going to Sausalito with me. I appreciate it.”
“Maybe someday we’ll go under better circumstances.”
She replied with a non-committal, “You never know.”
“That’s a
firm maybe if I ever heard one. But I’ll take it.”
Instead of going home, she returned to her desk and ran some background checks on Karen Larkin and Yuri Baranski. She learned nothing new about Karen, and Yuri’s information was non-existent from the time he quit attending San Francisco State. Rebecca had encountered that sort of thing before when investigating someone who had entered the country on a student visa and stayed after it expired. She expected that to be Yuri’s story as well.
So what had happened? And if Yuri had killed Karen, why?
A quick check of the time caused Rebecca to hurry home for her second date with a pharmacist she met at her local Walgreen’s. He was a nice fellow, quiet, and a bit awe-struck that she was a cop. They went to see a new action film, Spiderman number heaven-only-knows. She paid little attention to it, but kept thinking about Karen and old times. Her date held her interest even less than the movie.
Later that evening, she had just unlocked the door to the breezeway that led to her garden apartment, and was debating whether she should invite the pharmacist inside or not, when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.
Richie.
“Good night, Brendon,” she said giving him a quick kiss. “It was fun.”
He gaped with disappointment as she waved good-bye and shut the breezeway door. The look on his face told her he realized a third date was not inevitable—unlike yet another Spiderman sequel.
As she walked through the breezeway to a yard with a few potted plants and a seating area, she answered the call.
“Is it really you?” Richie asked.
“I promised I’d answer. Besides, if I didn’t and you stormed over here the way you did into Homicide, I’d be evicted.”
“So now I get criticized for having been worried?”
“Okay, that was nice of you,” she admitted.
“I was thinking about you tonight,” he said. “Wondering how you’re doing.” His voice was low and smooth as butter. It had always gotten to her.
“I’m fine.”
“Want company?”
She had to do a lot of spine-stiffening to reply, “No.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Worry not.”
“How about—”
“Good bye, Richie.”
“I get the message. Bye … for now.”
She hung up and continued to her apartment. Despite shaking her head at his call, she also couldn’t help but smile.
o0o
From the moment she awoke Saturday morning, she couldn’t get Karen out of her mind. She phoned Officer Grimes and asked if Yuri Baranski had been found yet.
He hadn’t.
Yuri was the key. She knew it.
Rebecca had met a few people in San Francisco’s Russian community while she was a patrol officer, and called them to ask about Yuri Baranski. None could help her.
Enough! she told herself. It wasn’t her case; it wasn’t her jurisdiction.
Time to think of other things, like that evening’s get-together. Her friend, Kiki Nuñez, whose flat was above Rebecca’s tiny apartment, was throwing an open house for the best customers of her ritzy, downtown spa, and she also invited Rebecca who could barely afford a pedicure at the place.
Rebecca preferred not to go, but Kiki insisted she attend to meet the handsome new masseuse she had just hired. Kiki swore she would fall madly in love with him. Rebecca doubted it, but it was easier to go along with Kiki than to argue. Kiki was a force of nature, with a personality as big as her hair, which she wore in loopy waves falling half-way down her back.
But then, Rebecca thought, why not check the masseuse out? He might be great … or rub her the wrong way.
As the day wore on, not even thoughts of meeting a supposedly irresistible masseuse could stop her from obsessing over her friend’s murder, and how shoddily Officer Grimes was handling the crime scene. Finally, she got into her Ford Explorer and drove out to the Richmond area where she and Karen had worked together.
The area had a large Russian community centered around the Russian Orthodox Holy Virgin Cathedral with its five onion-shaped domes covered in bright twenty-four carat gold leaf. The first wave of Russian people to come to San Francisco were mostly Russian Orthodox who fled the Lenin-Stalin Communist takeover in the early twentieth century. After the break-up of the USSR, another wave of Russians moved there in the early 1990’s.
Rebecca drove up and down the streets, remembering good times and bad out there.
As she drove along Geary, she noticed the Golden Gate Garage, located on the corner of Stanyan and Geary.
And that was what caused her to remember …
Karen had told her about Yuri finding a job as an auto mechanic at the shop. When Rebecca heard it was on Stanyan Street, she confessed that, as a young woman in Idaho, Rod McKuen’s book of poetry, Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows, was one of the reasons she decided to move to San Francisco.
Karen had howled with laughter. At the time, Rebecca didn’t know why, but she had since met a number of people, men in particular, who scoffed at “Stanyan Street”—at most of McKuen’s emotional poetry, in fact—but she didn’t care. She loved his work, and still did. She had wept real tears at the love lost in that poem, and cared not a whit what others thought of it.
She spun around the block, headed back to Stanyan Street, then parked and walked to the garage. She hoped someone in the shop might be able to give her Yuri’s whereabouts. For all she knew, he might still work there.
The customer area inspired no confidence. Run-down, with grimy walls and gray-blue paint worn away around windows and doors, it had ancient beer and cigarette posters on the walls, along with a forgotten 2003 calendar of scantily clad models.
She stood at a small wooden counter and rang the bell that sat atop it. A young man came out of the back and looked surprised to see her. She showed her badge and asked to speak to the owner. The owner wasn’t available but the manager, Fedor Vasiliev, was.
Vasiliev, husky, medium height, with broad shoulders and a bear-like stance, came out of the back room. He left the door open behind him. “You are Homicide?” he barked, his Russian accent thick.
“That’s right.” She gave her name and showed her badge. “I’m looking for Yuri Baranski. Is he here today?” She had learned it was best to ask people specific questions as if you already knew something, even when you didn’t.
Surprise flickered in Vasiliev’s eyes, but he quickly looked down. When he lifted his gaze to her again, it was placid. “I don’t know who you talk about.”
Something about this place caused her cop instincts to go into overdrive. “It’s my understanding Baranski works for you, or once did.” She moved closer to the door, curious about the shop area. “I simply need to know how to reach him.”
“Sometimes we bring in strangers to wash the cars when we have too much other work,” Vasiliev said, his tone harsh and cold. “We pay them little, in cash, for each car. It means nothing.”
“I know what Baranski looks like. Maybe if I take a look …” She strode straight into the shop.
Several men were in the shop. One Mercedes and one Lexus were up on hydraulic lifts, and through the open garage doors in the back, she saw more high-end cars. She wasn’t sure why, but two words came to mind. “Chop” and “shop.” She took a step back. On the wall beside the door were a coffee urn plus cups, sugar and dry creamer packets on it. Snapshots of women and children had been thumbtacked to the wall over it. With a shock, she saw that one of the photos was of Karen and her daughter.
Three men wearing grease-stained shirts and jeans hurried from around the shop to stand in front of her. They were bruisers, and all stood in a similar pose, feet spread, beefy arms at their sides with their hands crossed in front of their groins, much like the stance of Secret Service men guarding a president.
She stiffened. “Well, thank you,” she said with a lilt in her voice as she returned to the customer area. “You’re surely working on expensive
cars, Mr. Vasiliev. You must do good work here.”
Vasiliev stared hard at her. “This is San Francisco. They are what people here drive.”
She nodded and gave him her card, then kept her eyes on his goons as she backed towards the exit. “If you think of anything about Yuri Baranski, please call.”
“Yes.” He glanced down at the card she gave him. “Inspector Rebecca Mayfield.” He pronounced her name slowly and distinctly, reminding her of Boris in the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of her youth. Only he wasn’t half so funny. “I will be sure to contact you,” he added.
She left the garage and hurried to her car. If she ever had to go back there, it wouldn’t be alone.
o0o
Rebecca got into her car, moved it to a driveway where she could see Golden Gate Garage’s main entrance and side door. She had a camera with a telephoto lens. The staff seemed to use the side door, rather than the front. Oddly, she saw no customers enter or exit the business entrance.
Whenever she saw someone leave the building, she took his photo.
It was ironic that after almost ten years in the city, she now sat on the Stanyan Street of reality, not romantic idealism, watching for a man who might be a murderer.
Her phone rang. Richie’s name showed up in the caller ID. She dismissed the call.
To her dismay, many of the men leaving the garage wore baseball caps. She wasn’t sure she would recognize Yuri in one.
Five minutes later, Richie called again with the same result.
Something about one man leaving the shop caused her to take notice of him, and she snapped a raft of photos before he turned down Stanyan, his back to her.
She started her car, gunned the engine since the light up ahead was yellow, and zipped across Geary. She stopped in the middle of the block, and rolled down her passenger side window. “Yuri! Wait!”
