by Janet Dawson
Between Tarcher, Nancy Fong, and David Vanitzky, the pincers were moving closer. My tenure as a temp at Bates was short-lived.
Thirty
I HEADED FOR MY FRANKLIN STREET OFFICE, INTENDING to put in an hour or so on my investigative chores before going home to my cats. I was unlocking my office door when Ruby Woods appeared, coming through the door that led to Woods Temporaries.
“I thought that might be you,” she said, her face serious. “We need to talk.”
“What about?” I held the door for her, then flicked on the overhead light. My answering machine blinked red at me in rapid succession. Ruby sat down in the chair in front of my desk, and I took my own chair, leaning back. “What happened? Did Laverne come through with information on Charlie Kellerman and Leon Gomes?”
“Yeah, she did. But first, I got a call this afternoon from someone at Bates, asking for information on your background.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my desk. “Who called you?”
“A woman named Nancy Fong.”
I’d been expecting to hear Tarcher’s name. But I wasn’t surprised to learn that it was Nancy. I wondered if she’d caught a glimpse of me at Rob’s funeral service, despite the hat that I’d hidden behind.
“What did she ask?”
“The usual things,” Ruby said. “She wanted to know where you worked before, and whether you had any references. I gave her the story we agreed on. But, Jeri, I’m concerned. Tomorrow is Laverne’s last day, so I won’t have any contacts over there. Granted, Bates is discontinuing its business relationship with my firm at the end of the month. But if things get sticky, I could wind up with a black eye. What will we do? Or do we need to do anything?”
“I don’t know,” I told her, and at that moment, I didn’t. “Let me mull it over while you tell me what Laverne found out. By the way, see if she can get a home phone number for a man named Al Dominici. He retired from Bates in March.”
“Okay. As for Charles Kellerman, I’ve got the details right here.” Ruby pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolded it. “He used to work in the Bates production department.”
“Nolan Ward’s department,” I added. And Dominici’s. Somehow it all fit, but not as tightly as it should have. Had Rob known Charlie from work? It was probable, but I couldn’t ask either of them. Rob was dead, and Charlie wasn’t talking. “What did Charlie do in production?”
“Procurement. Something to do with buying fruits and vegetables for the Bates Best label. But Kellerman’s an alcoholic, big time. He was fired in April, five months ago. Laverne said he’d been given three warnings over a period of about eighteen months. The booze was affecting his job performance so much that the company finally offered to put him into an alcohol rehab program, which was covered by his health insurance. But Kellerman refused. So they terminated him. Not much else they could do.”
“I suppose not. No severance package, I suppose.”
Ruby shook her head. “Not when he was fired under those circumstances.”
“So how does a guy like Kellerman pay his rent?”
“According to Laverne, he’s living off whatever savings he had, plus some support from a brother. But that’s it.”
Unless Charlie was augmenting his income with a little blackmail.
That was as good a reason as any for Charlie’s reticence about what he’d seen and heard the night Rob went headfirst out his apartment window. That was why Charlie had the kind of money to buy the expensive booze instead of the rotgut he usually drank. And I had a pretty good idea who he was putting the touch on.
Alex was the Bates attorney who handled employment matters. No doubt he’d been consulted on a regular basis regarding the separation of Charlie Kellerman from his job. But Patricia was constantly in meetings with Ward, usually in his office in production. So Charlie must know who she was. Surely he’d seen her, time and again, on the second floor of the Bates building.
That was why he’d called her this afternoon, leaving her in a state of panic and worry. He’d seen her again, quite recently, and he’d recognized her. I was left with only one conclusion as to where he’d seen her. Patricia had been at Rob’s apartment the night he died.
I left off speculating why Patricia had been there, and turned my attention to the other person I had doubts about. “What did Laverne say about Leon Gomes?”
“He’s worked for Bates eleven years,” Ruby said. “Started out in the plant that makes crackers and cookies, then moved to the dairy plant in Oakland. Good track record, evidently. He was recently promoted to plant manager.”
“How recently?”
Ruby consulted the paper. “Since May. A little over four months.”
“So Leon works for production, too. And Ward signed off on his promotion. Where did Leon work before he came to Bates?”
“A small company in the Los Angeles area.” Ruby handed the paper to me. “Here’s the name. That’s all Laverne was able to get from his employee file.”
I could do some trolling on the Internet to find out more about the company. In the meantime, I had other things to worry about. If Patricia told Nancy about catching me in the hall tonight, the jig was most definitely up. I wasn’t sure I wanted to face either of them Friday morning. I needed more time to continue my undercover stint as a temp at Bates. There must be a way to forestall any confrontation over my cover story.
Suddenly I thought of all those articles I’d been finding in Rob’s files, about foodborne illnesses. I leaned back in my chair and grinned at Ruby.
“I’m going to get food poisoning tonight. Something I’ll eat for dinner won’t agree with me. I’ll be so sick, I’ll wind up in the Kaiser emergency room.”
“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” she said slowly. “I’m supposed to call Bates and tell them you’re sick.”
I nodded. “Call sometime around nine o’clock, after the workday has started and the people in legal are wondering why I haven’t shown up. I need a day to follow up on a lead. This is the first thing that comes to mind, and I think it will work. If I’m lucky, I’ll still have that temp job come Monday morning. And if I’m even luckier, I’ll have figured out what’s going on over at Bates.”
“If you’re not lucky, we’ll both be out of business. I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a good idea after all.” Ruby got to her feet and headed for her own office.
I grabbed the phone directory from the shelf behind my desk. It was too late to call my travel agent, but I could buy my ticket direct from the airline. I punched in the appropriate number and was surprised when I got a real person instead of a recording.
“When’s the first available flight to El Paso?” I asked.
Thirty-one
THE FIRST AVAILABLE FLIGHT TO EL PASO ON FRIDAY went through Phoenix. The departure time left me wincing. Six-thirty in the morning, which meant I needed to be at the Oakland airport by five-thirty. Ouch.
I called Cassie and asked her to feed Abigail and Black Bart during my absence. That done, I played back the messages on my answering machine, returned phone calls, rescheduled a couple of appointments. I logged onto my computer and queried one of the databases I used about the firm where Leon Gomes used to work. Then I headed home to pack.
Some twelve hours later, I was on a jet heading southeast, for the city known to the Spanish conquistadors as El Paso del Norte, the pass leading to the north. As I picked my way, less than enthusiastically, through an airline breakfast, I contemplated my next move. The first order of business was a look at that property in El Paso that Bates had been negotiating to buy.
According to that fax I’d read about Project Rio, the parcel was located on Executive Center Boulevard. I’d guessed, because of the project’s name, that the land was also located somewhere near the Rio Grande, the mighty river that rose in the Colorado Rockies and flowed south through New Mexico, finally forming the border between Texas and Mexico.
When the flight attendant picked up the tray co
ntaining the remains of my breakfast, I leaned over and pulled my purse from under the seat in front of me. I’d brought my copy of the Sheffield agreement I’d typed yesterday. Now I read through it again. It looked as though Bates was buying processing plants, more than one, and I was sure they were located in El Paso. I’d also brought some maps from the stash I kept in my office. I sifted past Texas and New Mexico, and found the one for El Paso, then unfolded it and looked at the street key.
Executive Center Boulevard began just east of the Rio Grande at U.S. 85, which hugged the riverbank where Texas, New Mexico, and the Mexican state of Chihuahua came together. The street then ran east across Interstate 10, at a spot that appeared to be several miles north of the campus of the University of Texas at El Paso, better known as UTEP.
I changed planes in Phoenix. The jet touched down in El Paso International at a quarter to twelve, Mountain time. I grabbed my gray nylon travel bag from the overhead compartment and headed for the rental car counter. After producing my credit card and a current California driver’s license, I was awarded the keys to a Geo Prizm, which proved to be a jarring shade of purple. I stashed my overnight bag in the trunk, then opened the driver’s side door and made sure everything, from the lights to the windshield wipers to the air conditioner, was working properly.
It was hot in El Paso, a lot hotter than it had been when I left Oakland early this morning. Before I was even out of the airport’s environs, I’d switched on the air conditioner. I drove along Montana Avenue, driving west until I reached the freeway.
Traffic in El Paso was light by Bay Area standards. Interstate 10 threaded its way through the westernmost city in Texas, running roughly east to west before turning north toward Las Cruces, New Mexico. I passed the downtown high-rises that loomed to the south, between the freeway and the river. Over the border, Ciudad Juarez was blurred by the haze. The freeway curved to the north, and I sped past the exit for UTEP. I changed lanes and started looking for the sign indicating an exit for Executive Center Boulevard. When it came into view, I reached for the turn indicator and slowed as I moved along the off-ramp.
I wasn’t sure whether the address I sought was on the east or west side of the interstate, so I turned right, heading east. After a few blocks, it was clear I needed to go in the other direction. I made a U-turn at the next intersection, and headed west instead. On the other side of the freeway, closer to U.S. 85, I found what I was looking for, and something I wasn’t.
I knew from reading the fax Hank had sent to Alex that the land in question was ten acres. I’d guessed, and so had Gladys, that Bates was going to build another food processing plant. They certainly could do that, if all that open field went with this parcel of land. But I wasn’t expecting the office building.
The building was on the north side of the street, all on its lonesome in the middle of an empty asphalt parking lot, with open land beyond. The structure appeared to be of recent vintage, five stories high, its walls gray and the windows filled with darkened glass. A tall chain-link fence separated the parking lot from the street. I continued slowly along the boulevard, in the right-hand lane. Ahead I saw a turnout into the parking lot, but there was a gate across the entrance. On the gate was a large real estate sign advising me that the building, and presumably the land all around it, was for sale.
I pulled into the turnout and shifted the Geo into park. An office building, I thought. What did Bates Inc., headquartered in Oakland, California, need with an office building in El Paso, Texas?
I had a possible answer, but it would require some digging. I quickly made a note of the name and phone number of the real estate agent, then pulled back onto the road. I drove farther west. I was nearly to the point where Executive Center Boulevard intersected U.S. 85 when I saw a large industrial building on the north side of the road. It had a shut-up look and a gate spread across the driveway. There was another For Sale sign here, same company as the office building, but a different agent. The name above the main entrance of the building read “Sheffield Foods.”
I made a U-turn and drove back toward Interstate 10, heading downtown to delve into the El Paso County records relating to real estate transactions and property taxes. When I emerged from the City-County Building, I ignored my hunger pangs and asked for directions to the public library.
The office building I’d seen was seven years old. It had been vacated earlier this year by a manufacturing firm that had moved to bigger quarters. It now stood empty, and that, evidently, had prompted the owner to put it on the market. The taxes on the building, and the land on which it sat, were paid by C. J. Mullin of Carlsbad, New Mexico, the same Mullin that Hank had gone to see earlier in the week.
Further digging revealed that Sheffield Foods was a longtime family-owned food processing business, much like Bates Inc. But it no longer existed. It had gone belly-up two years ago, after being taken over by TZI, Inc., the same firm that had mounted a hostile takeover of Bates. Bates had fought off TZI by making a deal with Rittlestone and Weper. Sheffield had, from what I read in the El Paso papers, been run into the ground by TZI. There were Sheffield processing plants all over El Paso, and now Bates was going to buy them.
I went outside into the late afternoon sunlight, hungry enough to eat the sidewalk where I stood. I found a taqueria and ate my fill of Tex-Mex, contemplating what I’d learned.
TZI was headquartered in Houston. It had been in the takeover racket for about ten years, and it didn’t have a good reputation. I could see why Jeff Bates and his board hadn’t wanted to succumb to TZI’s advances. It had a reputation for taking over a company, firing all the executives and managers, and bringing in a TZI team to run the place. If that didn’t work, TZI cut its losses and disposed of the assets and the employees. That was evidently what had happened to Sheffield Foods.
I wiped my hands on a napkin, took a final swallow of my root beer, and pulled my cellular phone from my bag. I didn’t have a phone number for C. J. Mullin, just an address, on North Shore in Carlsbad. When I called directory assistance for Carlsbad, New Mexico, I was told the number was unlisted. Damn.
Next I called the real estate company whose number I’d seen on the For Sale signs in front of the office building and the Sheffield plant. I got passed to three people before I found the agent who was handling Mullin’s property. I told him I wanted to get in touch with the owner of the building on Executive Park Boulevard.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” he said. “That sale’s pending.”
“Suppose I make a better offer?”
“Well...” He paused, dollar signs no doubt dancing before his eyes. “You can name your figure, but this deal’s almost done.”
“I’d sure like to talk to the owner,” I cajoled, “before I go any further. I have a few questions.”
“The owner doesn’t want to be disturbed,” he said. “I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.”
“Let me talk to my partner, and I’ll get back to you.”
I disconnected the call before he could ask for my name and a phone number. It looked as though the only way I’d get a chance to talk to C. J. Mullin was to go to Carlsbad.
I retrieved the rental car from the parking lot where I’d left it, then drove back the way I’d come, past El Paso International. Montana Avenue was also U.S. 62 and 180, which headed east and north toward New Mexico. Before I left the city limits, I stopped at a grocery store and bought several bottles of chilled water, as well as some soda.
It was about a hundred and fifty miles to Carlsbad, a good three hours of driving on a two-lane ribbon of highway that cut across the unforgiving desert terrain. Most of the way I was driving due east, with the setting sun at my back, rotating the dial on the radio to pick up whatever stations I could. When I passed the Salt Flats, the highway turned northeast, curving along the perimeter of Guadalupe Mountains National Park. The road twisted up Guadalupe Pass, under a looming chunk of mountain called El Capitan, then leveled off again.
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nbsp; Twilight had almost given way to darkness when I stopped at the park visitor center, to stretch my legs and use the rest-room. I got back on the road. Once I crossed the state line from Texas to New Mexico, the condition of the road worsened. Farther to the north I passed the billboards and motels of Whites City, clustered at the entrance to Carlsbad Caverns National Park. It was past nine when I headed into the southern outskirts of Carlsbad.
I knew little about the place, other than its proximity to the Caverns. It had a small airport that I’d passed on my way into town. The buildings I’d seen looked as dry and dusty as the hills to the west of town. The highway turned into Canal Street, lined with motels, restaurants, and businesses.
I stopped at a Best Western motel with a restaurant, checked in, and asked for a room at the back, away from the highway noise. I purchased a city map from the clerk before settling into my room. Then I sat on the bed, unfolded the map, and studied it. Most of Carlsbad was south and east of the Pecos River that meandered through town. C. J. Mullin’s address was, as its name implied, on the north shore of the river.
I set the map aside and took a hot shower. Then I put on the oversized T-shirt I slept in and pulled down the covers of the bed. I flipped through the cable channels until I found a movie I’d never gotten around to seeing when it was in Bay Area theaters. After watching half of it, I was glad I’d saved the ticket price. I switched off the bedside lamp and went to sleep.
Mullin lived in one of Carlsbad’s wealthier residential areas, I discovered Saturday morning. After eating pancakes for breakfast at the motel restaurant, I climbed back into the rental car and headed north on Canal, crossing the river and turning left on Orchard Lane. I took a left on Alpha and then a right on North Shore, cruising slowly, peering at house numbers in the growing twilight. Big houses sprawled across tree-shaded lots, and their well-kept backyards sloped right down to the river. Cottonwoods and pecan trees predominated, with the latter shedding their fruit liberally on the lawns and the streets.
