“That’s a pretty imaginative leap. But I suppose it’s possible.” In my experience, complicated theories were usually wrong. Most people die in pretty simple ways. But I’d come across a few truly convoluted murders, so I couldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. “Let’s say your suspicions are worth investigating. Why me?”
“I am a deeply intuitive person. In fact, I’ve cultivated this aspect of my being through meditation and herbal catalysts. I feel in my soul that Paul was killed, and I believe that you have the skills needed to find his killer.”
“Hang on, Mrs. Odum.”
“If we are going to be forming a partnership of sorts, you should call me Laurie.”
“Okay, Laurie. And for that matter skip the ‘Mister’ and just call me ‘Riley.’ But let’s not get ahead of ourselves in terms of what I can offer. I don’t know what Howard told you when he dropped off the car, but I’m not a licensed investigator.”
“Howard said you came across as very clever. He thought you probably had some background in law enforcement.”
I nodded, thinking that the kid was pretty perceptive given the circumstances. “Yeah,” I said, “I was a cop years ago.”
“That’s fine, even preferable. I don’t need somebody with the endorsement of the corrupt system that governs us. I need cold-blooded competence.”
“And you figure I’m your man?”
“You’re not a particularly nice man. You spray poisons for a living and impale animals as a hobby. But I can tell from our conversation that you don’t bullshit.” The intense persona was back in spades. “I don’t have to like you. It’s enough that my instincts tell me that you can be trusted and that you deliver.” She paused and her face softened. “Now then, can you help me?”
“I can’t officially conduct an investigation, but I’ve sometimes provided ‘pest management services’ to people. And pests come in many forms.”
“A lovely way of framing our prospective venture. And now it’s my turn to be blunt. A solution to my husband’s murder would be worth a great deal to me. I’ve lost my soul mate and I need to know who did it. I’ll probably never get justice, but I need resolution.” She finished her glass of wine and stared directly at me. The moment of truth had come.
The sun had set and the afterglow was giving way to night. A cool dampness had risen up the hills from the Bay. This was a passionate woman and her intensity was alluring. She was a bit wacky but at least she believed in something and had the guts to act on it. That’s more than you can say for a whole lot of people with money who just float through life like jellyfish in the Bay.
“What’s your offer?” I asked.
“Ten thousand dollars. But it’s time-limited.” That would keep Tommy’s Fund going for a year. But I had an ace up my sleeve, a card that might put the program on its feet for good. First, however, I needed to know her conditions.
“Assuming that Paul was killed—and we’re a long way from that conclusion—when do you need the proof?”
“Two weeks.”
“That’s incredibly fast, you understand. There’s no evidence other than your vague impression that he was murdered. I’m starting with just about zero.”
“Riley, the reason I’m willing to hire you is because I think you are a rare creature in this world. I’m sick of dealing with inept people telling me that solutions will take time. Bureaucrats, lawyers, and politicians say they’ll change policies but ‘it’ll take time.’” She made quote marks with her fingers. “That’s a code phrase for ‘it’ll never happen.’ And it won’t happen because these people are fucking incompetent.” She was almost yelling now, and a dog started barking from across the fence.
“I get your point,” I replied, hoping to keep our conversation from becoming neighborhood gossip. She dropped her voice and brushed the hair back from her face.
“People who know what they’re doing get the job done quickly and efficiently using whatever means are necessary. And Riley, it strikes me that you are the sort who can bring effective—and perhaps unconventional—approaches to bear on a problem.”
“So, I get two weeks to name the killer. And if I come up dry?”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for your time and hire a conventional detective agency. They probably won’t be able to do any better, but I’m not going to give up on finding Paul’s killer.”
“I realize that you have cultivated your intuitive powers, but my experience suggests that it’s a long shot that there’s any killer to be found.”
“Are you willing to try?”
“Maybe. Let’s talk about money.”
“My offer is very generous.”
“Yes it is. But tell me a bit more about your husband’s finances. This is quite a house for a university professor.”
“Paul and I never spoke much about money. He provided a beautiful place for us to live and I never lacked for support in my battles against the timber industry and their government lackeys. I didn’t ask where the money came from. I assume that he received some consulting fees for his expert testimony and supplemented his salary during the summer with grant funds.” In other words, spoiled women ask few questions. Can’t really blame them, except when things fall apart it’s hard to generate much sympathy. And it was time to assure her my competence was, as she described, cold-blooded.
“And he left you a rather substantial life insurance policy, eh?”
“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”
“Oh, it’s very much my business if you want me to take this case. You see, I need to know as much as possible about him if there’s any hope of determining whether he was murdered.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do, Laurie. The papers you were working on when I arrived make it crystal clear. I don’t doubt that Paul was your soul mate, but his death also means a financial windfall.” Her jaw tightened, along with the tendons in her neck. I figured a slap was coming, but her icy stare was more vicious.
“I was mistaken. You can’t be trusted.” She began to sweep up the files as if I had disappeared. Then she looked up, seemingly surprised I was still there. “I rescind my offer. Please leave.”
“Now slow down. You’re half right. You shouldn’t trust me until and unless we cut a deal. After that, my loyalty is unconditional. And as for my getting results, you’re absolutely right.”
“I should have expected as much from your sort. What is your counter-offer?”
“If Paul was murdered, it would be an accidental death and you’d be entitled to double indemnity. I think that works out to three hundred grand. I’ll take half.”
“You’re a greedy son of a bitch.”
“Not really. If it’ll make you feel better, I don’t want you to pay me a dime. Just make an anonymous donation to Tommy’s Fund at St. Teresa’s Church across the Bay.” The $150,000 would endow the center and put it on firm footing for the rest of my brother’s life.
“What a loutish, greedy, and complicated man you are, Riley. Underhanded tactics in the interest of charity—that’s rather perverse. I won’t ask why you want it played this way, but it makes your twisted offer palatable.”
“Sometimes we can’t make the world better by being nice. You’re a strong woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. Do we have a deal?”
“You’re a nasty opponent. And I trust that you’ll be as valuable an ally. You have two weeks.”
“Excellent.” I knocked back the last of my drink and leaned forward. “Now I need two things from you and I won’t bother you again until I return to deliver your answer or to collect my consolation prize.”
“I sincerely hope you don’t disappoint me. What do you need?” she asked impatiently, clearly wanting to be done with our conversation.
“First, when your husband’s body is brought back here by the funeral home, don’t have it embalmed, buried, or cremated. I’m pretty sure the LA coroner will sign the death certificate withou
t an autopsy. Between the recession reducing staff and increasing crime there’s a backlog of bodies. If Paul’s death can be reasonably ruled as being due to natural causes, that’s the way it’ll be played. And I don’t want potential evidence lost until we know what’s what.”
“Okay, the funeral director is an old friend of the family. I can surely get him to agree without having to give an involved explanation.”
“Great. And I need to get a handle on who understood him and might’ve known what he was up to. I need to start somewhere.”
“He wasn’t on good terms with most of the faculty. His colleagues were petty like most academics, and they generally resented his research success. Most of them were ivory tower purists who thought that his environmental advocacy precluded his being an objective scientist.”
“And his environmental work was pretty much on his own, or at least secretive, from what I gather. So, where do I begin? Who was close to him?”
“Start with his graduate students. He was a wonderful mentor, and they adored him. If anybody could provide some insight, it would be them.”
“I’ve met Howard. Who else should I track down?”
“There’s John Holling. He’s almost done with his doctorate, so I think he’ll be able to finish under another professor. And then there’s Jen Tansley. Jen is in her second year, so she’ll be in a difficult spot. Go easy on them. They’ve worked so hard to please Paul, and I know they’ll be feeling lost.”
I thanked Laurie and saw myself out. On the drive back to San Francisco, the reflected lights of downtown dancing in the Bay mirrored my internal jitters. I doubted that I’d earn the big money, but the possibility had me on edge. I needed the detached focus that I’d cultivated when working a case on the force. Not so relaxed as to be inattentive, but in the calm zone where I could see and hear things that were not meant to be noticed.
And the best way to dispel the excess tension was a hard workout. When I got home, I changed into my sweats and headed down the hill to Marty’s Gym, squeezed between the warehouses along 17th Street. The place was raw, dimly lit, frigid in the winter, stifling in the summer, and smelled of sweat and Marty’s cigars.
It was heaven.
CHAPTER 13
When I walked through the door of Goat Hill Extermination on Friday morning, Carol greeted me with a smile and then a scowl. “Put your hands over your head, Riley,” she demanded.
“What’s up, gorgeous?” She was looking luscious in a plaid wool skirt, and a forest-green sweater vest stretched over a starched white blouse. A woman doesn’t need fancy clothes or makeup to be beautiful. And I was also hoping to distract her with my aesthetic assessment and evoke a short lecture rather than an inspection. It didn’t work.
“Don’t you ‘gorgeous’ me. Lift your arms, you stupid galoot.” I got my hands up to my shoulders. They wouldn’t go any higher. I grinned stupidly at her, knowing I was in trouble.
“Christ, Riley. When will you learn that you’re not in your twenties? You can’t treat your body like you’re still a kid. Those guys at Marty’s are in fighting shape.”
“How’d you know I was at Marty’s?” I’d gotten to know the place during my adolescent venture into Golden Gloves. Marty had managed to work me into a decent fighter, and he still enjoyed needling me. But his real joy was watching the fights, as long as they ended decisively. He loved the purity of a knockout—no referee making a call, no judges inventing a score, just one man’s domination of another. I understood his desire for a place where things were clear and simple, a strange kind of sanctuary in a world that seemed to have more gray—and less black or white—every day.
“Hell, you’re there two or three times a week. But you’re not usually dumb enough to cripple yourself. You walked in here about as gracefully as a ninety-year-old man with gout. That was my first hint that you’d pushed too hard again.” She was right. I’d alternated bouts of jump roping with working the heavy bag for an hour until I was drenched, and then I’d played sparring partner for one of Marty’s prospects—a tough kid with a wickedly fast jab from the Potrero projects.
“I’ll be okay. Just a little stiff.”
“The old codger convinced you to serve as a punching bag for one of his up-and-comers, right?”
“Maybe.” She was good, but maybe the puffiness under my eye where the kid landed a straight right was her second hint.
“I’d give you a rubdown, but it’d only frustrate you, seeing as you’re both a sore and dirty old man.”
“Maybe just work my shoulders a little?” I pleaded. Carol had incredibly strong hands, and I could certainly behave myself.
“Sit here, you dumbass.” She got up and gestured to her office chair. I dropped into the seat and rested my forearms on her desk. She began to dig in, and a mixture of pain and pleasure flooded my body.
I would have been in better shape in the morning if I hadn’t stopped by O’Donnell’s Pub after my workout. But I was feeling drained after two hours in the gym, and I wanted to grab a bite and a drink.
Brian, the pub’s owner and weeknight bartender, provided a running commentary on the Giants game which played without sound on the television at the end of the bar. He was an old friend of the family who’d helped my father get the loan to start Goat Hill Extermination. Brian didn’t have much money, but he was highly respected in the neighborhood for being a discerning judge of character, so his vouching for my father at the bank made the difference. He was also Tommy’s godfather, a relationship that I knew weighed heavily on Brian. He and Cynthia had a gaggle of their own kids, mostly grown but still struggling in one way or another. There was no money or time for Brian to contribute to Tommy’s care. He always asked about Tommy, so I knew that he thought he should be doing something more in his role. Catholic guilt is a real burden, which is one reason I left the Church—it was worth exchanging the sure thing of a happier life for the long shot of eternal damnation. Last night I assured him that everything was all right, but I knew he’d be devastated if St. Teresa’s had to shut down the daycare and leave my mother without help for Tommy.
I had a burger and fries and washed them down with a beer. Rejuvenated, I decided to pleasantly draw out my evening with dessert—a Bushmills sixteen-year-old single malt which set me back as much as the dinner. I no longer drank to get drunk—one of the benefits of leaving the stress of the force behind—so I drank less of the better stuff. But I also knew that my dehydrated body wouldn’t appreciate the indulgence. I was right, which meant a headache and heartburn added to the rest of my pains the next morning. Nothing that a couple of Tylenol with an Alka-Seltzer chaser couldn’t fix.
“Riley, are you dead or just not listening?”
I’d lapsed into a near coma, probably from the surge of lactic acid released from my muscles through Carol’s kneading. “Sorry, babe, I just drifted off.”
“Drop the pathetic attempt to get on my good side. I’m still pissed at you. Acting like a teenage kid.” She dug her knuckles into the base of my neck, which made me wince in sweet agony.
“Christ, Carol,” I gasped. “I think you’re enjoying my pain.”
“It’d be better if I was into S&M, but I’m not kinky—just gay. Now that I have your attention, what are you going to do about Isaac?”
“What do you suggest?” She’d obviously been talking to me about the kid, while I’d been in la-la land.
“You weren’t listening, you oaf.” Again with the neck to punctuate her annoyance. “Pay attention this time. I said that you needed to talk to Larry and Dennis or things are going to start unraveling. Now get your sorry ass out of my chair and see what you can do other than pretending to be a boxer.”
“On my way.” I got up to a swirling spell of lightheadedness. I managed to stagger down the hallway and into the warehouse.
“Whazzup, boss?” Dennis said as I pushed through the doors. Larry added, “You look like hell.”
“I hit the gym a little hard last night, but I’m fe
eling good.” I wasn’t lying. The aches and pains focused me on the present, and I was ready to concentrate on finding Paul Odum’s killer—if such a person existed. But first I needed to make sure the business would run smoothly while I was working the case. “Carol tells me that Isaac isn’t shaping up like we hoped.”
“I went out with him yesterday afternoon,” Larry said. “The kid goes through the motions, but folks expect more. They can get a show of force cheaper with the big companies.”
“Hate to say it, but Larry’s right, boss,” Dennis added. “Isaac is more interested in sketching shit in that notebook of his. He’s not bad at drawing, but you can’t kill pests with a pencil.”
“The way I see it,” Larry continued, “the kid doesn’t have his heart in the job. He doesn’t take pride in his poison.” Dennis nodded. They were proud of their work. It wasn’t the sort of job that won anybody public acclaim. But the two of them were very good at what they did. They understood the pests and the poisons—which is more than you could say for our corporate competitors.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He’s out at the Morgans’ place. It figured to be a simple job from what the old lady described, and we’re slammed with a backlog of restaurant and warehouse treatments. This warm weather has the flies and roaches on a tear.”
“I’ll go out and have a talk with him. After that, I need to work on a project that’ll take me out of the office most of the time for a couple of weeks. I know the timing’s bad. But I’m asking you guys to see if you can bring him along. Maybe between my pep talk and your cutting him some slack, he’ll come around. I think he’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, maybe he’ll see the light. Is the project a big deal?” Larry was as much concerned as curious. And considering how long he’d been part of the family business, I owed him and Dennis an explanation. Besides, I hadn’t had any great revelations on the Odum case, and I figured they might come up with something I was missing.
Poisoned Justice Page 8
