Murder at High Tide

by Lee Strauss

  “Dihydroboldenone isn’t illegal,” Miguel said. “So, the only reason I can think he’d lie would be about how he got them.”

  “Or from whom?”

  Miguel’s eyes registered understanding. “Jason Brewster.”

  “Exactly,” Rosa said. “It’s possible that Jason Brewster supplied Rod Jeffers with steroids. I noticed Mr. Jeffers appeared to be physically fit when I first saw him that night on the beach.”

  Miguel nodded. “That makes sense. I’d just read the report from Detective Sanchez when you arrived at my office today. They found steroids in Jason Brewster’s bathroom. A rare kind—apparently, you need a connection to the black market for it. Now the postmortem didn’t find any in his blood, so he may or may not have been using them. But if Jeffers is lying, it means he didn’t want us to know that he had any connection to Jason Brewster.”

  “Precisely. Did the police find anything else there?”

  “No, not much. They’re still going through some articles, but nothing really stands out.”

  “Hmm, perhaps something will still turn up,” Rosa said. She hoped evidence that connected either Rod Jeffers or Raul Mendez to Jason Brewster would be found.

  “Well . . . there is one thing come to think of it,” Miguel said.

  Rosa glanced sideways over her sunglasses. “What’s that?”

  “From what we can tell, Jason Brewster wasn’t a smoker. There was no telltale odor in the house or any ashtrays, and Dr. Rayburn’s autopsy report confirmed it. However, on the back sundeck, someone had taken a bowl from a matching set they found in the kitchen and used it as an ashtray. A single cigarette butt was found on an outdoor table along with ashes in a bowl. If the ashes had been there for a couple of days, they would have either been blown away by the slightest breeze or been soaked from that rain we had the night before. The ashes were dry.”

  “That means the cigarette was probably smoked the evening before.” Rosa tapped her lips with a fingernail.

  “Correct.”

  “And our killer is a smoker.”

  “Very likely.”

  “I can’t imagine Rod Jeffers smoking,” Rosa said.

  Miguel turned onto the main street of the town. “A guy with polio whose best friend died of asphyxiation? I should think not.”

  “Wait, what kind of brand was the cigarette?” Rosa asked.

  “It was a weird Mexican brand of menthols. I didn’t let him smoke at rehearsal but the smell came anyway.” He grinned at Rosa. “I hang out with a lot of Mexicans. It took our guys a whole day to track down the brand, Delicados.”

  Her mind jumped to Raul Mendez at the Legion and their awkward yet informative encounter.

  “That’s the brand Raul Mendez smokes!”

  Miguel hit the steering wheel with his palm. “You’re right. I’ve seen him smoke menthols at rehearsals. They smell terrible.”

  Rosa and Miguel stared at each other as the implications resounded. Miguel’s friend could be involved.

  “I need to get back to the station,” Miguel said, his brow etched in dismay. “On the way, I’ll stop to pick up the bass guitar from our rehearsal space downtown.”

  “Why?”

  “Raul’s fingerprints will be all over it. If we can match it to the fingerprints on the cigarette butt—”

  “Of course,” Rosa said. A match of fingerprints would be strong evidence.

  “I’ll get Sanchez to expedite the lab. He can be quite pushy when he wants to be.”

  “Good thinking.” Rosa tapped the toe of her black flats. “In the meantime, I can interview Rod Jeffers’ neighbors. Hopefully, someone had witnessed Raul Mendez on Monday night for that crib game.”

  Rosa left Miguel at the station and drove the Bel Air to Rod Jeffers’ home. Large drops of rain began to fall, and Rosa fumbled around to find the wipers. Just as she pulled up to the apartment building, it started to pour. Rain this heavy was likely a rare occurrence this time of year for California. She reached for the umbrella she’d stowed in the back seat of the car—a habit from her life in England—then hurried to the covered entrance.

  Next door to Mr. Jeffers lived Mrs. Benson, a middle-aged widow who talked about Rod Jeffers in glowing terms. “He’s always friendly, and has a good attitude considering his condition.”

  When Rosa questioned her about the regular crib nights, she replied, ‘Yes, that Mr. Mendez fellow comes every Monday night at seven, and they play in the back yard. He parks his little red car right in front of the building. Honestly, I don’t know how that thing keeps running, it’s a real rattletrap. You can hear it clunking as he comes around the block.”

  Rosa had the feeling that watching the neighbors was a regular pastime for this lady.

  “Can you hear them while they play?”

  The game itself wasn’t loud, but players certainly could be if there was enough passion for the competition.

  Mrs. Benson frowned. “I can, but I don’t eavesdrop, mind you.”

  “No, of course not. But isn’t it annoying to you? I mean, having that go on every Monday night?”

  “They often get quite excited and start talking pretty loud. I don’t mind though. I’m just glad Mr. Jeffers can have an enjoyable night with his friend.”

  “Can you make out what they’re saying?”

  “Only when they talk loud like that, even then it’s hard to understand every word.” She grinned. “It’s not like I lean against the fence.”

  Rosa grinned back and wondered if the kind neighbor had just told her a little white lie. “Did they play last Monday night, Mrs. Benson?”

  “No. But Mr. Mendez came back later that night around midnight, which is very unusual, and it woke me, which did annoy me a little.”

  “How did you know it was Mr. Mendez?”

  “I recognized the clunking of his old car.”

  Rosa pursed her lips in response. Mr. Mendez had probably come by to let Rod Jeffers know the deed was done.

  Returning to the Police station, Rosa parked and stepped out with umbrella in hand. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds on the horizon continued to threaten. Rosa found Miguel in his office in an in-depth discussion with another plainclothes officer.

  “Ah, here she is. Rosa, I want you to meet Detective Bill Sanchez. Bill, this is Miss Reed, known in London as WPC Reed. She’s agreed to consult with us on this case.”

  Officer Sanchez looked to be in his mid-thirties with unruly, dark hair, dark eyes, and a brown complexion like Miguel’s. His rumpled white shirt and crooked red tie looked like he’d slept in them. He had a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth, but Rosa thought it looked unlit.

  “WP—what?”

  “WPC Reed,” Rosa said, extending her hand. “Woman Police Constable with Scotland Yard.”

  “Well, imagine that!” Detective Sanchez stretched out his hand, “Miguel speaks highly of you.” He winked at Miguel. “You didn’t tell me she was a ‘looker,’ amigo.”

  Miguel blushed, and Rosa shared his embarrassment.

  Miguel cast a sheepish glance her way. “You’ll have to excuse this guy. He wasn’t raised with some of the finer sensitivities the way that I was.” Miguel slapped Detective Sanchez on the arm. “Officially, he’s my partner here at the precinct, but I think of him more as my mascot—fun at a ball game, but—”

  “Very funny,” Detective Sanchez cut in. His cigarette remained gripped with the part of his mouth that wasn’t grinning.

  “Anyway,” Miguel continued, “Sanchez is going to take the bass guitar over to the lab, and hopefully, we can get the results back quickly. If we have a match with both the cigarette stub and the guitar, and maybe even from some of those shards from the glass that your cat tipped over, that would be compelling evidence.”

  “You had a cat at a crime scene?” Detective Sanchez’s forehead buckled dramatically. “Is that how they do it in Scotland?”

  “Sanchez, she’s English, not Scottish,” Miguel said. “Can’t you t
ell from her . . . wait . . . is that an umbrella?”

  Both Sanchez and Miguel looked down at the black umbrella Rosa had with her and then shared an amused look.

  “Yes, I know it’s very British, but it is raining out, you know,” Rosa said defensively. “Any good Londoner always has one of these about.” She shook it at them both scattering drops of water onto the floor.

  “Point taken,” Miguel chuckled.

  “You were thinking of Scotland Yard, Detective Sanchez,” Rosa said turning to Miguel’s partner. “A common misconception.”

  Detective Sanchez appeared sincerely stumped. “Why’s it called Scotland Yard if it’s not in Scotland?”

  “Because the original building of the London Metropolitan Police was on a street called Great Scotland Yard.

  “In Scotland.”

  “In London,” Rosa corrected.”

  Detective Sanchez opened his mouth and lifted a finger in the air as if to make a point, but then just dropped his hand and shook his head.

  “To answer your question,” Rosa said, returning to the detective’s original query. “We don’t normally have cats on the job in London, but in this case, I had a kitten with me, but . . . it’s a long story.”

  Detective Sanchez tipped his hat at Rosa. “I’ll head to the lab and get back to you both when I learn something.”

  “So, what did you find out from Jeffers’ neighbor?” Miguel asked, once Detective Sanchez had left.

  “Her name is Mrs. Benson. My suspicion was correct. Mr. Mendez wasn’t there on Monday night. Mr. Jeffers lied about that. But he did come late in the night for some reason. Mrs. Benson is quite certain about that.”

  “Time to go talk to Raul,” Miguel said, reaching for his keys. He turned to Rosa, “Let’s go, I know where he lives.”

  Rosa stood to Miguel’s side as he rang the front doorbell of Raul Mendez’s tiny house on the edge of town, receiving no answer. Dejected, they returned to the unmarked car. A young man who was busy pulling a plastic rain tarp over a motorcycle called out to them.

  “You just missed him. Left about ten minutes ago!”

  “Do you know where he went?” Rosa called back.

  “Train station. I was putting the garbage bins out when he walked out of his front door with a suitcase. He got into a cab. I heard him tell the driver to take him to the main station.”

  Rosa felt a thread of excitement vibrate down her spine. “Rod Jeffers must have called him! He probably guessed that we’re onto him.”

  Miguel hurried to the driver’s side of the car. “He’s bolting.”

  Rosa jumped in just as Miguel gunned the engine.

  “This is so hard to believe.” Miguel pulled out the flashing light and placed it on top of the roof. “I’ve been playing gigs with that guy for almost a year!” He hit the switch for the siren, then accelerated.

  “Which way do you think he’d go?” Rosa shouted over the wailing of the siren.

  “There’s a route on the Pacific Surfliner,” Miguel shouted back. “It heads to San Diego Union station. From there, it’s effortless to catch a bus to Tijuana. I know Raul still has family in Mexico. If he makes it there—”

  “Rod Jeffers’ neighbor called Mr. Mendez’s car a ‘rattletrap’.” That must be why he’s taking the train.”

  “Faster too.” Miguel kept his eyes squarely on the road in front of him. “I think there’s a train that goes straight to San Diego once a day. I used to take it all the time to go visit relatives in Rosarito.”

  “Do you know what time?”

  “Five forty-five, I think.”

  Rosa checked her watch. “It's five-thirty.”

  Unfortunately, the rain began in earnest, and the roads were slick with water. Miguel was forced to slow down. He expertly guided the cruiser around traffic as cars stopped in deference to the police siren.

  When they approached the vicinity of the station, Miguel cut the siren and the lights to avoid alerting Raul Mendez to the fact they’d arrived. As they jumped out of the car, Miguel said, “You go around the other way. If he sees one of us, he might run.”

  The Santa Bonita train station was not a large building, certainly not the kind of station Rosa was used to using in the vast network of underground and overground lines in London. Instead, it was a modest two-story, Spanish-Revival-style construction with red clay roof tiles and a terra-cotta stucco exterior. It had two main entrances at either end of the building.

  Rosa hurried into the south entrance while Miguel went into the north. She scanned the entries to the shops and saw there was a short queue at the ticket counter. Mr. Mendez probably already had his ticket and was out on the platform. Rosa glanced at the large clock on the wall: five forty-three. They had only moments.

  Without an arrest warrant, Rosa wasn’t sure if the police had the authority to stop a train just to question someone. She rushed out onto the crowded southbound platform and looked both ways. About fifty people waited to board the train and stood in groups at each train car’s entry door. Rosa slowly worked her way north in search of the familiar figure of Raul Mendez. Far down, at the other end, she spotted Miguel as he made his way towards her. But Mendez was nowhere to be seen. Could he have already gotten on the train?

  As the last of the people boarded, the loud voice of a ticket agent yelled, “All aboard!”

  Just then, about sixty feet to her left, Raul Mendez emerged from one of the doors marked Men’s Restroom. Rosa watched him look to his left. Did he see Miguel who was three car lengths away?

  Miguel had not yet noticed him, but when Raul saw Miguel, he started jogging in Rosa’s direction. She then realized she was between him and the nearest car entry door. Raul hadn’t spotted her, so she slipped behind a broad support post that held an extensive arrival schedule. Just as Raul sped by, she stepped out from behind the post, and with the wooden, curved handle of her umbrella, hooked his ankle, sending him sprawling to the pavement.

  Rosa stood over him, the sharp end of the umbrella pointing at his throat. “En garde!”

  19

  “It looks like Raul is ready to confess,” Miguel said into the phone. “Can you come down to the precinct? As one of the lead investigators, I thought you’d like to be here.”

  “I’ll come right now.”

  The day before, when they had arrested Raul Mendez and brought him to the precinct, he had been belligerent and refused to speak until his lawyer was in the room. Rosa knew from experience that if a first-time killer was going to confess, it was often after a night in jail and a phone call to a lawyer.

  Rosa quickly changed into a striped sea-foam-green and pink dress, which matched her pink flats. She arranged for Señora Gomez to keep an eye on Diego, collected the keys to the Bel Air, and headed for the garage.

  When she entered the precinct, Rosa couldn’t help but notice how Miguel’s eyes flickered as they moved up her figure to her face, then met her gaze. It was a brief acknowledgement of attraction, but he quickly looked away, inhaled, and took on an expression of professionalism.

  “Raul’s lawyer just arrived,” he said, getting straight to business. “Raul requested representation as soon as I told him we’d collected his prints from a cigarette found at the home of Jason Brewster. He, of course, had denied even knowing Mr. Brewster.” Miguel continued with his update as they headed to the interrogation room. “I’m pretty sure that convinced him that a full confession would serve him better than a ‘not guilty’ plea.”

  Miguel placed a hand on the doorknob in front of them. “I guess I’ll be looking for a new bass player. We also picked up Rod Jeffers right after we got Raul. He’s confessed to his part in the murder—giving Raul a false alibi.

  They entered the room, which was sparsely furnished with a table and four chairs. A reel-to-reel tape recorder was set up on the table along with a small microphone. Rosa sat down just as a middle-aged man, wearing a black business suit and carrying a briefcase, walked in, followed by Raul Mendez. The ma
n introduced himself as John Fellows, acting legal counsel for Raul Mendez. Raul’s face looked impassive as he took a seat beside the lawyer and opposite Rosa and Miguel.

  “Let’s get right to it,” Miguel said as he pushed the record button on the tape machine. He then stated the time and date and the names and occupations of everyone in the room, saying Rosa Reed was a Special Investigative Consultant by order of the Mayor’s office and the Chief of Police.

  “Why did you kill Florence Adams?” Miguel asked.

  Raul sniffed heavily. “She was responsible for the cruel and unnecessary death of my cousin Juan Mendez. She held his life in her hands and stonewalled the board of directors at the polio foundation repeatedly. You better believe that if Juan was white and his name was John, she’d have voted to fund the iron lung on the first day.

  “Instead, she stalled until—” His voice constricted with emotion, first with grief, then malice. “It was the worst kind of betrayal. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted her to feel what Juan felt. Choking to death, clawing at his chest just to get a breath of air. Juan didn’t deserve to die, especially not like that.”

  “How did you get the poison in her drink?” Miguel asked.

  “I knew that we had the song ‘Autumn Leaves’ on our set list.” Raul looked at Miguel, who stared back questioningly. “There’s no bass on that song, you play it on your own on the guitar.”

  Miguel nodded his head in realization, “Of course.”

  “That gave me time to leave the stage while giving me somewhat of an alibi since the poison had a delayed reaction. No one would point me out as talking to the victim right before she started choking. It was an easy thing to offer Florence a drink from the open bar.” He scoffed. “Her glass always emptied fast.”

  “How did you get her onto the end of the pier?” Rosa asked.

  “That was not part of the plan. I wanted her to start choking in plain view of everyone as a testament to what happened to Juan. I knew the martini would spill onto the sand and make it irretrievable for the police should they suspect poison. By the way, I have to compliment your pathology team; apparently, it’s almost impossible to detect Onvocyn in the bloodstream, much less know what it is.”