Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  Stanley spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Okay, suit yourself. Look into it. Couldn’t hurt. It’s another line of defense.”

  “Another thing bothers me,” I told him. “Shot in the back at close range doesn’t sound like self-defense to me. It looks cold and calculated. Like murder one.”

  “I can get around that.”

  I watched him yawn and wondered at his impenetrable confidence. I guessed Stanley had to be confident to be such a successful defense attorney. It was also easy to see how he could become jaded. I knew who some of his clients were—not exactly the pick of the litter when it came to good citizens. But Stanley would be the first to tell me that everyone was entitled to a defense.

  “When are you going to talk to Wendy? She may have seen something important.”

  “The little girl? She’s what, four? Surprising what kids can retain.” Stanley looked at the faint red light of dawn over the Oakland hills. “Grandma probably slapped that kid into bed as soon as she got her back to Alameda. I’ll call the Franklins to set up a time. Damn, I’m tired,” he said, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “I must be getting old. Need to get some rack time. You heading home?”

  Rack time never sounded better, I thought, recalling my warm bed, with Alex’s arms wrapped around me as we slept, and Abigail the cat staking out a spot next to my feet. Oh, well. I shook my head and looked at my watch. “I told the Admiral I’d come over.”

  “Yeah, the Admiral. Keep him out of my hair. He could be a real pain in the ass.”

  He could indeed. If I kept him out of Stanley’s hair, no doubt Franklin would be in mine. The lawyer pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and fished out a card. “Come by my office first thing Monday,” he said, handing it to me. “I’ll be there early, around eight, ‘cause I gotta be in court later. We’ll talk strategy. I want you to interview witnesses, especially the one who allegedly saw Ruth dump the gun.”

  I took the card and nodded, then watched him unlock a sleek Porsche parked on this side of Seventh. As he drove away, I walked across the street to where I’d left my Toyota. Weariness plucked at me with insistent hands, but I fought it back as I started the engine and shifted into drive, heading through the Tube to Alameda.

  Despite the early hour, a light blazed on the porch of the Franklins’ Gibbons Drive house. I’d hoped the Admiral had given up on me and gone to bed, but he had the front door open as I came up the walk. He held his fire until I was seated at the rectangular wooden table in the spacious kitchen, a mug of strong black coffee in front of me.

  Lenore Franklin sat across the table, her topaz eyes big in her white face, pale lips seized and bitten by her teeth. She listened without a word as I repeated Ruth’s account of what had happened. While I talked, pausing for sips of much-needed caffeine, Admiral Franklin paced the blue-and-white-tiled floor, hands clasped behind his back, face etched with rage. Now and again he punctuated my story with a snarl that told me if Sam Raynor wasn’t already dead, Ruth’s father would go after him and finish the job.

  When I finished talking, I raised the coffee mug to my lips. It was nearly empty. The Franklins were silent for a long moment. Then Lenore put her hands to her temples and slowly shook her head back and forth, her voice an anguished whisper. “My God, I don’t believe this is happening. This can’t be happening.”

  The Admiral stopped pacing and seized the glass pot from the coffee maker near the stove. He topped off my mug and Lenore’s, then poured the rest into his own. “It is happening, and we’ve got to deal with it. Now, what’s the best plan of attack?”

  “Admiral,” I said, “this is not a military exercise.”

  “I’m aware of that, young lady. It’s a war. And if you think I’m going to let my daughter get railroaded for murdering that scum—”

  “Calm down, Joe. Remember your blood pressure.” Lenore’s words came automatically. She must have been reminding him on a regular basis for over thirty years.

  “My blood pressure is fine, Lenore.”

  He pulled the paper filter and used coffee grounds out of the basket of the coffee maker, dumped them into a trash can under the sink, and replaced them with a fresh filter and more ground coffee. He rinsed the empty glass pot, filled it with water and poured it into the receptacle at the top of the coffee maker. Soon dark brown liquid began to hiss and trickle into the pot. Above the sink a ceramic clock wreathed in yellow and white daisies told me it was close to six this Sunday morning. The sun was just coming up, but here in Alameda, near the bay, the fog would be with us until the sun grew warm enough to burn it off. The mist looked as cold and gray as I felt.

  Lenore slumped tiredly in the chair across from me, but the Admiral seemed to vibrate with energy as he resumed his pacing. “We have to talk to that witness,” he declared.

  “What do you mean, we?” I said, trying not to show the alarm I felt. God, this is all I need. I closed my eyes against the specter of Admiral Joseph Franklin, USN-Retired, in a white dress uniform and ceremonial sword, dogging my every step as I interviewed witnesses. It was not a pretty sight. “Admiral, I think you’d better leave this to the professionals, namely me and Bill Stanley.”

  “I can’t just do nothing.” He stopped pacing and balled his fists in a gesture of pure frustration that carried through to his voice. “This is my daughter we’re talking about.”

  I stood up and carried my mug to the counter, pouring in fresh coffee. “I understand that,” I said, my words level and measured. “But I work best alone.”

  Lenore pushed her chair away from the table and got slowly to her feet. Her eyes met mine with a look that said she’d talk to him. She knelt at one of the kitchen cabinets, opened the door and took out a large ceramic bowl, a metal sifter, and an electric hand mixer.

  “What are you doing, Lenore?” her husband asked as she straightened and set these items on the counter.

  “I’m going to make some waffles,” Lenore said, her voice quiet and calm as she opened a drawer and brought out a set of measuring cups and spoons. “Wendy loves waffles. It’s her favorite breakfast. The way you’re carrying on, she’ll be awake soon.”

  The Admiral and I watched in silence while Lenore reached for a row of cookbooks on a little wooden shelf at the end of the counter. She selected a three-ring binder, its cover faded, stained, and well-used, and flipped expertly to the proper page. Then she pulled up the largest of a set of canisters and began measuring out flour.

  “Did Wendy say anything?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

  Lenore shook her head. “Nothing that I could understand. She was too upset.” She searched through another cabinet until she found a bottle of cooking oil and a small tin of baking powder. “You and this lawyer will have to talk to her, won’t you?”

  “She was there, and the cops have already talked to her. She might have seen something important.”

  “She’s only four years old.” Lenore sighed and turned back to her waffle making.

  I heard a door open at the front of the house, and a moment later Kevin Franklin walked into the kitchen, casually dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved knit shirt. He looked startled to see me and his parents standing in the kitchen. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  His father fixed him with sharp gray eyes. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Kevin looked surprised. I hadn’t wondered until now about Kevin’s whereabouts. Ruth said she, Kevin, and Wendy spent Saturday afternoon together, before coming here for a family dinner. Kevin took Ruth home, then left her apartment building. When she said that, I assumed he’d gone back to Alameda to spend the night at his parents’ home. But that was obviously not the case. Where had he gone?

  “I spent the night at a friend’s place,” Kevin said, stumbling slightly on the words. Somehow I thought there was more to it than that. “What’s up?”

  “Sam’s dead,” the Admiral said. “Your sister’s been arrested for murder.”

>   Kevin’s eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth opened but he couldn’t get out any words. After a quick sidelong glance at her son, Lenore went to the refrigerator for a carton of milk. She measured some into the mixing bowl and returned the carton to the refrigerator. The Admiral locked eyes with Kevin. Neither parent seemed willing to explain further, so I gave him a brief account, the electric whir of Lenore’s mixer in the background.

  “That’s crazy.” Kevin pulled out a chair and sat down. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m not sure how long it was after you left Ruth’s building that Sam showed up. Or how he got in. As you left, did you see anyone or anything? Was the security door closed and locked?”

  “Yes, the door was locked. It’s one of those pneumatic-type doors, so there’s a time lag when you go through. But not that long. I didn’t pay any attention to whether it closed behind me. But I’d have noticed if someone was there. I’d have recognized Sam. But I didn’t see him.” Kevin stopped and looked around, eyes lighting on the coffee. He got up and poured himself a mug, then returned to his chair. “I just don’t remember seeing anyone go in or out of the building in the short time that I was there.”

  I walked to the door that led out to the Franklins’ patio and peered through the ruffled curtain at the fog-shrouded backyard. Then I turned back to Kevin. “Did you see a homeless woman anywhere nearby? She pushes her stuff around in a shopping cart.” Kevin shook his head. “Where did you go after you left Ruth?”

  Lenore shut off the electric mixer and it was suddenly very quiet in the kitchen. My question sounded like an afterthought, but Kevin’s guard came up. His words were casual but careful, punctuated with an offhand shrug.

  “A buddy of mine has a place over on Bayo Vista, not far from Ruth. I dropped by and we had a couple of beers, got to telling sea stories. I wound up sleeping on his sofa.”

  Plausible, I thought, but a little too studied. I wasn’t sure Kevin was telling me the truth, and I wanted to know why. “What’s your friend’s name?” I asked. With his parents right here, Kevin couldn’t avoid answering my question.

  The coffee mug he raised to his lips didn’t quite mask the tight line of Kevin’s mouth. “Chuck Porter. You remember Chuck, Dad. He was a year behind me at the Naval Academy. He’s at RedCom Twenty over on Treasure Island.”

  The combination of adrenaline and caffeine that had kept me going thus far was wearing off. “I’m fading fast,” I said, setting the mug in the sink. “I’d better go.”

  “Have some breakfast,” Lenore said. “You’re already here.” She knelt at a cupboard and brought out a waffle iron, which she plugged into an outlet near the stove. Soon it was hot enough to sizzle when Lenore sprinkled a few drops of water onto its surface. She poured some batter onto the iron and shut the lid. Kevin set the table while the Admiral poured some maple syrup into a ceramic pitcher and zapped it in the microwave to heat it.

  The four of us were seated around the table eating when Wendy padded barefoot into the kitchen, a small strawberry-blond wraith enveloped in a frilly white nightgown. She stopped, rubbed her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

  “Good morning, baby,” Lenore said brightly. She got up and ruffled the top of her granddaughter’s fluffy head. “I made waffles for breakfast. I even have pecans to put on top, just the way you like. Are you hungry?”

  The four-year-old nodded once and pulled out a chair containing a booster seat. She clambered into the seat and Lenore pushed the chair up to the table. Then Wendy looked at us and asked the question I knew she was going to ask.

  “Where’s Mommy?”

  Seventeen

  THE COFFEE I CONSUMED AT THE FRANKLINS’ DID not affect my ability to sleep. When I returned to my apartment Sunday morning, I headed straight for the bedroom and shucked off my clothes. My much-needed slumber was deep and dreamless, ending when the phone rang in mid-afternoon. I roused myself and reached for the receiver.

  “Did you see my note?” Alex asked.

  “Note?” I looked around but I didn’t see anything resembling a note. “No. Where’d you leave it?”

  “On the dining room table.”

  “I dived right back into bed when I got home.” I sat up, propped by pillows, and pushed my hair out of my eyes. “What did you say in your note?”

  “Just that I fed the cat and I’d call you this afternoon.”

  The cat in question was coiled into a ball at the foot of the bed with her nose tucked under her front paws. Under the covers I poked my foot at her. One eye opened, then closed again as she shifted slightly.

  “The Oakland police notified the air station duty officer about Sam Raynor,” Alex said. “The duty officer called Chief Yancy, who called his division officer, who called me.”

  I pictured the Navy chain of command as Alex had once described it, although in my mind it looked more like a big ladder, wide at the bottom and narrow at the top. The junior enlisted ranks, the sailors, crowded the lower rungs. Above them were the senior enlisted supervisors—the chiefs—then the division officers, who were junior to the department heads, senior officers like Alex. Department heads reported to the executive officer, who reported to the commanding officer, who ran the base and reported to some admiral down in San Diego.

  “The division officer said Raynor’d been shot,” Alex continued, “and the police have a suspect in custody. Who?”

  “Ruth. His wife.”

  Alex was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “This is a hell of a mess. Chief Yancy identified the body.”

  An interesting turn of events, given that I was fairly certain Sam Raynor had been having an affair with Claudia Yancy, the chief’s wife. “What happens when a sailor dies? You must have procedures.”

  “We have to do a JAG Manual investigation. JAG means Judge Advocate General. Any time a service member dies of something other than natural causes, the command has to investigate, to determine whether the death was in the line of duty.”

  “Duty had nothing to do with this.” My voice was grim. I recalled Ruth as she sat in that claustrophobic interview room at the Oakland Police Department, describing Sam Raynor’s hands around her throat.

  “Well, no,” Alex said. “Raynor was on liberty, so the investigation will be informal rather than a board of inquiry. Usually when a sailor dies out in town, it’s an accident, not murder. We have thirty days to complete the report, then it goes up the chain of command to the Judge Advocate General’s office in Washington, D.C. The commanding officer will assign someone to do it, first thing tomorrow morning. Of course, we’ll cooperate fully with the Oakland Police Department.”

  “What about cooperating with the defense attorney?”

  “Which means you? You don’t think she killed him?”

  “No. The field’s wide open, as far as I’m concerned. If I need information from the Navy, will the brass cooperate?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Alex said finally. “We’re as interested in finding out what happened to Raynor as you or the cops are.”

  But there was a difference, I thought, after I hung up the phone. The Navy merely wants an explanation of events. My first priority was proving Ruth Raynor’s innocence.

  I reached for Abigail, scooped her into my lap and tickled her fat round tabby belly. She purred and reached out one paw, tapping me lightly on the chin. Then I pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. After I’d showered and dressed, it was past three, but I had breakfast anyway, scrambled eggs and toast, while I glanced through the Sunday Tribune. I was washing dishes when the phone rang.

  “The family’s planning a picnic on Labor Day,” my mother said cheerfully. “Are you driving down Friday night or Saturday morning?”

  I stared at the calendar with dismay. Next weekend was Labor Day weekend. I was expected in Monterey for a visit with my mother and her large extended family of Doyles and Ravellas.

  “I don’t think I can make the trip,” I said.

  I got a chilly silence on the other
end of the phone. “What do you mean, you can’t make the trip?” Mother’s voice now had an edge. “You’ve been planning it for weeks. You said you’d clear your calendar.”

  “I did clear my calendar. But something’s come up.”

  “Something always comes up. Another case, any excuse not to visit me. What is it this time, another skip trace?”

  Now she was being sarcastic. Mother never did have much use for private investigating as a profession. When I studied history in college, she assumed I was going to teach, like my brother, father, and grandfather. When I went to work as a legal secretary and paralegal, she kept asking me when I was going to law school. Teachers and lawyers are respectable. A private detective snooping around in other people’s business just doesn’t have the same cachet.

  “My client’s been arrested. It’s important.”

  If my words were terse, hers were testy. “Of course it’s important. Your work’s always more important than your family.”

  Don’t say it, I thought. I’d heard that line before and it had prefaced a remark about it being the same way with my father. But she didn’t say it.

  “The whole family was looking forward to seeing you.” Mother paused, as though she were having trouble with the next sentence. “So was I.”

  I sighed. “Look, this started out to be a routine investigation. I really thought I’d have it wrapped up in time to go to Monterey. Then the subject got shot, late last night. My client’s about to be charged with murder, and I don’t think she did it. It’s too early to know how things are going to shake out. I’ll know more in the next couple of days. I’ll keep you posted but I really doubt that I can come to Monterey until later in September. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but that’s the way it is.”

  After I hung up the phone, I stared at the residue of scrambled eggs on my plate. All the resentment I’d felt at my parents’ divorce returned in force, most of it directed at my mother. How dare she walk out on my father? Of course, I’d always felt closer to him. Brian countered my “Mom liked you best” claim with a similar charge that I was always Daddy’s little girl. Still was, if I admitted it to myself. Dad was still on vacation, so I couldn’t call him. I decided I needed my brother’s leavening to dispel my black mood, so I reached for the phone and called Brian in Sonoma.