by Janet Dawson
“I guess I’ve pissed off Mother,” I announced.
“So what else is new? What happened? C’mon, tell baby bro. You’ll feel better.”
I unloaded. I felt much better.
I arrived at my office at seven-thirty Monday morning, checked the messages on the answering machine and read through the Oakland Tribune. A sketchy article on page two described Sam Raynor’s murder, adding that Ruth was being held for questioning. At ten minutes to eight I walked the few blocks to Bill Stanley’s office, on the fifth floor of a building at the corner of Broadway and Nineteenth Street. I rang a buzzer outside the suite. A moment later Bill Stanley opened the door.
This morning the attorney was combed, shaved, and dressed in a snowy white shirt and well-cut suit trousers in a navy pinstripe. He had unbuttoned his shirt at the collar and cuffs, and loosened his tie, a vibrant floral print with splashes of yellow, orange, and magenta on a shiny blue background. He also wore a pair of bright red suspenders decorated with a repeating pattern of tiny black figures, diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades. With this ensemble, and the gambler’s glint in his hazel eyes, Bill Stanley looked like a riverboat cardsharp.
“What’s this?” I pointed. “Power suspenders?”
Bill hooked his thumbs through the suspenders and grinned. “Clarence Darrow never had a pair of galluses like these. Want some coffee?”
“Sure.” My feet sank into the thick forest-green carpet that covered the floor in the reception area and the hallway as I accompanied him to a combination lunchroom-kitchenette, with a microwave oven on a counter and a refrigerator in the corner. Next to the stainless steel sink a pot of coffee was already brewed. Bill took two mugs from a cupboard and filled both, handing one to me. Then he opened the refrigerator, pulled out a quart of milk, and sniffed the top of the carton to see if the contents had gone bad. Evidently it hadn’t, because he splashed some into his coffee.
“This way,” he said, and I followed.
Bill’s corner office had the same dark green carpet as the reception area and corridor. The walls were ivory and the tall windows had pale green vertical blinds open to a view of Broadway, Oakland’s main downtown thoroughfare, now busy with morning commute traffic. He also had a clear view down Nineteenth Street to Telegraph Avenue, where I saw the fading Art Deco husk of the Fox Oakland Theater. As I stared down at the old movie palace, I remembered how it looked years ago and wished someone with money and vision would rehab it into another jewel like the Paramount.
I turned from the window and looked at Bill. His desk was a wide oak rectangle, strewn with papers and files, yellow legal pads, pens and pencils in a pewter beer stein, and a notebook computer. Behind the desk I saw a swivel chair upholstered in well-worn brown leather and an oak credenza on which rested a telephone, a fat Rolodex, and an open leather briefcase. A coat tree stood in the corner, with Bill’s suit jacket hanging on one hook.
Bill waved me to a couple of chairs covered with nubby green tweed, arranged in front of his desk. A low table between the chairs held this morning’s Oakland Tribune and San Francisco Chronicle. I sat down and looked around, sipping my coffee. I’ve always wanted one of those lawyer’s bookcases with the individual glass doors for each shelf, and Bill had a pair of them, on the wall to my right. Above the credenza I saw a framed poster advertising the Oakland Ballet’s production of Le Train Bleu. Bill didn’t strike me as the ballet type, I thought as the attorney settled into his leather chair and set his coffee cup on the nearest file folder.
“Heard anything from the police or the D.A.’s office?” I asked.
Bill shook his head. “Too early. I’ll be over at the courthouse this morning. I’ll schmooze with the D.A., see what I can find out. Cops should have test results later today.”
“When’s the autopsy?”
“Don’t know. I’ll have someone find out. Let’s get the money matters out of the way first. What’s your usual rate?”
I had brought a copy of my standard contract with me. Now I took it from my purse and Bill and I went over it. “Looks good to me,” he said, signing it. “When Donetta gets in, I’ll have her cut you a check.”
“After we left police headquarters, I went over to the Franklins’ house.” I described my Sunday morning visit, adding that Kevin Franklin hadn’t spent the night there. “I’ll check his story. There’s probably nothing to it, but he certainly was evasive. What about Ruth’s little girl? Do you think she saw something that might help our case? I’d sure like to know what she told the police.”
“We’ll find out tonight,” Bill said. “I’ve arranged with the Franklins to talk to Wendy. Their place, seven o’clock. I’d like you to be there, since the kid knows you. In the meantime, start at the beginning and tell me everything about your investigation.”
I gave Bill a detailed account, from the day I was hired by Ruth Raynor and Blair Castle to locate Sam Raynor’s hidden assets, to my last conversation with Ruth on Friday, the day before the murder, right before she, Wendy, and I pigged out on ice cream at Fenton’s. He was particularly interested in Friday’s confrontation with Sam Raynor himself.
“He sounds like a jerk,” Bill said. “A dangerous jerk.”
“I agree. Raynor and I were out in the open with lots of people around. I can generally take care of myself. But I felt menaced. I wondered how a woman like Ruth could marry a guy like Raynor. That’s why I went over to talk with her, so I could understand it better. I guess the Sam Raynors of this world are very good at hiding their true natures.”
“And the women who marry them are very good at deluding themselves.” Bill washed down his cynical words with coffee. “I see this happen all the time. Blair Castle handles lots of divorces involving abusive husbands. The slimeball marries some woman, beats the shit out of her and the kids, she finally gets a bellyful and leaves the guy. Blair says for every woman who leaves, there’s probably four who stay.” He shook his head.
“And if she does leave, the husband won’t let go. I remember one case down in Fremont. Blair was frantic about it. She kept saying to me, he’s gonna kill her, he’s gonna kill her. So one night the ex-husband came after the ex-wife, with a shotgun. But she got him first.” Bill’s voice was matter-of-fact, leaving my imagination to illustrate the scene.
“Did you defend her?”
“Didn’t have to.” He waved his hand. “Clear-cut self-defense, lots of witnesses. D.A. didn’t even charge her.”
“The Raynor case isn’t that cut-and-dried. I think the D.A. will charge Ruth. And I don’t think she killed Sam.”
He set his coffee mug down and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “What do you base that on, Jeri? Gut instinct?”
“Yes. That’s what I’d call it.”
“I don’t fault it. I operate on guts too—instinct and gall. I’m not so sure the D.A. will charge. Let’s wait for the test results and see what the cops have. Bottom line is, my job’s defending Ruth Raynor. That’s your job too. I’m looking at mitigating circumstances here. If you want to investigate Sam Raynor’s murder, that’s okay with me as long as it doesn’t get in the way of defending Ruth. As I told you yesterday, anything you can find out about this guy will help our case. The more people who wanted to blow him away, the better it is for Ruth’s defense. If some of those people had opportunity, even better.”
I sipped my coffee as he talked, thinking about the three faces I’d seen in the pulsing red lights outside Ruth’s apartment building, two that I recognized and the third that I didn’t know. That face had been so full of anger that I’d made note of it. Would I ever see it again? I had a feeling that the person who belonged to that face was somehow tied into this. As for the other two, they were high on my list of people I wanted to interview. I intended to find out what they were doing at the scene of Sam Raynor’s murder.
“What do you think he did with the money?” Bill asked, bringing me back to the here-and-now.
“I think Raynor had several friends open bank a
ccounts under the friends’ names. Any deposits over ten thousand get reported to the feds, so I figure he broke it into smaller increments and spread it out all over the Bay Area. That way, if I find one bank account, I might not locate the others. So far that’s just a theory. I haven’t been able to find a paper trail.”
“It’s plausible,” Bill said. “Any candidates for these helpful friends and thrifty savers?”
I finished my coffee and set the mug on the low table next to me. “According to Ruth, there’s no family. Looks like Raynor moved the money from Guam via a Wells Fargo branch in San Jose. He may have disguised some of the cash as gambling debts, since he was involved in a regular poker game. That would be easy enough to do, small amounts over a period of time. I plan to check his poker-playing buddies. Raynor lived with another sailor named Pettibone, but he’s a flake. After meeting the guy, I don’t know that I’d trust him with grocery money, let alone a large chunk of cash.”
Bill leaned forward. “What about the girlfriend? If we’re playing hide-the-cash, I’d pick the girlfriend every time.”
“Raynor had two. I think he was involved with Claudia Yancy, the wife of his chief, who’s also one of the poker players. The other is Tiffany Collins, a civil service employee at the air station. Last month Tiffany traded up from a Subaru. She acquired a used Mercedes 450 SEL convertible, supposedly with her own money, although I understand Mr. Raynor handled the transaction.”
Bill whistled. “A car like that’s worth...”
“According to the insurance adjuster, about forty-five thousand. The car’s history, by the way. It was stolen last week. Sam Raynor’s the one who bought that car, no matter who it was registered to. And my guess is that the car theft is part of Raynor’s scam. The girlfriend files the claim, the insurance company pays her, and she gives the money to Raynor, which makes it a gift from her to him. Except none of this has happened yet. Too soon for the insurance company to pay the claim. Besides, I tipped off the adjuster. He’s going to be very slow with the paperwork.”
“Even with the car,” Bill pointed out, “that doesn’t account for all of Raynor’s missing cash. You’re probably right about him spreading it around. Do what you can to find it. But remember, our first priority is to beat this rap.”
I agreed with him. Ruth’s situation was of primary importance. But I had a feeling the money was the key.
“What I want you to do today,” Bill said, “is go over to that apartment building and beat the bushes for anybody who saw or heard anything. The cops supposedly have a witness, a neighbor. This Mrs. Parmenter says she saw Ruth dump the gun.”
Just as I’d thought. The elderly woman Ruth and I had encountered in the hallway on Friday afternoon. “Not unless she was right behind Ruth.”
“Yeah. I saw a sketch of the scene. Talk to the woman, find out what she saw, or thinks she saw. And what time she saw it. I want to know what happened when. If you can find another witness who can shake the neighbor’s story, all the better.”
“There’s something you should know,” I said. “I’ve been dating a guy named Alex Tongco, a lieutenant commander stationed over at NAS Alameda. He was Sam Raynor’s department head.” I told Bill about the Navy’s pending JAG Manual investigation. Was I being overly concerned about a possible conflict with the Navy in conducting my own inquiry?
Bill shook his head. “Hell, it’s not like we’re asking for classified information. I’ve had some dealings with the air station before. Worked out fine. If the information we need is discoverable, we can get it. Do what you have to. Any problems, let me know. As for your Navy friend, I trust your judgment. If it gets in the way, we’ll talk.”
The door to Bill’s office opened and a woman entered. She was tiny, less than five feet tall, with coffee-colored skin and short black hair sprinkled with gray. She wore a mauve silk dress with a shawl collar that showcased the gold necklace around her slender neck. Her brown eyes glanced at me briefly, but her objective was Bill.
“Bill, you’re due at the courthouse in twenty minutes,” she said, her voice stern.
“Yeah, I’d better get going.” Bill stood up, buttoning his collar and fixing his tie. “Jeri Howard, private investigator, meet Donetta Fox, my secretary and strong right arm. Never mind the names on the letterhead. Donetta runs the place.”
“Only because you need a keeper.” Donetta Fox turned to me and tilted her head to one side, looking me over as I got to my feet. “Private investigator. You’ve worked for us before.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” I told her.
“That’s why I run the place.” Donetta turned to Bill. “Do we have a new case?”
“Ruth Raynor. Her husband got killed late Saturday night. Nasty divorce, you know the routine. Mrs. Raynor’s father gave me a check. It’s in my top drawer.” Bill collected an armful of files and papers from his desk and transferred them to his briefcase. “I’ve signed Jeri’s contract. She needs some money.”
“I’ll take care of everything.”
Bill put on his jacket, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, tossing words over his shoulder. “Don’t forget, we talk to Wendy tonight. Seven o’clock.”
Eighteen
AFTER LEAVING BILL STANLEY’S OFFICE I DEPOSITED the check, then I retrieved my Toyota and headed for the Bay Bridge. I took the exit for Yerba Buena Island and Treasure Island. As I drove across the causeway, sunlight winked and shifted on the water of San Francisco Bay. In a nearby lagoon white-hulled sailboats dipped and shimmied at their moorings.
Today the gate was guarded by a ramrod-straight Marine whose semishaved head and muscled arms made him look as though he’d been carved from obsidian. I showed him my driver’s license and told him I was here to see Chief LeBard at the Treasure Island police station. The Marine picked up a phone in his guard shack and punched in a number. I hadn’t called to make an appointment but LeBard must have been in his office. I saw the Marine’s mouth move as he spoke into the receiver. Then he hung up the phone, stepped back outside, gave me a pass and waved me through.
I didn’t go directly to LeBard’s office. Instead I made an immediate right turn into the parking lot of the Treasure Island administration building and parked the Toyota in a visitor’s slot. The first floor lobby of the curved building contains a small historical museum, but I had viewed the contents of the glass display cases before. I checked a directory sign and took a long curved staircase to the second floor. Kevin Franklin’s friend, Lieutenant Commander Charles Porter, worked at RedCom 20, which was Navy talk for Readiness Command Region 20. I located the office, a large suite full of smaller offices, on the bay side of the building, the portals guarded by a civilian secretary. She was an older woman with short gray hair, wearing a stylish silky print and a lot of gold jewelry. Her eyes flicked over my blue slacks and checked shirt, and she wrinkled her nose, passing judgment on their appropriateness as attire. No doubt I came up short in her estimation.
“Jeri Howard to see Lieutenant Commander Porter,” I told the secretary.
She ran a finger down her appointment book and frowned. “He has an appointment at nine-thirty, with a Lieutenant Crowell. You say your name is Howard? Is he expecting you?”
“No, but it’s important.” I looked around me at the desks and the open doors of various offices. Four officers, two men and two women, stood in the doorway of one cubicle, their conversation punctuated by laughter. I pointed a thumb in their direction. “Is that him over there, the tall dark one?”
“No, he’s the blond one.” I set off in Porter’s direction, the secretary at my heels. “Commander Porter, this lady would like a word with you.”
The group outside the doorway broke up, three of the officers looking at me curiously as they headed in their own directions. Charles Porter’s back had been toward me. Now he turned and took a few steps toward me. He was a broad-shouldered man in a summer khaki uniform decorated with the usual array of ribbons on the left breast His skin was fair, the
type that sunburns easily, and he had blue eyes in a square face. He stopped and smiled pleasantly as he surveyed me. “You’re not Lieutenant Crowell.”
“No, I’m not.” I walked past him and paused at the doorway where he and the other officers had been standing. The desk inside the smaller office faced the door. At its front perimeter I saw a black nameplate with white letters, reading LCDR C. K. PORTER. I strolled in, past the desk to the window, which looked out at San Francisco Bay and the city beyond.
“Great view,” I said, my eyes sweeping over the wide, ever-shifting surface of the water to the Ferry Building, towering at the end of Market Street. “If this were my office, I’d move the desk so I could take advantage of the window.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
I turned to face him, my hip against the windowsill. “I’m Jeri Howard, an investigator, working for Ruth Franklin Raynor. Have you talked to Kevin Franklin since Saturday?”
His jaw muscle tensed, a rhythmic play of muscles around his mouth. His eyebrows met in a point above his nose and formed worried wings as he stared at me. Porter moved toward his desk, reaching for the telephone receiver. He wore a Naval Academy ring on his right hand, just like the one I’d seen Kevin wear. “How do I know you’re who you say you are? Suppose you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the base police and have you taken into custody?”
“Ask for Chief LeBard,” I shot back. “He’s expecting me. Or call Admiral Franklin.” I recited the phone number, but Porter made no move to call it. Instead his hand dropped away from the receiver. “Here’s your one good reason, Porter. Ruth Franklin Raynor is in jail. Her husband was murdered Saturday night.”