Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  “A couple of things,” I said. “First of all, Harlan’s car.”

  “The tigermobile? What about it?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Don’t know. It’s not at his apartment?” Upon hearing my negative response, he continued. “Assumin’ he drove to the club, it’s probably parked in the lot there, or somewhere in the vicinity. Why?”

  “I need to take a look at it, to see if it has some damage.”

  “Was he in an accident?” Duffy asked.

  “Maybe.” I didn’t want to go into detail about Rosie and her mark.

  Duffy said he’d call the air station to see if anyone had spotted the car. “You said there were a couple of things on your mind. What’s the other?”

  “Harlan’s middle initial. T for Texas, T for tiger. What does it really stand for?”

  Thirty-seven

  I DROVE TO BENICIA IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON and parked my car on a street in a large new subdivision just off Interstate 780. I was armed with a large bottle of mineral water to counteract the heat, and a paperback mystery as a buffer against the boredom of the stakeout. The house I was watching, directly across the street, was pale blue stucco with a double car garage, and it had a closed-up look because the owners were away for the weekend. I hoped that, like Duffy LeBard, they would come home early, driven by a desire to beat the traffic jams that always developed on the last day of a three-day weekend.

  I was halfway through my mineral water and five chapters into my novel when the garage door of the house I’d been watching began to creep upward. Automatic opener, I realized, as a boxy Jeep Cherokee drove up the street and pulled into the driveway. The vehicle’s occupants opened their respective doors and got out, dressed in summery casual clothes that spoke of a carefree holiday weekend. The driver opened the back of the vehicle and removed two large zippered nylon tote bags and a large cardboard carton.

  The Cherokee was red, I noticed as I crossed the street, brighter in hue than the fat round tomatoes in the carton, certainly brighter than the Buick sedan parked in the garage. Ruben Padilla glowered at me as I examined the rear fenders of the Cherokee, searching for Rosie’s R. It wasn’t there. What I did notice was the bumper sticker, a white strip with red letters reading EASY DOES IT. That phrase was a common sight these days, a dead giveaway that whoever put the sticker on the car was involved in a twelve-step program such as Alcoholics Anonymous, recovering from one or more addictions ranging from alcohol to drugs to gambling. In light of what Errol had discovered about Ruben Padilla’s prior record, his problem was—or had been— booze.

  Arms akimbo, I looked up at the two adults who had joined me at the back of the Cherokee. Ruben’s face was dark with anger at the sight of me. His mouth worked as though he were ready to let fly with an outburst. Denise radiated alarm, her teeth gnawing her lip. Yet neither of them said anything, no doubt because the boy was there.

  I examined eight-year-old Scott Raynor, my eyes meeting his curious blue gaze. His mother and stepfather had been hiding him in Salinas since his father showed up earlier in the summer. The boy was wiry and tanned and he was going to be tall. He wore shorts and a T-shirt with an ice cream stain on the front. One knee showed a scab, and when I got close to him, my nose picked up that dusty, sweaty scent children get when they’ve played hard. With his curly red-gold hair, he looked disturbingly like his father, Sam Raynor, a daily reminder to Denise of her disastrous first marriage.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, Denise put a protective arm around her son’s shoulders and drew him close into a fierce embrace. The kid squirmed a bit and stared at me, wondering what the heck was bothering all these grown-ups.

  “What are you doing here?” Denise asked in a low voice. “How did you find out where we live?”

  I walked to the sedan parked in the garage and looked at the rear. No marks marred the dark red finish. Then I checked the front, on the driver’s side, and saw the crumpled spot, just where I knew it would be. I turned and looked at the three of them. They had followed me up the driveway and stopped at the entrance to the garage, Ruben and Denise bracketing Scott.

  “I got your address from the DMV,” I told Denise. “A week ago Saturday night you made a left turn from MacArthur Boulevard onto Howe Street in Oakland. You hit a red Subaru. The other driver got your license number. She was Sam’s current girlfriend, by the way.”

  Denise’s face paled over her mint-green maternity blouse. She plunged one hand into her shoulder bag and pulled out a set of keys, handing them to her son. “Take the bags into the house,” she ordered. “And stay there.”

  “How come?” Scott asked. He knew something was up, but his question netted a stern don’t-argue-with-me look from Denise. He sighed and went to fetch the tote bags, hauling them to the door leading from the garage to the house, which he unlocked with the keys Denise had given him.

  When he was gone, I folded my arms across my chest. “Both of you were on Piedmont Avenue the night Sam was killed. Why?”

  “You were there?” Denise stared at her husband. “What were you doing there? You never said anything.”

  Ruben’s mouth twisted. “You told me the car got hit in the parking lot at the bank. So I guess we’re even.”

  Denise sighed and covered her face with her hands. “I need to sit down.”

  Ruben strode quickly to the front wall of the garage, where I saw a workbench and shelves displaying an array of tools. He pulled a stool from under the workbench, carried it to the middle of the garage and set it down on the oil-stained concrete. Denise sat down wearily, and Ruben took up a protective position, standing in back of her, his big thick-fingered hands resting on her shoulders. She reached up and patted one hand, then took a deep breath.

  “I went to see her. Ruth. But I lost my nerve.”

  “How did you know where she lived?”

  “I did a little detective work of my own.” Denise’s chin tilted as she flashed a brief smile. “When Mitch Burgett stumbled onto me at the bank, he mentioned that Sam had married again and that he was in the process of getting a divorce. I asked him who Sam’s latest victim was. That went right over Mitch’s head. He never could see Sam for what he was, even when Sam was beating me.” Denise’s smile disappeared.

  “He said Sam’s wife was named Ruth Franklin and she was an admiral’s daughter Sam met in Hawaii, but her folks lived here. When Mitch said Franklin, I recognized the name. Her father’s that admiral from Alameda that ran for the state senate and got beat in the primary. I remembered seeing him on a television debate on one of the cable access channels. A poker-up-his-ass kind of guy.”

  I nodded. At one time I may have described Joe Franklin that way myself. “So you got out the phone book and called all the Franklins.”

  Denise nodded. “It was easy. There aren’t that many Franklins in Alameda. I got Mrs. Franklin. On the phone she sounded like a really nice lady. So I lied to her. Said I was in high school with her daughter Ruth and I’d heard Ruth was back in the area and I’d love to see her again. And Mrs. Franklin believed me. She gave me Ruth’s address and phone number. Just like that.”

  I’d used the same technique myself, to obtain information from unsuspecting and trusting people, like Lenore Franklin. “When did you call Mrs. Franklin?”

  “About ten days before... before Sam was killed. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to contact Ruth. If I did it, should I call her on the phone? Or just go visit her? I couldn’t decide what to do.”

  “Why did you want to talk to Ruth?”

  “I’m not sure.” Denise looked perplexed at her own behavior. “When Mitch found me, it turned my whole world topsy-turvy. Sam showed up and threatened to take Scott. I felt like I was under siege. But not just me. I knew there was this other woman, Ruth, going through the same thing. Maybe I could offer her some comfort. Maybe we could band together and vanquish the dragon.”

  She slumped tiredly on the stool. Ruben could contain himself no longer, words
tumbling from his mouth in a burst of indignation. “You didn’t tell me any of this. All I knew is that you were brooding and upset. I could see the tension in your face, feel it in your body. I was worried about you and the baby.” He looked up at me. “She had a miscarriage the first year we were married. I was afraid we’d lose this one. It’s been like this ever since that creep ex-husband showed up.”

  “Did you ever meet Sam face-to-face?”

  Ruben balled his fists and snarled out the words. “If I had, I’d’ve taken him apart.”

  “Like the guy you put in the hospital before you wound up in Soledad?”

  Ruben paled. His hands dropped to his sides. “You know about that?”

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.” Denise roused herself and reached for his hand. “I was afraid of what you might do. You’ve been stressed-out too. I didn’t know where you were that night. I was afraid you were in a bar.”

  His face crumpled. “Damn it, Denise. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ve been sober since I got out of jail.” He looked at me, anguished. “God damn it, things have been out of kilter since the day Raynor walked into the bank and started making threats about Scott. He didn’t care anything about that boy. He just wanted to torment Denise. You gotta understand, Denise and Scott are the best things that ever happened to me. I don’t want anything to screw that up.”

  “I do understand,” I told him.

  “I wasn’t in a bar.” Ruben looked down at Denise and stroked her shoulder. “I went to an AA meeting here in Benicia, and blew off some steam. When I got home, I saw your car pulling out of the driveway. It was nine-thirty. I got upset again. Where the hell were you going? So I followed you.”

  “You followed me?” she echoed. “To Oakland?”

  “Wait a minute. Back up,” I said, feeling as though I were directing traffic. “We’re talking about Saturday, the night Sam was killed? Ruben, you went to a meeting. And Denise, you finally decided to go visit Ruth. Why? Why Saturday night?”

  “Ruben and I had a fight,” Denise said. “During dinner. We’ve been short with each other ever since this started. Ruben slammed out of the house, steam coming from his ears. And I threw a plate against the wall as I was cleaning up after dinner. That’s when I decided I had to talk to Ruth. I had to talk with someone else who’d been through what I had. I called the number her mother had given me but there was no answer. I was really jumpy and restless, and all of a sudden I just wanted out of the house. So I got in my car and drove to Oakland.”

  “What time did you get there?” I asked. “And what did you do when you arrived?”

  “After ten. I found the apartment building. I found her name, R. Franklin, apartment 303. But there wasn’t any answer when I pressed the buzzer.” Denise sighed and shook her head. “So I got back in my car. I thought about waiting. I thought about going somewhere for a cup of coffee. But I couldn’t make up my mind what to do. It was ridiculous. I was paralyzed with indecision. I guess I waited for about five minutes. Then I started up the car and circled the neighborhood a few times. I was on my third pass when I hit that car. At that point I thought, this is insane. I’ve got to go home. So I did.” She glanced up at her husband, her face troubled. “Ruben wasn’t here. He didn’t come in till much later.”

  I looked at Ruben and he continued the story. “I saw Denise park in front of that apartment building. I found a spot in a lot across the street. I saw her go up to the door, then leave.”

  “Did you see anyone else enter or exit the building?” I asked.

  Ruben rubbed his chin with one big hand and shrugged. “A couple of minutes after Denise drove away, I saw a man and a woman. The guy was carrying a kid.”

  Ruth and Kevin, I thought, arriving home with Wendy. So it must have been around ten-thirty. “What did you do then?”

  “I walked over to the building to check that board that lists all the tenants. I didn’t see any names I recognized. I’m standing there wondering what my wife is doing visiting this apartment in Oakland in the middle of the night I feel angry again.” He balled his right hand into a fist and smacked it into the open palm of his left. “I don’t drink anymore but I get these sugar jags, chocolate cravings. So I walked over to the main drag, Piedmont Avenue, and I found a place that had coffee and pastries. Had coffee and some cheesecake with chocolate chips. With all that caffeine and sugar, no wonder I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night.”

  “What time did you leave the dessert place?”

  “Don’t know. I think it was past eleven. The parking lot was just around the corner but I didn’t feel like going home. I walked up Piedmont to MacArthur, then back up Piedmont on the other side of the street. Got all the way to a cemetery before I turned back. I don’t know what time it was. When I got to the parking lot, mere were flashing red lights everywhere. I walked up to the police line, curious just like everyone else. And I heard a cop, talking into a radio. He said the victim had been shot, and his name was Sam Raynor.”

  Ruben gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Then I thought, good, somebody blew the scumbag away. So I stood there for a while, just watching. You must have seen me then. I hung around for a long time. I don’t know how long. It wasn’t until I drove home that I thought about Denise being there and wondered if she was in some kind of trouble.”

  “You think I shot him?” Denise asked, her voice exasperated. “Where would I get a gun? You don’t have one. I don’t even know how to use one. I’d probably shoot myself.”

  “It was Ruth’s gun.” They both looked at me, startled, as though they’d forgotten I was there. “Sam forced his way into her apartment and threatened to take Wendy, just the way he threatened to take Scott. Ruth got her gun. She and Sam struggled and it went off. Sam choked her until she lost consciousness. He was shot outside her apartment, in the hallway. Ruth didn’t kill him. Someone accompanied Sam into the building. That’s why it’s important for me to know whether either of you saw Sam, or saw anyone enter or exit the building.”

  I took them through Saturday night one more time, enough to confirm that neither of them had seen more than what they’d already told me. “A different question, Denise. When you were married to Sam, how well did you know his relatives?”

  “Just the ones in Gilroy,” she said, with a barely suppressed shudder. “Sam’s mother, his aunt Elva, Mitch and his sister Nancy.”

  “Did Sam or his family ever mention a cousin Ty, or some Tyrone relatives in Bakersfield?”

  “Not that I recall. Or maybe I’ve blocked it out.”

  I nodded. “I want you to do something for me, Denise. I need information, the kind of information that’s hard for me to get. But you work in a bank, with access to computerized records. I’m going to give you a name and a social security number.

  “I think this person has a lot of bank accounts, all over the Bay Area. I want to know how many, where, how much, all the information you can locate.”

  Denise frowned as she contemplated this blatant breach of banking regulations. “If anyone finds out, I could lose my job.”

  “You can also help me catch a killer.”

  Thirty-eight

  DUFFY LEBARD CALLED ME LATE TUESDAY MORNING with the answers to my questions. As soon as I got off the phone with him, I called the real estate firm in Gilroy where Nancy Tate worked. She wasn’t at the office, but when I told the receptionist it was urgent, she patched me through to Nancy’s home phone number. She answered on the third ring.

  “Tell me about your cousin Ty,” I said.

  She did. We were on the phone for half an hour. After I finished that call, I kept looking at the phone, waiting for it to ring, willing Denise Padilla to call me with the information she had promised to obtain.

  The phone didn’t ring. Its silence was making me crazy so I left the office, heading for the Alameda County Courthouse to do some routine sifting through files at the offices of the county assessor and recorder. T
hat done, I had a late lunch on the way back to my office. When I unlocked my door, I saw that the message light was blinking, but none of the three messages were from Denise. Muttering impatiently under my breath, I returned the calls. Then I switched on my computer and wrote a report for the client who’d requested the information I’d found at the courthouse.

  It was nearly four when Denise called. “I’ve got what you need,” she said. “It took me most of the day, but there’s a lot. Do you have a fax machine?”

  I gazed like a proud mother at my brand new acquisition and gave Denise my fax number. Soon the fax machine hummed and sheets of paper emerged from its maw, confirming my theory. Now it was time to leave the office for the streets.

  According to Duffy, Harlan Pettibone was to have been released from the brig by noon today. He had a one o’clock appointment at the Navy Legal Service office on Treasure Island, where he was to be processed for a bad conduct discharge, based on his less-than-sterling record in the Navy. Then, presumably, he was to report to his command, Port Services at the Naval Air Station, Alameda.

  Since I couldn’t get on the base, my best chance for picking him up was at the Alameda apartment he had shared with Sam Raynor. At twenty minutes to five I parked directly opposite the tired-looking L-shaped structure on Pacific Street. From that vantage point I could see the residents arriving home from work. Judging from the body language of those I saw getting out of their cars, Harlan’s neighbors appeared to be as weary as the sagging stucco building where they lived. There’s something about the first day back at work after a three-day weekend that does that.

  For the next hour or so I watched the evening parade of people check their mail and enter their apartments. So far Harlan hadn’t come home. The curtains were drawn at the window of apartment 210, and I didn’t see the orange Camaro anywhere in the parking lot. I waited. Mr. and Mrs. Torelli departed the manager’s apartment, with Honeybunch in tow. A woman exited the apartment next door to Harlan’s, carrying a basket piled high with clothing, and went downstairs to a room at the corner of the L, to what I guessed was the laundry room.