by Janet Dawson
“Not everything that comes in a can is cat food,” I told the assembled multitude lured into my kitchen by the sound of the can opener blade piercing metal. Abigail and Black Bart sat side by side in the doorway. Two pairs of eyes gazed at me expectantly.
“Sorry, guys.” The can held black beans. I drained off the liquid and spooned the beans into the salad I was concocting. Abigail gruffed at Black Bart as though it was all his fault and ambled off toward the living room. I added some chopped bell peppers and corn kernels to the mixture, gave everything a stir, and set the bowl inside the refrigerator. I called Kaz at Children’s Hospital. He assured me he was on his way out the door. Still, I waited until he’d actually arrived, carrying dessert, before I put the water on to boil the pasta.
It was past ten and we were curled up together on the sofa when he started making noises about leaving. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning before I leave,” he murmured in my ear. “And I haven’t packed yet.”
“And I have all those dishes.” I stretched like a cat but made no move to get up. Dishes could always wait.
“I’ll leave the chocolate cheesecake here. I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.”
“It’ll go straight to my hips.”
He ran an assessing hand over my body, creating a little tingle that went straight up my back. “Well, maybe I’d better take the cheesecake with me.”
I removed his hand from its exploration. “For that remark I might make you do the dishes.”
He shook his head and kissed me regretfully. “I really have to pack.”
I dragged myself to a sitting position and kissed him back. “All right. I’ll let you have a reprieve this time. Just so you call me when you get back from your travels.”
After another kiss on my front porch, perfumed by the small lemon tree in front of the window, I watched him walk across the courtyard toward the street. Then I went back inside to do the dishes.
Seventeen
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING TED MACAULEY went to the Oakland Police Department administration building at Seventh and Broadway. There he filed a citizen’s complaint, claiming he’d been assaulted by Sergeant Sid Vernon.
“Sid didn’t touch Macauley,” I told Wayne Hobart later that morning. I’d been doing some paperwork on a personal injury case I’d just wrapped up, when the phone rang. Wayne told me what had happened. Now Sid was facing an investigation by the Professional Standards Section of the Oakland Police Department, what used to be called Internal Affairs.
“I was there at Macauley’s apartment when Sid showed up,” I continued. “I’ll grant you he was angry. Sid took a step toward Macauley, after Macauley called Vicki a bitch, but Sid didn’t touch him. I got between them. Sid told Macauley to stop hassling Vicki. I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a tongue-lashing. Besides, how did Macauley know Sid was a cop?”
“Good question. Did Sid pull rank or anything like that last night?”
I played back the confrontation and shook my head, even though I was in my office and Wayne was several blocks away, at his desk in OPD’s Homicide Section. “No, Wayne, he didn’t Maybe Vicki said something early on, when she and Emily first encountered Macauley. Vicki’s housemates know what her father does.”
Wayne sighed deeply. “Well, the lieutenant is not happy about this. He figures whatever is happening on Garber Street is Berkeley’s show, and Sid’s got no business mixing in. Even if it is about his daughter.”
“Agreed. But we both know Sid. What happens now that this complaint, however bogus, has been filed?”
“One of the officers in Professional Standards will conduct an investigation, then make a report to the deputy chief,” Wayne said. “The report goes back down the chain of command to Sid’s supervisor, in this case the lieutenant. He agrees or disagrees with the results, sends it back up the chain, where the deputy chief decides what kind of disciplinary action will be taken.”
“Such as?”
“Could be anything from an oral reprimand to termination. But they’ll take Sid’s record into consideration. And he’s had a good record.”
“He told me once he’d had an oral reprimand,” I said. “But that was years ago, when he was in Traffic.”
“I know. It’s a wait-and-see situation, Jeri. There’s not much he can do about it right now, except keep his nose extremely clean.” Wayne paused, and I heard phones ringing and voices talking in the background. “You know, there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” I took a sip from the coffee mug on my desk. “I keep coming back to my original question. How did Macauley know Sid’s a cop? Unless someone told him. But who? And why? You think this could be a setup?”
“Could be,” Wayne said. “Sid’s usually as level-headed as they come. He’s got one button that can always be pushed, though, and that’s his daughter. Anyone who wanted to get a reaction out of him couldn’t have done better than to go after Vicki. Look, Jeri, I’ve got to go. As Sid’s partner, I can’t do anything that might look like I was interfering. However, if you were to nose around a bit, unofficially, of course...”
“I was planning to talk with Macauley’s roommate anyway. When I was at the apartment last night, before Sid showed up, I got the impression the roommate had something he wanted to tell me about Macauley. Something in connection with the whole business of harassing Vicki and Emily. I’ll let you know if I uncover anything. In the meantime, keep an eye on Sid, Wayne.”
“Will do.”
I hung up the phone as Cassie opened my office door, wearing a gray raincoat over today’s pea-green lawyer suit. “Oh, good, I was hoping to catch you.” She stopped and took off the coat. Then she peered at my face and frowned. “Why so glum?”
“It’s a long story.” I waved her in. “Come inside and I’ll tell you.”
We settled into chairs, me behind my desk and Cassie in front, with her slender legs and running shoes stretched out in front of her. I gave Cassie a rundown of what had happened over the past few days, culminating with the complaint filed against Sid.
“Good Lord,” she said when I finished.
“That’s all you have to offer?”
“If you’re looking for a crystal ball, believe me, I don’t have one. Nasty phone calls and stalkers. And Sid... Puts my search for the perfect wedding dress into perspective, doesn’t it?”
I smiled. “Is that why you wanted to talk with me?”
“Yes. A friend recommended a bridal shop in Marin County, over in San Rafael. I wanted to see if you could free up your schedule for another shopping expedition, sometime in the next couple of days.”
“I’ll try.” My smile turned into a wicked grin. “Why don’t you and Eric just elope? No fuss, no fancy dress.”
“Are you kidding? My mother would disown me. She’s enjoying this production. Just like she did when my sister got married.” Cassie stood up. “I’ll leave you to it, Jeri. I have a bunch of interrogatories to prepare.”
When Cassie had gone I picked up the phone and called Ted Macauley’s apartment. I was expecting an answering machine. Instead I got a human being. It didn’t sound like Macauley, but I couldn’t be sure. I kept my voice low and flat as I asked for David Walker. “This is Dave. Who’s this?”
“Dave, this is Jeri Howard. I’m the private investigator who came over to your place last night. I’d really like to talk with you. Is there any chance we can get together? Not there, somewhere else.”
“You want to talk about Ted, right?”
“Last night it seemed to me you had something you wanted to tell me.”
“Yeah, I do.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Listen, I was just heading out to do some shopping. I’ll meet you in an hour, at Noah’s Bagels, over at Alcatraz and College.”
The bagel shop was near the Oakland-Berkeley border, and parking anywhere near litis shopping district was difficult. Finally, I found a spot on Alcatraz and doubled back to College. Dave w
as at the counter, the handles of a canvas shopping bag over one arm. As I joined him, the counter clerk handed him a huge onion bagel loaded with cream cheese and salmon and a large container of coffee.
“Make that two coffees,” I said, slipping several bills from my wallet.
“Thanks.” He stroked his scraggly mustache. Then he sighed. “I’m gonna have to find a new place to live.”
I motioned toward a bench in one corner of the bagel shop. “Why is that?”
“Ted’s a real jerk,” he said. “And he gets jerkier by the minute.”
Dave settled his rear end onto the bench, took a large bite of his bagel, and wiped cream cheese from the ends of his mustache. “He’s not what you’d call easy to live with. Last night was a prime example. When I moved in last August, I thought it was a good deal. Reasonable rent, close to campus. But I’m getting tired of the way he acts. He’s always blowing off at people. And if he’s gonna get into a shouting match with everyone who comes to the door—”
“So last night was not an isolated incident?” Who else had Macauley been arguing with lately? Probably everyone. He was an argumentative sort.
“There was this other old guy,” Dave said. “Last week. In fact, when Mr. Vernon showed up last night, I thought it was the other guy.”
“What did this other man look like?”
“I didn’t really get a good look at him. He came to the door, Ted answered, like he was expecting the guy, then they went outside. I only caught a glimpse of him when I went out a few minutes later. He and Ted were on the porch, arguing. Not as tall as Mr. Vernon, but sandy hair, going gray. Looked a bit like Ted, come to think of it. I asked Ted later if that was his father, but he said no.”
I filed this curious incident away for further consideration, then turned to my more immediate question. “What did you want to tell me?”
“It was when you said he’d followed those two women and called them dykes,” Dave said. “What a jerk. After living with the guy, I know he thinks he’s Mr. Super Stud. But what you said about him hassling those two... Anyway, he said he didn’t know where those two women lived. But he’s lying, I’m sure of it.”
Now that was interesting. “What makes you think so?”
“Vicki and Emily. Garber Street, right?” When I confirmed this, he went on. “I saw that, and a phone number, written on a pad by the phone in Ted’s room, on his desk. I was in there a couple of days ago, looking for a book. That’s when I saw it. In Ted’s handwriting.”
“Do you think you can find that sheet of paper?” Not likely, I thought. Unless they weren’t all that regular about tossing their trash.
Dave shook his head. “I was looking for it last night, right after Ted left for his date. But he came back, almost caught me digging through the wastebasket in his room.”
“He came back? I saw him leave, with a woman.”
“Yeah. That was Lisa. She was late. They left, and Ted came back, about fifteen minutes later. He went into his room, made a couple of phone calls, then he went out I checked through the wastebasket again, but I didn’t find the note. Then I went to bed around eleven. I didn’t hear him come in after that, so I must have been asleep. He’s got an eight o’clock class, so he left early this morning.”
But Macauley hadn’t gone to class. He’d gone to the Oakland Police Department instead. “I’d like to talk with Lisa. Does she have a last name?”
Dave grinned and pulled a slip of paper from his blue jeans. “I thought you might want to talk with her. So I took the liberty of looking her up in Ted’s little black book. Her name is Lisa Spaulding and she lives over on Ellsworth.”
The Ellsworth Street address was a stucco box, as I called these common architectural excrescences that dated from the fifties. Painted a dingy beige too long ago, and way overdue for some maintenance, this one was two stories of apartments arrayed over ground-level carports. It looked as though it would fall down if the Hayward fault, a mile or so east in the Berkeley hills, ever let loose in that Big One the earthquake experts kept warning us was coming. I thought about that as I mounted the exterior metal stairs to the top floor, where Lisa Spaulding lived in the end unit.
I wasn’t sure I’d find anyone home in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, but Ellsworth, between Shattuck and Telegraph, was close enough to the U.C. campus that the students who lived in this neighborhood could come home between classes. The tall willowy blonde I’d seen last night at Macauley’s apartment opened her front door when I knocked. Now she peered at me through the resulting three-inch gap.
“Lisa Spaulding?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Jeri Howard. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk with you, about Ted Macauley.”
She didn’t bat an eye at the news that I was an investigator, seemingly not at all surprised that a detective would be inquiring about Macauley. Instead she repeated his name as though it left a bad taste in her mouth. “That creep. After last night, I never want to talk to him again.”
“What did he do?”
She opened the door a bit wider and I saw that she was about my height and very thin, bordering on skinny, with straight blond hair that fell over her shoulders. She was wearing blue jeans and a thick blue and lavender sweater. No shoes, just a pair of fuzzy gray socks.
“What didn’t he do? Got lots of time? Come on in and I’ll tell you.”
I accepted her invitation and stepped into a cluttered living room. A colorful yellow and orange afghan had been shoved to one end of the toast-brown sofa, and an array of books and papers were strewn across the coffee table. Lisa had been studying, and judging from the book titles I could see, she was an art major. “I’ve had it with this guy,” she said, resuming her seat on the sofa. “I only met him a couple of months ago. We’d been out a few times. It’s not like we were really close, but—”
“So what happened last night?”
She pulled her feet up into a cross-legged position. “We were supposed to go to an art exhibit in Oakland, at ‘Cackac’, you know, the College of Arts and Crafts. I told Ted I’d pick him up, since his place was on the way. He didn’t really want to go, but the artist is a friend of mine. It was kind of a five-to-eight cocktail thing, and I told Ted we’d put in an appearance and have dinner after. But I was late picking him up, because I had a last-minute phone call. When I finally did get to his apartment, he was really steamed and he yelled at me.” She looked indignant at being on the receiving end of Macauley’s spleen.
“Did you make it to the exhibit?” Not according to Dave, but I wanted to hear her version.
She shook her head. “We were in my car. I had just turned left, heading toward College. Ted was still fuming. He was really abrupt. I’m not sure if it was me or if there was something on his mind. All of a sudden he said he was sorry but he just couldn’t go. Some kind of an emergency. He got out of the car at the next corner and started walking back toward the apartment.”
That must have been not long after I’d left. I’d just missed seeing Macauley return to the apartment. Then, according to his roommate, he’d made some phone calls and gone out again. Where? I recalled what Dave had said about the older man who’d argued with Macauley. There seemed to be more going on with Ted man a young man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But what?
Maybe someone else who knew Macauley could give me some answers.
Eighteen
“YOU AND TED MACAULEY KNOW EACH other,” I told Nelson Lathrop. “You left out that fact when you were giving me your résumé.”
For once, Nelson didn’t look goofy. He looked chastened, and very young. His mobile mouth turned down in a frown and he avoided my eyes. It was after four. We were in the living room of the quarters he shared with Ben, who had gone off to his job waiting tables at Marquessa.
This one-car garage had been transformed by the addition of a second story that, from the outside, made the structure look top heavy. The apartment’s entrance faced th
e backyard, and its windows faced the driveway leading to Garber Street, taking the place of the garage door. Beneath these windows were deep built-in bookcases, their tops forming a window seat. Opposite this, more shelves held a TV, as well as a tape and CD player connected to small speakers. The concrete pad on which the garage stood had been covered with a thick brownish-gold carpet, which needed the attention of a good vacuum cleaner.
I stood near the shelves. A constricted hallway behind me led to the bathroom, the kitchenette, and narrow stairs that corkscrewed upward to a single large bedroom occupied by both young men. Nelson huddled on the sofa, one of those fold-out futons on a wooden frame, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees.
The room didn’t get much light, since the driveway was overhung by oak trees. Nelson sighed and leaned to his right, fumbling for the switch on the high-tech white metal floor lamp. All three of the lamp’s bulbs came into play, throwing bright light and stark shadows against the beige walls.
“I didn’t know him all that well,” he said finally.
“Come on, Nelson. I saw the yearbook at Ted’s apartment. You were both on the track team.”
“Okay, okay. But he was a senior. I was a sophomore. I knew him, but we weren’t like bosom buddies. I’ve barely talked to him since we graduated.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Nelson ran the long fingers of one hand through his untidy brown hair. His eyes segued to mine, then flicked away again. “Oh, hell.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to fan the flames, that’s all.”
I waited. Nelson was no exception to my rule that, sooner or later, the person who experiences my practiced private investigator silence will say something, just to fill that void. Now he wanted to explain himself,
“I’ve already got Marisol the queen of the man-haters biting my butt half the time just because I’m male. Can’t you see how she’ll react when she finds out I know this guy? It’ll be all my fault, somehow.”