Till The Old Men Die

by Janet Dawson

  Mabuhay is the only Tagalog word I know, a word of greeting, like “hello” or “welcome.” In this case it welcomed the traveler to the exotic, faraway islands of the Philippines, illustrated by a window full of large color posters of jungle-covered mountains looming over turquoise water, sandy beaches, and palm trees. A collection of travel books and brochures decorated the window ledge.

  The travel agency was closed. A sign on the door listed the hours as ten to six, and it was just past nine. I peered through the window at the desks and computer terminals visible in the dim light. Then I saw someone move at the rear of the office. A light switched on, and Dolores Cruz walked toward a desk, the skirt of her red and yellow dress swirling around her. She carried a red straw handbag which she set on the desk, fumbling inside as she picked up the telephone. I backed away from the window and headed for my car.

  According to the business name records on file at the Alameda County Courthouse, Mabuhay Travel was owned by Arthur and Perlita Randall, who lived at an address in Daly City. It was an easy bet that the Charles Randall who owned the condo where Dolly lived and the car she drove was related in some way to Arthur Randall. I just had to find the connection.

  A computer consultant named George has an office next door to mine. He offered advice and recommendations when I bought my own computer equipment, and I pick his brain when necessary. He subscribes to an array of data bases, something I can’t afford to do. When I need information, he digs it out and bills me for his services. Trouble is, he keeps odd hours, and this morning he wasn’t in. I’d have to catch him later. In the meantime I had other resources. I requested a credit check on Dolores Cruz and all three of the Randalls, as well as a Dun and Bradstreet report on Mabuhay Travel.

  Locking my office, I went next door to the law firm of Alwin, Taylor, and Chao. Since Cassie Taylor and I are good friends, the partners and I have mutually beneficial arrangements. In return for use of their copy and facsimile machines, I buy supplies. In exchange for my investigative services at a reduced rate, I get case referrals and the chance to pick lawyers’ brains when I need answers to questions.

  I waved at the receptionist. Behind her, one of the firm’s two legal secretaries was wrinkling her face in concentration as she stared at her computer screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Bill Alwin’s door was closed, which meant he was with a client or in court. Cassie’s office was unoccupied. I found Mike Chao in the book-lined hallway, flipping through the pages of a volume of West’s Annotated California Codes. He was the law firm’s resident expert on immigration law.

  “How would I get some information out of the Immigration and Naturalization Service?” I asked him.

  “With a crowbar.” He grinned. “Those government bureaucrats are tight-mouthed. Besides, there are Privacy Act considerations. Violating the Privacy Act is a felony with big penalties. Working on a case?”

  I nodded. “I want to check on someone’s immigration status.”

  “Officially, your best bet is to contact the district director of the INS. Of course, that doesn’t mean you’ll get a reply. Even if you do, you might not get any information. And it will take a while.”

  “And unofficially?”

  Mike shrugged. “I can ask around, very discreetly. Give me the name. But I really can’t promise anything.”

  “I understand. Thanks.” I followed him to his office and told him what I knew about Dolores Cruz. Whether or not she had married Dr. Manibusan in Manila last August, she had to have entered the United States on some kind of visa, legal or otherwise.

  When I returned to my office, there was a message on my answering machine from Alex Tongco, asking me to call him back as soon as possible. “I’ve set up a lunch date with Edward Villegas,” he told me when I got through to him at the Naval Air Station. “Noon today, the Rusty Scupper.”

  “I’ll be there.” I finished up some paperwork and left the office, planning a stop at the Oakland post office before going to the restaurant. Outside my building I saw Cassie walking toward me. It was another warm day, the sun bouncing off the pavement, but she looked cool in her beige linen suit. Someone was with her, a small-boned woman in a jade green jump suit, with straight black hair brushing her collar and a large red nylon camera bag slung over one shoulder.

  “Hi, Jeri.” Cassie waved at me and I stopped. “This is my friend from the East Bay Women’s Network, Felice Navarro. Felice, this is Jeri Howard. She’s a private investigator.”

  “Private eye? That’s great.” A topaz ring in a chunky gold setting glittered as Felice Navarro stuck out her right hand. She was in her late twenties, with a wide, enthusiastic smile and an accent flavoring her words. “I’m doing a photo series on women in nontraditional jobs. Will you let me follow you around for a couple of days while you’re working?”

  “Most of what I do isn’t particularly photogenic,” I said, thinking of this morning’s stakeout.

  “Oh, but it sounds so fascinating,” Felice said. “How did you make such a career choice? Was your father a policeman?”

  “No, he’s a history professor at Cal State. I was a paralegal for a while, in the same law firm where Cassie worked before she went to law school. Then I went to work for a local investigator. After he retired, I went into business for myself.”

  “Call me, and let’s talk about it.” Felice reached into her camera bag for her business card, and I gave her one of mine. Then she looked at her watch. “I wonder where Rick is. He was supposed to pick me up. I’m shooting a job for my brother, down at the Oakland waterfront.”

  “Imports, right?” Cassie added.

  “Yes. From the Philippines and other Asian countries. He has a warehouse south of Market in San Francisco, plus two shops, one near Union Square and one at the Stanford Mall in Palo Alto. Now he’s thinking of expanding to this side of the Bay.”

  “There are three import shops down there already,” I commented. The Port of Oakland owns a lot of land along the estuary shore at Jack London Square. Development is proceeding at a brisk pace. Each time I visit the area I’m struck by the changes. I didn’t think the area could support another import shop, but Felice shrugged.

  “I know. But everything Rick Navarro touches turns to gold. He’s quite the entrepreneur. Like father, like son.” She grinned as she spoke, but the words had an undertone of sarcasm.

  At that moment a sleek black Jaguar pulled up to the curb beside us. Felice waved at the driver, a dark-haired man talking on a car phone. Finishing his call, he cut the engine, got out, and approached us. “Cassie, Jeri,” Felice said, “this is my brother Rick.”

  Rick Navarro was handsome in a rough-hewn way, about five feet eight with a powerfully built body that moved easily in an expensive gray suit. A diamond stickpin glittered in his red striped tie. He smiled — white, even teeth in a square dark face — and shook my hand and Cassie’s as Felice completed the introductions. He was closer to my own age of thirty-three, perhaps older.

  “Are you an attorney, too?” he asked me.

  “No, a private investigator.”

  “An unusual career for a woman. I suppose my sister has already buttonholed you about this photo series of hers.”

  “Yes, she has.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll say goodbye now. I have a lunch date. It was nice meeting both of you.”

  “Call me,” Felice said. She turned to her brother. “Speaking of lunch, you are going to feed me after I take these pictures for you. At Scott’s. I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  It was now a quarter to twelve, not enough time to stop at the post office. I drove directly to the Rusty Scupper on the Oakland Embarcadero. Like many of the restaurants lining the waterfront, the Scupper was built on pilings over the estuary, with an outdoor deck. It shared a parking lot with a small marina full of sailboats, and a condominium-office complex that included a yacht broker’s office. Inside, I took a seat at the far end of the bar, facing the dining room with its long expanse of
window looking out at the water, where a pelican dived for its lunch. I ordered a bottle of Calistoga mineral water and the fried mozzarella sticks and waited.

  Alex arrived on the stroke of noon, resplendent in a summer khaki uniform with the gold oak leaves of a lieutenant commander on his collar and an impressive collection of ribbons pinned above his left breast pocket. He scanned the bar area, giving no indication that he’d seen me. He spoke briefly to the hostess, men stepped to one side. A few minutes later a dark-haired man in slacks and a blue jacket walked in and introduced himself to Alex. The hostess escorted the two men to a table near the window. As they walked past me, I glanced at Edward Villegas. Early thirties, I guessed, with Asian features and a muscular body. He looked self-assured and friendly. Could be a writer, I thought, as he claimed. But what does a writer look like?

  When they reached the table, Alex took the chair facing away from me, so I had a clear view of Villegas’s face. I ordered another Calistoga while the two men talked and ate lunch. It looked like Villegas was doing most of the talking, smiling and using his hands for emphasis. In fact, he was constantly in motion, as though he couldn’t sit still. I wondered how Alex was faring. I sipped my drink and glanced out at the shimmering water on the estuary, keeping one eye on the table as a long barge went by, pushed by an impossibly small tugboat.

  Finally the waiter brought the check and Villegas quickly reached for it. I slipped off my stool and made my way around the bar to the door, timing my exit so that I walked outside just as Alex and Villegas shook hands and parted. Alex walked off to the left, toward his bright red convertible. Villegas moved down the sidewalk that ran next to the blue-roofed condominium complex, headed in the same direction where I’d parked my car. I followed several paces behind him. He paused outside the yacht broker’s office to fire up a cigarette. I slowed my step, rummaging in my purse as though I couldn’t locate my keys. Then he moved again, walking briskly past my Toyota. Villegas unlocked a gray Nissan sedan, fairly new, several parking slots down the row. I cut between two parked cars and crossed behind the gray car as he started it, getting a good look at the California license plate. As soon as he backed out of the slot and drove toward the street, I wrote down the number.

  Back in my office I called the Oakland Police Department. When the operator came on the line, I asked to be connected with Sergeant Walters in Records. I spent a moment or two on hold, looking at a spiderweb high in the right-hand corner of my ceiling. Then the sergeant picked up the call.

  “Hey, Angie, it’s Jeri Howard.”

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said, her big voice raspy from too many cigarettes. “What’s up?”

  “I’d like to find out if someone has a police record. Can you help me?”

  “Sure. What’s the name?”

  “Edward Villegas.” I spelled it for her and gave her a description of Villegas as well as the license number of the Nissan he was driving.

  Angie hummed tunelessly as I talked, as she always did when she was taking notes. “Okay. I’ll see what shakes out. Might take a couple of days.”

  “It’s not a priority. Thanks, Angie. I’ll owe you.”

  “Damn straight. Come down to the Warehouse some night and buy me a drink.”

  It was time to head for the Parkside Towers, to keep my appointment with the real estate agent. But first I had to dress for the part. I have several changes of clothing stashed at the rear of my office, and now I put on a suit of brown herringbone tweed and an ivory blouse with a bow at the neck, left over from my days as a paralegal. It took me several attempts to tie the bow. I was out of practice. I put on a pair of lowheeled pumps and combed my short auburn hair back from my face. Then I brushed green eyeshadow onto my eyelids. A swipe of lipstick completed my transformation into upscale yup.

  I was early for the appointment with the real estate agent, early on purpose. Waiting in the lobby of the Parkside Towers gave me time to look around and chat with the security guard, a sharp-eyed silver-haired man with a name tag reading O. Barnwell. Barnwell looked fit and had ex-cop stamped all over him. He was informative, but only up to a point, as he presided over his domain from a counter just to the left of the front door. The phone rang and the guard picked it up, giving me the opportunity to stroll to the wall behind him and check the names on the mailboxes. Dolores Cruz wasn’t listed, but Charles Randall lived in Unit 803.

  The real estate agent arrived, apologizing for being late, even though she wasn’t. Her name was Estelle. She was in her forties, a birdlike woman with a helmet of dyed platinum hair. She carried a brown leather case in her right hand. Her left hand fluttered like a wing as she talked, and her beaklike nose twitched at the prospect of a hefty commission.

  “I am extremely concerned about security,” I told Estelle and Barnwell, jumping right into my prospective-buyer routine.

  “State-of-the-art,” Estelle trilled, not missing a beat as she opened the leather case and took out a fistful of brochures. Residents were issued electronic cards that opened the front door and the garage doors. Estelle took out a map of the building, and Barnwell obligingly pointed out all the doors, adding that the alarm system was tied in directly with the Oakland Police Department. There was a guard on duty twenty-four hours a day, and he assured me the Parkside Towers had never had an incident, either in the building or on the grounds, as long as he had been in charge. He implied there wouldn’t be, either.

  As Barnwell talked, I took lots of notes. When he was finished with his spiel, I thanked him and let Estelle shepherd me to the elevator. We waited as a tanned, white-haired couple stepped off the car, then we climbed aboard and Estelle hit the button for the tenth floor, where the available unit was located. On the way up, Estelle inquired about my job status and finances. I didn’t tell her about my checking account and IRA down at Wells Fargo, but I did mention that I worked for a law firm here in Oakland, which isn’t entirely untrue. As a private investigator, I do a lot of prelitigation work for several local law firms, large and small. If Estelle wanted to believe I was an attorney, I’d let her.

  “How many units are there on each floor?” I asked as the elevator doors opened.

  “Ten,” Estelle said. “Four on either side and one on each end. The penthouse has only six units.” She opened a brochure. “This shows the layout of each floor.”

  I studied the floor plan as she led me down the hall. It looked like the numbering started at the elevators and ran clockwise around the elongated rectangle. That meant that Dolly lived three doors to the left of the elevator, on the lake side of the eighth floor. The brochure showed stairways located on both ends of the building, between the third and fourth units and the eighth and ninth units.

  Estelle unlocked the door to 1005, the two-bedroom condo she wanted to sell me. The door was solid rather than hollow-core. It had a peephole, a spring lock, and a dead bolt that opened with a key outside and an ornate latch on the inside. I asked Estelle if each unit had a similar door.

  “Oh, yes, this is standard,” she said. “Unless individual owners have added other types of locks.”

  We stepped into a tiled entryway. On the wall next to the door was a telephone intercom, a link to the guard. Estelle gave me a tour of the empty condo, extolling its virtues, while I consulted the brochure to see if this floor plan matched 803, Dolly’s unit. It was similar, though not exactly the same. I opened the sliding glass door leading to the balcony, which gave me a view of downtown Oakland and the San Francisco skyline across the Bay. While Estelle pointed out the roominess of the outdoor storage closet, I leaned over the balcony rail, wondering how easy it would be to get from one balcony to another. Spy-novel stuff, I thought, shaking my head at an image of Jeri Howard, girl detective, dangling from a rope.

  I asked to see the parking garage. We took the elevator down to the first floor and stepped through the security door. It looked like every other parking garage I’d been in, with lines and numbers painted on the concrete surface. I
t appeared one of the electronic security cards was required to open the door from the garage to the lobby as well, probably the same one that lifted the metal garage gate.

  I dawdled along, noting the location of the garbage Dumpsters in the back corner, listening to Estelle’s sales pitch, until I got what I came for. A Lincoln Continental stopped outside the metal entrance gate and the driver inserted his electronic card into the apparatus on the driver’s side. The gate moved slowly upward until it paralleled the low ceiling, and the Lincoln drove into the garage, heading for its parking slot. I counted the seconds until the gate dropped back into place. Plenty of time to dart into the garage before the gate closed, I thought, just in case one had to get in away from the watchful eye of O. Barnwell, security guard.

  The driver of the Lincoln, an older man in golf clothes, got out of the car and moved to the trunk. He took out a set of clubs and carried them to the security door that led to the elevator. He used his electronic card to open the door, which he held for Estelle and me.

  “I didn’t realize it was so late,” I said, consulting my watch and moving across the lobby to the front door. I thanked Estelle for showing me the condo and escaped back to my office.

  Seven

  THE STORAGE FACILITY ON DOOLTTTLE DRIVE IN San Leandro covered several acres, row after row of connected two-story sheds surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Access was a matter of signing in and out on a sheet in the office, under the disinterested eye of the young woman at the counter.

  Alex Tongco and I had agreed to meet at four that afternoon. I was on time, but Alex wasn’t. I waited in my car, parked near the office door. Fifteen minutes went by, then half an hour. The sign on the office door said the place closed at six, and I knew going through the boxes would take a while. Irritated, I decided he wasn’t coming. Then I saw Alex’s sporty red Mazda pull into the parking lot. I got out, locked the door, and walked over to join him.