Till The Old Men Die

by Janet Dawson

  The phone rang and I reached for it. “Jeri, it’s Alex.” He sounded excited. “Javier says that fund-raiser was the same night Lito was killed.”

  “I know. I just found something in your uncle’s files. Alex, would Nina have gone to that dinner with Rick?”

  “Why do you want to know?” His voice grew cool, and I could picture his face closing up the way it did when he didn’t want to talk about something.

  “I wonder if she saw Dr. Manibusan that night.”

  “She would have mentioned it,” he said brusquely.

  “You weren’t on the best of terms. Still aren’t. Nina knew your uncle, didn’t she?”

  “Of course. She’d met him many times. Look, Jeri, Nina and I hadn’t talked in a long time, but she did send me a note when she heard Lito had been killed. The police were begging for witnesses, anyone who might have seen Lito that night. If she’d seen him, she would have mentioned it.”

  Unless something — or someone — intervened, I thought. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll ask her.”

  “You’d be wasting your time,” he said, a stubborn note in his voice.

  I wasn’t so sure. Nina Agoncillo spent a lot of time with Rick Navarro, her future husband. It was a good bet that she had been at the St. Francis the night Lito Manibusan was killed. And if that was the case, I wanted to talk with her.

  Twenty-one

  AFTER THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON CALM OF OAKLAND, San Francisco was full of clamor and noise. I parked my Toyota on the seventh floor of the Sutter-Stockton garage, in the same section where Dad found Lito Manibusan’s body. Outside, I crossed Sutter and walked down the hill toward Post. I cut diagonally through Union Square, where pigeons crowded the pavement and panhandlers importuned me for spare change. Ahead of me loomed the St. Francis Hotel, its bulk stretching along Powell between Post and Geary. At Powell I waited for the light to change. A cable car came trundling up the hill, stuffed inside and out with tourists, its clanging bell competing with the blaring horns of cars on the congested city streets and a wailing siren somewhere in the direction of the Tenderloin.

  I entered the hotel through the revolving door, stepping into the front lobby, and paused near one of the huge porcelain urns on either side of the door. Columns of greenish black marble rose to an ivory and gold ceiling decorated with rosettes. A chandelier hung over a round glass-topped parquet table in the center of the lobby. The vast floral arrangement of exotic tropical blooms overshadowed the backless upholstered benches grouped around the table. All four of the benches were occupied. I heard snatches of languages ranging from English to Chinese as people streamed past me, entering and exiting the hotel. To my left a preteen girl in a lacy yellow dress squirmed on one of the high-backed chairs against the wall, its seat too high for her short legs. In front of her, a little blond boy of about six turned cartwheels on the carpet, its plush length patterned in salmon, pink, and gray-green. The boy fell in mid-spin, blocking the path of a group of German tourists in shorts, T-shirts, and cameras. He was pulled to his feet by a slender silver-haired woman in a stylish red suit.

  I wondered what chance I had of finding answers to my questions, of finding someone who had been here that night. I had added the snapshot of Dr. Manibusan to the photos of Max and Rick Navarro I’d shown to the security guard earlier that afternoon. The article in the Philippine News told me in which room Hector Guzman’s dinner was to be held, but Dr. Manibusan hadn’t been invited to that party. Besides, given the time his car entered the garage, I reasoned that the professor had approached the Navarros before they went upstairs to dinner, perhaps in the lobby, or in one of the bars. To my right was a sports bar called Dewey’s, a small room crowded with tables, more suited to knocking back a few after work than a quiet drink before a fancy dinner. The bartender merely shook his head at my questions and barely glanced at the photographs.

  I crossed the lobby to a shallow set of carpeted steps. They led to a bar called the Compass Rose, where afternoon tea was now being served to the accompaniment of piano, bass, and violin. I mounted the steps and stopped at the velvet rope, next to a large black-and-gold figure of a man in a turban, holding a goblet. This is more like it, I thought, looking around me. The bar had a rich, clubby ambience. I could picture the Navarros here. Fluted columns of oak rose from the floor to a ceiling paneled in dark wood, and a long bar, decorated at intervals with panels of blue and clear glass, stretched in front of the arched windows looking out onto Geary Street. The servers were dressed in red and black and gold clothing with a vaguely Russian look, gliding efficiently between pedestal tables and plush orangy red chairs full of customers.

  “May I help you?” Poised at the rope was the hostess, a pretty young woman in a black dress, a mane of blond hair tumbling past her shoulders. I produced my business card and explained my mission. “You should talk to the manager,” she said, pointing to a tall black man who stood at the bar, talking with the bartender.

  I threaded my way through the tables and approached the manager. He listened to me with a thoughtful expression. “Chloe’s the only person here today who might be able to help you,” he said. “She usually works Friday nights, but she’s filling in for someone today.”

  Chloe was a slender brunette in black pants and a gold tunic. The next time she came up to the bar to turn in a drink order, the manager introduced us. Her wide brown eyes examined the photographs one by one. Then she looked up at me. “I remember them. All three of them.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked, scarcely believing my luck.

  Chloe gave me an amused smile.” I always remember big tippers.” She tapped a long rose-colored fingernail on the picture of Max Navarro. “This one in particular. Old Silver-Hair tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table like he was used to lighting cigars with ‘em. Pretty funny, when you consider he didn’t order anything.”

  The bartender set three drinks on her tray and she tossed a “Be right back” over her shoulder as she moved away. I waited impatiently until she returned.

  “I need to know what you saw, start to finish.”

  “It was about seven, maybe before. Four men and a woman.”

  “Describe the woman.” Nina Agoncillo, I wondered, or Dolores Cruz?

  “They were all Filipino. The woman was in her thirties, wearing a flashy off-the-shoulder red dress and lots of jewelry. I noticed a little scar right here.” Chloe’s fingers moved to her own face and traced the now-familiar line of the scar on Dolly’s jaw. “They sat over there.” I turned to look at a plush gold sola backed by a reclining figurine. A pale yellow orchid in a basket decorated the black oval table in front of the sofa, which was now occupied by a trio of white-haired ladies having tea. “I take that back,” Chloe was saying as she pointed to the photos of Max and Rick Navarro. “These two men and the woman sat. The younger men stood on either side of the sofa. They looked like bodyguards, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “What happened?”

  “Gotta deliver these and I’ll be right back.” She whirled off with another loaded drink tray and returned a moment later. “Sorry. I think I can give you an uninterrupted minute now.” She kicked off one shoe, flexed her foot, then slipped the shoe back on as she asked the bartender for a club soda. He set it in front of her and she picked it up, taking a long drink before resuming her tale.

  “I walked up to take their order. Before I could say anything, this man came up.” She pointed at the snapshot of Lito Manibusan. “They started talking in their own language. I didn’t understand a word, of course, but I could tell from the tone that the conversation had an edge to it. That’s when Old Silver-Hair whipped out the hundred-dollar bill, tossed it on the table, and said they didn’t want anything right then. Who am I to argue with a picture of Ben Franklin? But I kept my eye on them. I mean, the bodyguards, the foreign language, it made me curious.”

  “Where was the woman?” I asked.

  “Silver-Hair must have told her to go to the powder room. He was the one who
seemed to be in charge. Anyway, she got up and left the bar, and she didn’t look too pleased about it. The two older men appeared to be arguing. Then all of a sudden this man” — she pointed at Dr. Manibusan’s picture — “this man waved a piece of paper in Silver-Hair’s face. I got distracted, and the next time I looked over there, Silver-Hair and the others were walking out, and the man who was waving the paper was sitting alone at the table.”

  She stopped to drink some club soda. So Max and Rick Navarro had left the bar, taking their bodyguards with them. And the professor remained, to do what?

  “I walked to the table to see if he wanted a drink,” Chloe said. “He looked like he could use it. He’d taken his handkerchief out of his pocket and he was mopping his face. He smiled and ordered a Coke. When I came back, he was addressing an envelope.”

  “How big?” I interrupted.

  “Oh, five by seven, brown, already stamped. Next to it were some folded papers and one of those little tape recorders. He popped it open and took out the tape, then he put the papers and the tape in the envelope and sealed it. Then he tucked the recorder into the inside of his suit jacket. While he was paying me for the Coke he asked if there was somewhere he could mail the envelope. I told him there’s a letter drop in the first corridor off the lobby, opposite the elevators. He drank the Coke, then he left.”

  “What about the woman? Did you see her again?”

  Chloe thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. No, wait. I did see a woman in a red dress standing at the rope. I’m almost sure it was her, looking for Old Silver-Hair and the rest.”

  “Was this before or after the man with the envelope left?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  I thanked Chloe and walked toward the steps. At the velvet rope I stopped and turned, looking at the gold sofa and the black table in front of it. If Dolores Cruz had been standing here while Dr. Manibusan was still in the Compass Rose, she would have had a clear view of the table and the items on it. That could explain how Dolly knew about the envelope. But how had she known whom it was addressed to, or where to look for Dr. Manibusan’s personal effects? She must have intercepted him before he mailed the envelope.

  I went down the carpeted steps and crossed the lobby to the corridor that led to the hotel’s Post Street entrance. Shops and ticket booths lined the hallway. The gold letter box was right where Chloe said it was, opposite a bank of elevators, its slot wide enough to accommodate the professor’s envelope. The eye-level notice told me that mail dropped at this site during the evening was collected at 9:30 A.M. the following day. That accounted for the envelope’s being postmarked the day after Dr. Manibusan’s murder.

  After retrieving my car from the garage, I drove west, out to the avenues of the Richmond district. At the fiesta I’d overheard Nina Agoncillo telling Alex’s aunts that she was living with her brother until her summer wedding to Rick Navarro. I knew where Sal Agoncillo lived from the business records on Kaibigan. The house was on Balboa Street, a few blocks north of Golden Gate Park, a pleasant residential neighborhood full of big old houses. It was late afternoon. Maybe I could catch Nina without Rick dancing in attendance.

  A short, dark-haired woman in jeans and a knit shirt answered the Agoncillo front door. Nina’s sister-in-law, I guessed. She told me Nina was home and left me standing on the porch for a few minutes. The door opened again, and Nina stood on the other side of the screen. Her black hair was down, cascading over her shoulders. She wore a silky dress the color of orange sherbet, and a frown.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk. May I come in?”

  “No.” She glanced over her shoulder, and I saw her sister-in-law in the background. “I can’t imagine what we would have to talk about.”

  “We could talk about what it feels like to be marrying into a rich, powerful family like the Navarros. Do you really think Max Navarro has a chance to be elected president of the Philippines?”

  Nina tossed a few words over her shoulder. “It’s all right, Teresa.” She opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch, folding her arms across the bodice of her dress. “Did you really come here to talk about politics?”

  “Politics is a subject that keeps coming up. Your brother, for example, and Hector Guzman, now they’re in the pro-Marcos camp.”

  She gave me a look that said I didn’t understand the first thing about it. “Not necessarily pro-Marcos. Those days are gone. It’s just that my brother believes that the present administration is doing nothing to solve the problems in the Philippines, and it’s time for a change.”

  “Alex disagrees with you,” I commented.

  “I’d rather not talk about Alex, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m more interested in Rick Navarro. You seem to go everywhere with him.”

  “Not everywhere. But we do spend a lot of time together. After all, we are engaged. In fact,” she said, consulting a thin gold watch on her left wrist, “we’re going out tonight. He’s picking me up soon and I’m not quite ready. So I don’t have much time to spend with you.”

  “Did you accompany Rick to that fund-raising dinner that Hector Guzman gave for Max? It was a Friday night in January.”

  “At the St. Francis?” She shrugged. “No, I went there with my brother and his wife. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “I’m just trying to get an idea who was there. So you met them there, Rick and Max and Dolores.” She looked surprised at my mention of that last name. “You knew Dolores, of course. Mrs. Rios.”

  “Max’s friend.” Nina’s mouth tightened, and her voice cooled a few degrees. “Mistress, really. I gather she and Max had been involved for several years. Not that I approve, but it’s none of my business. Having a mistress is common in the Philippines among men of Max’s class. But Mrs. Rios is no longer in the picture. Max is married now.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure Antonia will grace the halls of Malacañang Palace with a lot more style than Dolly would have — if the Navarros ever get there. Did you like her?”

  Nina shrugged. “We had a rather brief acquaintance. That was the first time she accompanied Max on one of his trips to the States, and the last. Frankly, I thought she was rather crude. And she was extremely nosy, the type of person who listens at keyholes.”

  “Was she nosy that night at the St. Francis? When did you first see her, in the lobby or upstairs?” Nina blinked under my gaze, brown eyes darting away, out to the street, as though she wanted Rick to come rescue her.

  “Why are you asking all these questions?” I kept silent, hoping she would feel compelled to fill that void. “I saw her in the lobby before we went upstairs.”

  “We?”

  “Sal, Teresa, and I had just arrived. Sal went to the men’s room. Teresa and I waited for him near that big grandfather clock in the lobby, near the window of the jewelry shop. I saw Mrs. Rios coming down the stairs on the other side, from that bar, the Compass Rose. She was alone, and she had a secretive look on her face, as though she’d been spying on someone. Then I saw —” She stopped abruptly.

  “What else did you see, Nina? Or who else?” She didn’t answer. “Someone you didn’t expect to see? Someone you recognized?”

  Her brows drew together and she frowned again. “I saw Alex’s uncle, the professor.”

  “Dr. Manibusan. What was he doing?”

  “He came out of the bar, too, at the same time as Mrs. Rios. In fact, he bumped into her at the bottom of the steps. He dropped something and she picked it up. She was flirting with him as she handed it to him, I could tell.”

  “Did you speak to Dr. Manibusan?”

  “I waved at him and he walked over to say hello. I hadn’t seen him since last summer, and Alex had mentioned that he’d gone to Manila in August to do some research for a book.”

  “Was Mrs. Rios listening to your conversation?”

  “Of course,” Nina said, twisting her mouth. “Her ears pricked, like a cat’s and she fol
lowed him across the lobby, so I introduced them. Evidently he made quite an impression on her, because while he was there she went into her nosy act, trying to pry into his affairs. He answered a few of her questions just to be polite, but he was a very reserved man, and I could tell he didn’t like talking with her. Finally he said he had an appointment to keep. After he left, she kept going on and on about what a charming man Dr. Manibusan was. She wanted me to tell her all about him. Was he married? Where did he work? Things like that.”

  “And you answered those questions.”

  “Just to get her off my back. I told her that he was a widower and that he taught at the university.”

  Perhaps more than that, I thought. The information Dolly had gained in this encounter had given her enough facts to toss around for verisimilitude when she decided to play her short-lived role of widow. “Did Dr. Manibusan do anything before he left?”

  “No,” Nina said impatiently. “Well, he mailed a letter near the elevators. A big envelope. He had to fold it and I held the slot open so he could get it through.”

  “Did you see who it was addressed to?”

  “Someone named Howard. He said it was a colleague at the university.” I waited to see if she’d make the connection between the names, but she didn’t.

  “Then where did the professor go?”

  “I told you, he left,” Nina said, her voice irritated. “He went off toward the side door.”

  “The Post Street entrance. Where was Rick during all this?”

  “I thought he was upstairs, but he was there in the corridor just as the elevator doors opened, he and his friend Eddie. They said they’d forgotten something in the car and they had to go get it.”

  “Outside?” I asked. “It was raining, wasn’t it? Were they wearing their coats?”

  “Of course. Rick had on his topcoat. And Eddhe was wearing his jacket.”

  “Which direction did they go?”

  “To the left, I think.”