Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  Good, I thought with relief, it had been used.

  Grabbing the Pooper Scooper, something I’d never heard of the day before, I took care of the deposit and considered myself a dutiful pet owner.

  The kitten stopped eating, studied me for a moment, uttered one of his silent meows and ran to me. I picked him up, slid him inside my robe, and went into the kitchen. He seemed to like this carrying method and purred happily. There I started my coffee and opened a can of kitten food. I returned to the bedroom, fed the little guy, and made two calls.

  The first one was to the Palo Alto Police Department to see when I had my appointment for the deposition. They told me to come in “as soon as possible.” Hanging up the phone, I found my hands shaking so much I could hardly hold the cup of coffee without spilling it. I knew I had to get myself under control before I came face to face with Frank. He was tough enough when I had all my faculties about me. The second phone call was to Tío. Without going into much detail, I let him know it would probably be a long day, and any visitation with the kitten would be greatly appreciated.

  This was going to be one of those rare days without my ritualistic morning exercises, which was too bad. That would have calmed me down right away, but I didn’t have the time. I drank my coffee, showered, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and went to the walk-in closet to survey the array of expensive, stylish “on-duty” clothing which hung there. Thank God I didn’t have to reach for any of those.

  I groped in the back for my comfy jeans and a worn turquoise wool knit turtleneck with matching blazer. I looked presentable. Not great but presentable.

  By the time I was dressed and ready to leave, Tío had arrived at the door, ready to take on his new charge. I decided to take the time to run down to the car and retrieve the remaining packages, which included several expensive toys for the kitten. However, I vowed to return them as soon as I saw my uncle bring out a feather he found in the yard and tied to a string. The little guy was making hilarious leaps trying to catch the feather, and I closed the door on the sounds of Tio’s chuckles. At least someone was having a good day.

  Chapter Five

  Frank’s Lair

  I arrived at the Palo Alto Police Station on Forest Avenue, shortly after lunchtime and had some difficulty finding a parking space. Palo Alto, created as a township for Stanford University, which in itself boasts residents of forty thousand plus, never expected to have the population explosion it experienced in the fifties and again in the nineties. Side streets, still containing lovely stucco houses built in the thirties, were condemned to suffer the constant movement of cars, either coming, going, or searching for parking places. I finally found one of my own after much driving in circles and cursing. Cursing is a major part of finding a spot, I’ve noticed.

  Striding beneath a crisp, blue sky, I entered the white building serving as a combo city hall/police station. The desk sergeant on duty, a sweet man due to retire next year, waved me past. I knew exactly which office to go to, I'd been going there since forever.

  Captain Frank Thompson is a black man from East Palo Alto who made good. He went to Stanford University on a scholarship, the same as my father, in the mid-seventies. The moment they met on the first day of registration, they became instant friends. Actually, they were more like brothers. It wasn’t just that you had a black man and a Latino going to a very “white bread” college, as some people thought. They looked at life the same way. They liked the same things. They shared the same sense of humor. No one was surprised when they both joined the same police force, on the same day, in the early eighties. Each one not only stood up for the other at their weddings but also became godfather to each other's children. When Dad died, it almost killed Frank. He cried openly and unashamedly for weeks afterward. His wife, Abby, said that he probably would never be the same. I knew what she meant. I wouldn’t be, either.

  I knocked softly on the door and heard his bass voice instruct me to come in. I opened the door with dread and went in, knowing this would not be a pleasant interview. Frank always wanted me to become a doctor like his daughter and only child, Faith. She’s two years my senior and a practicing pediatrician at Stanford Hospital, as Frank brags to any stranger on the street who asks him the time of day. To top it all off, she’s happily married to a fellow doctor and had recently given birth to the most gorgeous little girl I’ve ever seen. If Faith weren’t so terrific, I’d probably hate her.

  When my father was alive, Frank made it clear he thought I was much too good to follow in the footsteps of a mere cop. The fact Dad had left the department and started his own detective agency complete with family in tow made little difference to Frank. I remember the time he said, “Okay, Bobby. Your wife can answer the phones if you want, and Richard can do the computer stuff, but little Liana has bigger things in store for her.”

  I don’t know who was more insulted, Mom or me. At 5’8” since puberty, I have never been called little in my life, and Lila Hamilton Alvarez has never answered phones. She may eat them for breakfast, but she doesn’t answer them. That was akin to calling Coco Chanel a seamstress. Even way back when, Mom was in charge of the major operations of the company and did most of the brainwork. Dad had the pizzazz, know-how, and connections. They were a great team.

  As my godfather opened his mouth to speak, I jumped in ahead of him. “Now, Frank, I was never in any danger. I was only doing routine surveillance and that was from about half a block away. Well, maybe it was a little closer, but not much. I don't know what happened, but I'm sure it was just my bad luck to be there. Maybe it was a botched robbery. It probably didn't have anything to do with what his wife thought he was up to, which was the only reason I was there.” I ran out of breath, so I stopped nattering and stood there. He leaned back in his chair and stared at me, ink black eyes boring into mine. He did not speak but gestured with his forefinger for me to sit down. I did.

  “Liana, what am I going to do with you?” He leaned forward and tried to stare me down. I glared back, unblinking, and the contest was on. Finally, he said, “Is this what your father would have wanted? I know he encouraged you into this line of work but he never meant for you to start following stray husbands, I know that.” He thrust that same finger at me. “If you were my daughter, and you practically are….”

  “Yes, yes. I know; I know. But I'm all grown up, married, and divorced, and I’m old enough --”

  Frank ignored my protests and interrupted my interruption. “Did I say you could speak? I’ll let you know when you can speak. What kind of life is this, standing out in the rain spying on some strange man?” He looked at me expectantly, but I was silent, as instructed. “Now you may speak.”

  “It’s the same kind of life you led until you got promoted to a cushy job behind a polished oak desk,” I shot back.

  He put the palms of both his hands out toward me as if to ward off the impending argument that inevitably followed. He changed the subject. “You brought your handgun, I take it, and the answer better be ‘yes,’” he said.

  “Of course.” I took the holstered revolver out of my handbag and set both on his desk.

  He changed the subject again and grinned at me warmly. “Faith asked about you yesterday. Wanted to know when you're going over to her house for dinner. She and Stu want you to meet a couple of their friends from the hospital.”

  I laughed in relief. Frank might be the occasional pain in the derriere, but I did adore him. “Faith just wants to play Cupid, Uncle Frank.”

  “What's wrong with that?” he demanded, smiling one of his dazzling smiles. He removed the revolver from the holster, glanced at it, and replaced it again in one swift movement, before putting his hands behind the nape of his neck and leaning back in his chair. His voice lost its warmth and his eyes narrowed. “So what happened, Lee?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing odd or unusual happened at any time that I could tell. Then the storm hit. I was on my way home when I doubled back and went to the warehouse. I found him dead
on the back walkway. That’s it.” Upon Frank’s insistence, I gave him a detailed report of the entire day's happenings, just as I’d done for SFPD. I left out the part of falling on my butt.

  When I was finished, his black eyes bored into mine. Frank could peel the skin off an onion with those eyes.

  “Okay,” he said, after he’d searched my face for moment. “Let me call someone in so you can make a statement. We'll test your weapon even though the prelim says what was used on Wyler was smaller.”

  “Like what?”

  He got up, went to the door and signaled to someone waiting outside. “Maybe a derringer. Something about a bullet they found lodged in his spinal column. We’ll know more in a couple of hours.”

  An officer entered the room on silent feet.

  “Officer Jackson, this is Liana Alvarez. You’re going to take her statement.”

  The young man, not more than twenty-two and already balding, carried a laptop. He stoically nodded to me and sat down in a corner of the room. I followed. A half-hour later he left to print out my statement and returned several minutes later for me to read and sign it.

  During this time, Frank ignored me and tackled a foot high pile of paperwork on his desk. After Officer Jackson left the room, I not so subtlety returned to our previous conversation.

  “Can I see the initial report or is that breaking any rules?” I asked.

  I prepared myself for more boring of eyes or lectures, but he shrugged and said, “I don't suppose there's anything in there you can't see.” Swivelling his chair around, he searched through another pile of papers, this time on the file cabinet behind him. “Here it is.” He glanced at it with a quick eye. “Doesn't say much, really.”

  It was only two pages long, mostly typed but with a few handwritten comments. I read it through, as Frank began to open the day's mail with occasional glances in my direction. The two pages contained a detailed report of where the body was found, who found it — me and a list of the contents of his pockets and not much else. Nothing useful or important jumped out at me, unfortunately. A formal autopsy would have to be done sometime that day or the day after to determine cause of death, it noted, although in my mind it might have had something to do with the three bullet holes in his chest.

  “No, it doesn't say much,” I finally agreed. “But, may I have a copy of this?” I asked as I held up the papers. Frank smiled, reached across, and snatched them from my hand.

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “And if they ask me, I didn't even show it to you. You want a copy? Drive up to the City and get one from them.”

  “Maybe I'll just do that.” I stood up. “When do I get my revolver back?”

  “Tomorrow. Next day. Can't say for sure. Why? Do you think you'll need it?” he asked, fatherly concern written all over his face.

  “Frank, it's been in my safe for the last eight months except for practice sessions and the occasional cleaning. I don't like those things. They're too noisy.”

  He visibly relaxed, got up and steered me by the arm to his office door. “Liana, save this old man a heart attack and become a doctor, please, or an airline pilot. Anything! Be a ballet dancer. Lord knows you’ve spent enough of your childhood leaping around on your tiptoes. You seem to love it.”

  “I was never good enough to do it for a living. You know that,” I said. He’d hit a sore spot.

  Frank put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Whatever you say. I want you to be happy, that’s all. I had hoped this PI thing was a passing fancy. I was so sure once Bobby was gone and Lila had been made CEO, she’d…” He stopped himself. He and Mom had never gotten along. It’s not that they disliked each other. It was more that they had nothing in common other than Dad. I suspect it was never clear to Frank why Bobby picked a woman so obviously different from himself and their friends. “Never mind. Lila has to live her own life, and if she wants to run Bobby's business, I won't say a word.”

  I let out a hoot of laughter. “Yeah, right. That’ll be the day when you never say a word. Besides, Frank, he left the business to all of us, not just Mom. Twenty-four and a half percent each to Richard and me and fifty-one percent to Lila. He wanted us to carry on as a family.”

  Frank brought himself up to his full six-foot two inches and looked down at me. “He wanted you to sit on the board. Make executive decisions. That’s what he meant. He never meant for you to actually be involved in the day-to-day grit of it. Look at your brother. He’s behind the scenes. Why can’t you be more like him?”

  “Don't start with my brother,” I said wearily. “He's a computer geek. He likes statistics and numbers. I don’t. I like people.”

  “So become a social director on a cruise ship.” He studied the expression on my face. “Why do I bother? You are as stubborn as Bobby ever was.”

  “I know. That’s why you love me. I remind you of Dad,” I replied. Frank laughed and shook his head.

  “All right. Go on. Get out of here. I’ve got work to do,” he told me, as he opened the door. I started down the hall and he shouted after me. “And call Faith. I think she’s got a live one for you!”

  I exited into the clear air shielding my eyes from the bright sun. I felt a surge of depression, without knowing what exactly I was depressed about. Maybe it was Frank’s fatherly concern, misplaced though it was. Maybe it was this murder I might have prevented if I had done something different. It made me feel ineffectual and inept. I didn’t like it. But this oppressive feeling seemed more than that. I had a sudden revelation and looked at my watch to confirm the date.

  Yup, January 24th. Today marks the third anniversary of the ending of my eight-year marriage. Today marks the acknowledgment of acts of betrayal and failure. No wonder I’m depressed.

  “Don’t think about Nick,” I said aloud, reflecting nonetheless, on the handsome Greek American boy I’d met in high school and married after college. So much like my father, I’d thought at first, despite what anybody had said to me.

  He had easily won my heart only to deceive me from the beginning with a constant flow of other women. After years of denial, I’d faced it and demanded he stop seeing them. He hit me. Twice. Once to knock me down and again to make sure I stayed there. When you’re an ex-marine you know how to make sure somebody stays down. Within minutes, he’d dissolved in tears, begging my forgiveness. I forgave him but I knew better. I forgave him because I loved him. I knew better because I’d taken too many classes in spousal abuse not to know how it goes.

  Shortly after that, I’d enrolled in a karate class after telling everyone I wanted to be more “self-sufficient” at my job. Becoming a black belt was not too difficult for a girl who had taken ballet all her life, and had anger and fear living inside her. Six months later when I stood up to him again about a new girlfriend, Nick took another jab at me, but I flattened him. I sued for divorce and tried not to look back. Whenever I did, though, I could never tell who I was madder at, Nick for dishing it out or me for taking it.

  I forced thoughts of yesteryear out of my mind, and stopped by a Radio Shack to buy a new battery for my cell phone, praying that was the problem. That seemed to do the trick, and I speed dialed Tío. After the latest word on the “little guy” I called the office. Lila was at lunch, something I wished I were at myself, so I hung up.

  With a growling stomach, I crossed the street to Togo’s, a sandwich place on bustling University Avenue. Service is fast, and I love the tuna submarine sandwich. I sat on a bench under a tree and watched the world go by while I ate. Licking my fingers of the remaining tuna, I felt the sudden urge to go back to the San Francisco warehouse. Maybe if I had paid more attention, I might have prevented Wyler’s death from happening. Maybe not, but that was something I would never know unless I tried to find some answers.

  Forty minutes later, I arrived at the same San Francisco Street I had been on less than twenty-four hours before. However, as the song says, what a difference a day makes.

  The weather was absolutely
gorgeous. The parking was also a lot easier. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day, after all.

  Yes, it was. A man was dead, and it might have been because of me.

  Opening the car door, I stepped out into air slightly cooler than Palo Alto’s and, oh, so delicious. The breeze ruffling my hair had a slightly chilled feeling to it, reminding me the bright sun was not enough to completely ward off winter. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm anywhere to be seen. The sun had dried the rain soaked streets and now shone brightly in the sky. It was close to seventy degrees but that, as I knew, could change at any moment.

  I looked over to Telegraph Hill topped by Coit Tower. The tower always made me smile but not today. It was a memorial to Lily Coit, a rich and eccentric woman whose devotion to fires during the early days of San Francisco rivaled many of today’s pyromaniacs. The Nob Hill widow gave money, equipment, and prestige to the fledgling firefighters of the Barbary Coast. After her death, the firemen of San Francisco built and dedicated a monument to her in the shape of a fire hose, aimed toward the sky. I’m not completely sure what was going through their minds, but it has always looked like a huge phallic symbol to me. Color me crude.

  I walked briskly toward the warehouse. Everything had a slight Salvador Dali look. The slant of the winter sun caused buildings and trees to throw irregular, stark shadows, a vibrant blue sky serving as backdrop. I dug into my bag for the small, matchbook-sized video camcorder.

  D.I. provides each agent with one of these camcorders, weighing less than three ounces. It sends images and sound to a receiver that lives in the trunk of each agent’s car. The receiver can take in data from up to five miles away with crystal clarity, which is stored on an external flash drive. The trick is in learning how to aim one of these little things so you record what you really want. Before I got the hang of it, I meticulously recorded many a blank wall, person’s foot, or bird’s duff.