Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  “I’m no threat to him.”

  Roberto looked away, then back at me. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something. It’s between you and me. You tell Justin, I’ll deny it and you’ll regret it.”

  A thread of fear skimmed down my arms. Roberto scared me. He sat back in his chair and stretched his arms out on the table.

  “Family is important, you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “My sister, my mother—they are there for me all the time. No matter what I’ve done.”

  Where was this going? I picked up the papusa oozing with cheese to take a bite.

  Roberto pushed my hand to the plate. “No, put that down. Listen.” He leaned back in.

  “With Justin, there is no real family. He has, had, a brother. He has a sister. His dad was what you might call an absentee father.”

  “Justin isn’t the only one who struggled growing up. And absentee fathers aren’t anything new.”

  Big deal. It was my turn to sit back in my chair and cross my arms.

  “Justin’s father pretended he didn’t exist for a long time. It was easier that way, he always said. His father wasn’t married to Justin’s mother, but to another lady. It was a small town and according to Lucky, everyone knew anyway, except the kids.”

  “Wait a minute. Justin told me that Lucky was Richard Waddell’s father, not his.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you? Lucky was Richard Waddell’s father and Justin’s.”

  “They are brothers?”

  “Half-brothers.”

  “I don’t believe it. Does Justin know?”

  “Lucky told him years later.”

  “I thought Lucky was in prison somewhere.”

  “That’s where they met. Justin and I were cellmates in a prison outside of Las Vegas, in Clark County, the High Desert Correctional Institute. Anyway, Justin was in for some white collar crime. He’s a chemist, for Christ’s sake. He was working for a lab in Las Vegas and gambling his paycheck away. He started stealing money from the lab’s till to pay his debts. Not too smart.

  “When we were inside, I introduced Lucky to Justin. Lucky knew immediately who he was. Justin didn’t know anything.”

  “God, what was his reaction?”

  “Disbelief, mostly. But later, he said things that he had wondered about as a kid now made sense.”

  “What about Richard Waddell and Pamela? Did they know?”

  “Yeah, they did. Their mother told them when Richard was getting ready to go off to college.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No. You wanted to know about Justin, right? These are the facts.”

  “How does Spencer fit into all this?”

  “Spencer was a hustler back in high school, according to Lucky. He liked that. Spencer had a way of making money. It always seemed semi-legit. Guess he was slippery enough not to get caught all these years.”

  “What a way to meet your dad for the first time, in prison.”

  “Lucky must have had a conscience. After all, Richard was the golden boy; Justin was the anonymous kid, never quite good enough. Anyway, Lucky kept tabs on Spencer once he married Pamela. He set him up in business, with, uh, an acquiantance. Let’s just say, he strongly suggested that Spencer take Justin on as a partner.”

  “So Spencer gets Justin to come to San Francisco by offering him a job,” I said.

  “Right, and Justin thinks this will be like a homecoming.”

  “He connects with Spencer and Pamela. But Pamela’s not thrilled.”

  “Right. Richard shows up about a year ago and Justin offers to help him achieve his athletic goals. Kind of a brotherly offer, you might say. Richard agrees.”

  “Waddell wanted drugs?”

  “Performance supplements.”

  “Performance supplements…okay…but Justin is really trying to connect with a brother and a sister,” I said.

  “Waddell and Pamela didn’t give him the time of day. They wanted to make him disappear,” said Roberto.

  Patricia walked over to the table. “Berto, you plan on working tonight or just talking?”

  She gave him a backhanded slap to the top of his head.

  “Don’t bother Justin’s new friend.”

  Roberto got up and strolled back to the kitchen, never looking back.

  “Forgive my son, but he must work to pay off his debts to me and his sister.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  Patricia put her hand under my chin, tilted my head up and looked into my eyes. “Justin and Roberto—they are good at heart, but life is more difficult for them than others. Sometimes that happens to people.”

  She patted my cheek and smiled. Then she walked over to Nancy standing by the cash register.

  28

  When I pulled into the parking lot at Fort Mason the next morning, I squeezed between the narrow buildings and walked out on a pier overlooking the Bay. The air was still and damp. Heavy grey fog hung on the Golden Gate Bridge towers like a shroud. Last night’s conversation with Roberto kept repeating itself in my head. No doubt that Justin was involved with this drug ring. Yet, it all seemed a bit beyond his control. He was chasing a dream and the drug dealing was a way to reach the dream, or so he thought. I needed to talk to him. Maybe Inspector Burrell should know about this. I found her business card in my pocket and left her a message.

  I absent-mindedly climbed the steps to the office and there was Bill, quietly sitting at his desk, no arms flailing in all directions, not talking on the phone faster than I can think. He looked at me oddly. He was holding a photograph in his hand.

  “Trisha.”

  “Bill,” I said and smiled, sitting down at my desk which was directly opposite his. No reaction.

  “Bill? Meeting last night go okay?”

  “No. It didn’t.”

  Whatever could make Bill stop moving was serious.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat and then said, “I asked you more than once not to talk about the Waddell death, certainly not to conduct your own investigation into a murder.”

  Not good, I thought. Not good at all.

  “I wasn’t conducting an investigation. Just asking a few questions.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think you were doing. I have heard from Mike Menton, Jackie Gibson and Waddell’s brother-in-law. You talked to all of them. I don’t know what you said, but they all felt that you thought they were involved with Dick’s death. They are extremely unhappy with me and the organization. Menton told me you even questioned his daughter.”

  “But she called and wanted to talk to me.”

  “Are you blaming this girl for your inappropriate actions? Daisy Menton is a teenager, a minor. You talked to her without her father’s consent. What possibly were you thinking? How many times did I tell you not to talk about the Waddell death or even Jackie’s accident? Even the Russian River swim?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. Bill kept on talking.

  “And there is a message for me from an inspector from the SF Police. You went against what—I—your employer specifically told you not to do. Did you not understand what I was saying or didn’t you care?”

  “I understood and I cared,” I managed to say in a voice that was almost inaudible. There was a bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

  “No. Listen…you didn’t understand. This organization…this office, my job, your job is paid for by membership and by grants and donations from well-to-do benefactors. Many have been involved with the sport of swimming for their whole lives and they want to support us in anyway they can. Part of what we do is to make sure they are happy. You know we are governed by a board of directors, right?”

  I nodded. I had never seen Bill so angry. His eyes were large, pupils dilated; his face was pulsating pink from neck to scalp. He got up from his desk and began pacing throughout the small office, from his desk to the front door to the window, but staying c
lear of me and my side of the room.

  “I am here to tell you that the Board of Directors is not happy— to say the least. This is a small community. It didn’t take long for word of your ‘investigation’ to get around. The Board had questions, many questions like …well, that doesn’t matter. And, if that wasn’t enough, perhaps you could explain this.”

  He held up a photograph of me coming out of Waddell’s backyard. It was the same photo that had been sent to me with the same 2 a.m. time stamp. I couldn’t breathe. My hands turned ice cube cold. I was afraid I was going to fall off my chair, so I grabbed hold of the desk.

  “How did you get that?” I managed to say.

  “It doesn’t matter. Not at this point. There is no way I could, would offer you a job. Your position has not worked out. I’m letting you go. You no longer work here, as of now. Clear out your desk and then go home. I have to leave immediately for a regional meeting, but I’ve put a call into the NPS security. They are sending over an officer who will stay with you while you gather your things. Then, he will escort you out. Give your office key to the security guard. I’ll send you a check for whatever we owe you.”

  I watched as Bill walked back over to this desk, locked it, shut down his computer and headed out without a goodbye or a thank you.

  A curtain dropped down around me. I couldn’t see anything. I could just hear my own breathing and the thud-a-thud of my heartbeat in my ears. What did Bill say I was supposed to do? Clean out my desk and leave. Robotically, I reached for a small cardboard box and put it by my computer.

  I had never been fired before. I looked in the small mirror sitting on my desk. The color had drained from my face. I was speechless. I had lost a temporary job.

  The shock of seeing my face jolted me back to reality. Staring into the mirror, I realized that it didn’t matter what Bill and his precious board thought. I was 99% sure that Waddell was murdered and I was going to find out what happened. They couldn’t stop me now.

  I only had a few minutes before I had to leave, so I signed on to my computer, logged on to my personal email and started to attach documents about the Waddell death, Jackie’s accident, docs that contained phone numbers and names and addresses and general information about the open water swim schedule and its contacts.

  I picked up a cardboard box and set it on my chair. Then there was a knock at the door. My NPS escort was no other than Jon.

  “This couldn’t get any worse,” I almost said out loud.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I can’t believe it. I’ve been fired.”

  “Why?”

  “For asking questions about the Waddell death. What do I need an escort for? Did Bill think I would trash the office? Steal all the old trophies in the back room?”

  “It’s just protocol. Are you ready to leave?”

  I looked around the office. I had been there about a month. It wasn’t the job of my dreams, but I had a paycheck. What would I do now?

  “Yes.”

  Jon picked up my small cardboard box and we walked into the hallway. I handed him the key. He closed the door and locked it. We walked down the three flights of stairs, our footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. He followed me to my car and waited while I unlocked the trunk. After placing the small box inside, he slammed it shut, then reached in his pocket and gave me his business card again.

  “If you had met with the police earlier, this might not have happened.”

  “After I talked with Inspector Burrell, did she talk to Bill?”

  “I don’t know, probably she or someone did some follow up work.”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. I just got in the car.

  Like the night our office had been broken into and he watched as I drove out of the parking lot, Jon stood there watching again. Only this time he wasn’t protecting me. He was protecting the building from me.

  I headed down Marina Boulevard past the wide grassy stretch of the Marina Green. The joggers were still there; some sailboats were leaving their slips for a sail on the Bay. The wind had picked up and the fog had flowed in, draping over Alcatraz and San Francisco Bay like a lumpy damp blanket. I drove not even realizing where I was going until I found myself on the road to Fort Point, the old army barracks almost directly under the Golden Gate Bridge. I pulled off to the side and parked.

  Still a little dazed, I picked up my phone. There were three phone messages and a couple of texts.

  “Trisha, this is Justin. It’s important that I talk to you. Last night’s meeting did not go well. I need your help. Can you come by the office maybe late in the afternoon? Give me a call.”

  I pressed nine to save the message.

  I went on to the next one. “Hello, Trisha, this is Inspector Burrell returning your call.”

  Saved.

  And finally, “Trisha, why don’t you ever answer your cell phone? Seriously, I can never reach you when I need to. An update on the two ladies involved with Dick Waddell. They are being released within the hour. You want to talk to them, get here by 9:30 a.m.,” said Terrel.

  It was 10:30 a.m. I texted Terrel immediately.

  “Am I too late?”

  I could get to the hospital in less than thirty minutes. I started planning my driving route.

  My phone pinged. There was a one word answer from Terrel.

  “Yes.”

  Could this day get any worse? Maybe. I had to check out the call from Justin. It was an opportunity to confirm what Roberto had told me. I could ask why he was partners with Spencer, a man he said that he didn’t like. That might get him talking. Maybe he would fill me in on Holly Waddell, too. With any luck, he’d tell me more than I was actually asking.

  But first, I dialed Inspector Burrell’s number.

  “Detective Burrell,” said the low-pitched female voice.

  “This is Trisha Carson. I talked with you yesterday about…”

  “I know who you are and I know what we talked about. What’s up?”

  “I was fired today—for asking questions about Dick Waddell’s death and everything else.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  There was a pause.

  “Was that the reason you called?”

  “No. Last night, I talked to a former cellmate of Justin Rosencastle’s.”

  “Cellmate?”

  “Yes. According to him, Waddell’s brother-in-law, Spencer, was strongly encouraged to give Justin a job.”

  “That’s what the cellmate told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the cellmate?”

  “I know his first name, but not much else. It’s Roberto. He works in his family’s restaurant in San Francisco.”

  “Ex-cons aren’t always the most reliable source,” Inspector Burrell said. “But okay, let’s take the next step. Why?”

  “Why would the ex-cellmate tell me or why would Waddell’s brother-in-law hire Justin?”

  “Let’s start with the second part, although I am interested in the first part of the question.”

  “It seems that Dick Waddell and Justin Rosencastle were halfbrothers. Their father, nicknamed Lucky, made Spencer Matthews hire Justin. Spencer is married to Waddell’s sister, Pamela.”

  There was another long pause. I could hear a tap, tap, tap as if Inspector Burrell was tapping the edge of her phone with a pencil.

  “I’m curious. Do people just volunteer this information to you?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Look, I’m calling with a specific question. Justin wants to see me this afternoon. Is there anything you want me to ask him?”

  “Where are you supposed to meet him?”

  “At his office.”

  “My advice is, ‘Don’t go.’ It could be dangerous.”

  A cool silence hung in the air.

  “You’re going anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “It is not a good idea. But, I can’t stop you. If you do go, make sure there are people
around. Don’t spend any time alone with him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What did you expect? That I’d ask you to wear a wire? To go undercover? Find out what he wants and then leave. Got it?”

  “Okay.”

  “Then call me.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t like me very much do you?”

  “It’s not you. It’s the police in general.”

  I had done what everyone had asked me to do. Call the police. The conversation was a waste of time. Inspector Burrell didn’t want my help or my information. She treated me like a meddling school girl.

  With about five hours to kill, I decided to take a short drive to the Exploratorium, San Francisco’s combination science and art museum. There was a new baseball exhibit. I wanted to find out how you hit a ball going ninety miles an hour. Then, later in the day, I would head over to AT&T Park, buy a seat in the bleachers for today’s 1:05 p.m. game and try not to think about what would happen next.

  29

  It was 4:30 p.m., when I pulled open the door to the building that housed JL & Associates. Here it was sunny and warm. No hint of damp fog. As the summer sun dipped behind the tall office buildings, streaks of light boomeranged off the windows until they glowed red and orange.

  The building was a San Francisco classic with a worn brick façade and ornate detailed cornices. It had a long narrow entryway with a security guard sitting at a desk near the door. Before I had gone a few steps, Justin was walking down the hall toward me.

  “You’re here.” He took my arm and walked me over to the security desk.

  “Hey, Larry. Meet a good friend of mine. This is Trisha Carson. She’s going to taste test our new products. Anything going on in the building?”

  “Nothing’s happening. People are on their way home.”

  A small television was sitting on the counter tuned to a pregame show for the Oakland A’s. The drone of the commentators echoed through the quiet lobby.

  “When are you going to come over to our side?” Justin asked.

  “Never. A’s fan ‘till I die,” he said pumping his fist in the air.