Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  “Hitchhiked? From Texas? But you were pregnant. I know this isn’t my business, but what happened to the baby?”

  “You’re right. This isn’t your business. It was so long ago. A different time. I was a different person, I guess.”

  She stared off into space as if she was looking back through the years, at the teenager who found herself alone during the frantic and dangerous end of the flower-power days in San Francisco.

  “It wasn’t that strange to be on the streets back then. When I got here I ended up at a clinic in the Haight. Nice people; nice doctors. They took care of me while I was pregnant. They helped me find a place to live, food to eat and kept me healthy. I gave birth to a little boy.”

  “Really? That’s not what I was told Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know. I held him once. I remember wondering if he would be a swimmer, too. Then I handed him to the nurse and signed a couple of papers saying I was giving him up. A few hours later, I left the clinic. That was that.”

  “Did Dick know any of this? Did he know you were here?”

  “Oh yeah. About four years ago, he hunted me down, just like you did. His first question, just like yours. ‘What happened to the baby?’ Not ‘how are you? What have you been doing for the last 30 years?’ Only ‘where was the baby?’ Did you come to find me to tell me that Dick was dead?”

  “That wasn’t the original reason. Why I wanted to talk to you has changed—changed one, two, even three times. A few days ago, I overheard Spencer talking to someone else you probably know, Justin Rosencastle.”

  She shook her head. “Another unfortunate blast from the past.”

  “It sounded like they were talking about drugs. Last night, I confronted Justin, told him I thought the drugs he sold to Dick killed him. He didn’t deny it.”

  Holly was staring at me. “Girl, you are so stupid. Don’t you know what Spencer and Justin do? Look at me. Look at my arms,” and she pulled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt to show the needle tracks.

  “This is because of them. Back in the 70’s, I ran into Spencer at a concert in Golden Gate Park. We kept in touch. He offered me drugs, for free, and a place to crash and food. He wanted to help me so I wouldn’t be on the streets or so he said. But it was only so I’d sleep with him. Maybe it was the times; maybe it was me. What the hell did I care? I had nothing going on and I got free dope and a roof over my head. Justin took over when Spencer was tired of me.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not only had Holly been in touch with Spencer and Justin, but they had been dealing drugs of one kind or another since the late 70’s. And they treated her like a disposable diaper. Use her and throw her away.

  “I think I killed Justin last night. I hit him a couple of times with one of his swim awards.”

  For the first time in our conversation, Holly started to smile. Then, she threw back her head and laughed and laughed.

  “One of the best uses I ever heard of for a swim trophy.”

  She laughed so hard, I thought she’d fall off the bench. She put her dirty hands up to her face and pushed the tangled hair back behind her ears.

  “So let’s see—you hunted me down to tell me that Dick was murdered and that you killed Justin? Is that right?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I pulled out Dick’s camera and searched for the pictures of him and Jeremy Reid.

  “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  She shook her head. “Who is this guy with Richard?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But it might be your son.”

  Just then, my cell phone rang. I looked at the number. It was from my sister.

  “I have to take this.”

  I handed her the camera, stood up and walked away from the bench.

  “Trish, write this down.”

  “Why are you whispering?” I asked.

  “I’m at JL. No time to talk. I’ve been researching information in their files for the new website. I found a warehouse address in South San Francisco. Ready?”

  “You need to get out of there. They are probably looking for me. They’re going to ask you questions. Is Spencer around?”

  “I saw him walk out the door.”

  I hunted around in my backpack, pulled out a pen, shuffled through the bag some more and pulled out a crumpled napkin. It would have to do. “Go.”

  “3557 South Airport Drive, South San Francisco.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Can’t talk now. Someone is coming.” And she clicked off.

  This could be the link, the place where they warehoused drugs that were meant for the streets, the suburbs and for swimmers.

  I turned around and started back to the bench. Holly was gone. I could see her at the end of the block pushing her cart, ready to cross the street. She never looked back at me. I decided not to run after her. Instead, I walked back to the bench. She had left the camera and the photographs.

  On the back of the receipts for our lunch, I wrote, “Holly, if you can tell me anything else about Dick, please call.” I jotted down my cell phone and home numbers. Following the perimeter of the fence, I came to the wooded area behind it. I stopped at the indentation in the grass, the area that Holly called home. There were some long pieces of cardboard folded up and stuck between two bushes. I took the photos and my note and placed them between the folds of the cardboard. Then I headed for the car.

  There on the windshield under the wiper was a parking ticket. I had put enough change in or so I thought. But the afternoon had dragged on and I forgot about the vehicle. Now I had to pay $60 to the City and County of San Francisco. Not happy. Not happy at all since I had no job that would allow me to pay for it.

  Well, as long as I had a ticket, I was going to make use of the extra time. I put the citation back under the windshield wiper and climbed into the car. My promise to Terrel was to wrap up my so-called investigation—his words, not mine—by today. Then tell the police my findings. Okay, it was late afternoon, but the day officially ended at midnight.

  I laid out my cards one more time. I looked at the one for Holly Worthington and added the address of the park. I transferred the South San Francisco address that Lena had given me from the napkin to another card. I was about to call Terrel just to let him know—let him know what? That I was still asking questions and didn’t plan on going to the police for another few hours. Skip that call.

  There was one message on my cell phone, from Inspector Burrell asking me to call her as soon as I could. I hit delete.

  This whole thing which had started with a simple what if a heart attack was not really a heart attack’ had escalated. And now, I was probably a murder suspect. Since Justin was dead, there was no way I could prove that he had been providing drugs to Waddell, and had given him additional drugs to kill him. And that out of spite, revenge, jealousy, he had caused Jackie’s accident. It would be my word against a dead man’s. I don’t think that would hold up in court.

  I had an idea. I couldn’t prove any of what Justin said, but maybe Lena could.

  I called her cell again. No pickup—what else is new? This time I left a message. “Any chance of you finding out who the JL clients are? Both the legitimate clients and maybe the clients that are locked behind a set of passwords?”

  I’m not sure if this was something Lena could even do. She was a web graphic artist not a hacker. Then I put a call into JL & Associates.

  “JL &Associates, how may I direct your call?” said a very friendly female voice. “This is Inspector Carolina Burrell, may I speak with Spencer Matthews please?”

  “Can I tell him what this is regarding?” the voice asked with a touch of concern.

  “May I speak with Mr. Matthews, please?” I asked again.

  “He’s not here, but I will take a message.”

  I left Inspector Burrell’s number and then hung up. The call wouldn’t seem too much out of the ordinary if the police had been in and out of the office since Justin’s death. But it
might buy me some time.

  “Think I’ll take a ride,” I said to myself. But first I stepped out of the car, pulled the parking ticket from under the windshield wipers, crumpled it up and threw it on the backseat. Then I headed for South San Francisco.

  32

  The warehouse was located in a desolate industrial area in South San Francisco that made no attempt at looking like an upscale business park. Wide streets and set back buildings with no signage besides street numbers kept prying eyes from learning too much.

  The gloomy overcast in the city morphed into cool drippy fog here. The pavement and streets were wet and a dismal grey. I drove by 5357. I couldn’t see a front entrance, even a door. It was a two story building and the blank façade facing the street had no windows. A locked chain-link fence with a high secure gate kept the driveway off limits from anyone driving in. By the side of the driveway, next to the fence was a small call box.

  I found a place to park across the street and waited. It didn’t take long until a 16-foot rental truck pulled up. The driver stuck his head out of the window of the cab, pushed a button and said a few things into the speaker. Then the gate automatically opened and the truck pulled in and the gate closed. It looked like the vehicle pulled around to the back.

  I wouldn’t be able to see anything from where I was sitting. The lot next to 5357 was empty, only tall weeds and trash blowing around in the chilly damp breeze. There was a high wooden fence separating the two pieces of property. I shouldn’t be seen if I was walking around.

  Before I got out of the car, I grabbed my camera. Since it was close to 5:00 p.m., employees were leaving their offices and heading for home. If asked what I was doing, I’d say that I was thinking of buying the property and constructing a small building. I remember my dad always saying, ‘Act as if you belong and no one will bother you.’ Let’s see if it would work.

  Not only did it work, no one cared or even noticed. I was just a woman walking around an empty lot taking pictures of weeds, the street side and surrounding buildings. Not one person glanced my way as they got into their cars and drove away.

  Toward the back of the lot away from the street, the fence angled off toward 5357, protecting me even more. Some of the warped boards were loose and it was easy to see between them to the back of the neighboring building. But truth be told, there wasn’t much to see. A loading dock, cardboard boxes. Guys speaking Spanglish were grabbing boxes off the truck that just pulled in. One man looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. His face was hidden by the hood on his sweatshirt.

  I could see a shed to the side of the loading dock. Behind it was an outside metal staircase that went up to the top floor. If I could get to the shed without being seen, the corner of the building should protect me while I climbed up the steps.

  But I needed to get the guys off the loading dock first. Modern automotive technology was going to come in handy. I pulled out my automatic car door opener and hit the alarm button. My car exploded with sound. It beeped loudly. The front and rear lights flashed. The beeping became more frantic and an annoying whoopwhoop siren started up. I heard the men at the loading dock talking about the noise, gesturing toward the car. I hit the panic button again and the volume increased. It blasted up and down the street.

  Four men walked down the driveway. They pressed a button, and opened the gate heading toward my car. I glanced at the loading dock. It was empty. Now was my chance. I squeezed through the fence. Moving quickly to the back of the shed, I darted over to the staircase. I could see the men curbside surrounding my car, peering inside.

  I sprinted up the steps and tried the metal door at the top. It was locked. I continued climbing and stepped onto the roof. As I moved away from the roof’s edge, I hit the car’s open door button and the noise stopped. Then I pressed the lock button and the car relocked itself.

  “This car is haunted,” I heard one of the men say.

  The others laughed as they walked back to the loading dock. “It’s a ghost car, coming to get you.”

  One man shoved the other and they climbed inside the back of the truck, and continued pulling out boxes. The worker in the hooded sweatshirt stood by the loading dock stacking the boxes. I knew who he was. The guy who tried to steal my backpack.

  “What was that all about?” said a voice standing almost directly below me at the door I had just climbed past.

  “Car alarm,” said one guy. “Nothing else.”

  “You sure? I don’t like empty cars outside my building.”

  “It was across the street, boss. Nothing in the car. Doors are locked. Car computer went loco, maybe.”

  “Okay,” said the voice as it moved back inside the building.

  I looked around. On the roof were a large heating and air conditioning unit and various small vents. It was a tar and gravel roof and I had the distinct impression that each step I took could be heard below. I bent over to untie my shoes and take them off.

  There was a door that opened unto the roof, probably the way workmen reached the heating units for repair. I walked over, put my hand on the door knob and turned it as quietly as I could. It moved in my hand. The door wasn’t locked. I pulled it open very slowly, wondering if it would creak. It really wouldn’t have mattered if it did.

  There was plenty of noise coming from two stories down. Still holding my shoes, I moved inside the building. I’m not sure what I was expecting to see but this wasn’t it. I thought I would find a loud busy plant bottling the sports drink, RazzleD and packaging nutritional supplements. I also expected there to be a separate section—a protected room—for getting the street drugs ready for distribution. But that’s not what I was looking at.

  Off to the side was a pile of smallish white garbage bags, folded over and taped shut. From my vantage point, I could see men working at two conveyor belts; solid white bricks were on one, off-white bricks were on the other. Men stopped and started the belts as they inspected each block.

  I was probably looking at kilos of cocaine and heroin. I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was didn’t have much, if anything, to do with nutritional supplements. Each of those slabs moving down that conveyor belt was worth tens of thousands of dollars. I had heard Terrel once say that years back, a brick of approximately 700 grams of Asian heroin, cost about $70,000. Once it was cut and resold, it was worth about $280,000.

  Sitting in a small alcove in the corner of the room were two big burly men with rifles propped up against their chairs. Another man was leaning up against the wall and chatting with the other two. Tucked into his waistband was a pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle. While they talked, they kept an eye on the men working and on the nondescript plastic trash bags filled with drugs worth millions of dollars.

  Drugs and weapons. How naïve could I be? This was beyond dangerous. I had to get out of here, now. I was dead if they found me. Inspector Burrell was right. This was a job for the police. I backed up as quietly as possible to the door, when the conveyor belts stopped. I held my breath.

  “Shit…what the fuck?” I heard a man below me. “This is a piece of crap.”

  “Something happened to the belt. Jimmy gonna take a look. So let’s go get something to eat,” said one of the men.

  The voice came out of an office on the floor below me. “Forget about it. Keep working. We have to make a delivery tonight.”

  “We’ve been at this for nine hours. Quick break. We need food,” said the workman.

  “All right. Pick something up and bring it back.”

  I could hear the phone ring in the office below me.

  “Inspector who called? Why didn’t you call me immediately? I don’t like this. I’m coming back to the office. Get this inspector on the phone and see if you can find out what she wants.”

  The man on the phone below me was Spencer, Dick Waddell’s brother-in-law. Still on the landing, I could hear him making another call.

  “Hey, Tip. Need to tell you something—I got a lady inspector nosing around at my office—
probably related to Rosencastle’s death. Don’t know. She left a message with the receptionist. Idiot didn’t call and tell me about it until right now. Nothing to worry about, just wanted to let you know. Right. I’ll call you later.”

  With that, he moved quickly down a flight of stairs and walked over to a man working on the machinery at the end of the conveyor belts. “Jimmy, get this working by the time the guys get back, you understand.”

  Jimmy mumbled something that I couldn’t hear. Then Spencer opened the door by the loading dock and walked out into the damp air. That was my cue. I inched quietly out the door and was back on the roof. I stood behind the heater unit and watched him. He walked by the truck, looked in, and nodded. ‘Almost empty,’ I heard him say. Then he moved toward the back of the yard where his car was parked. He glanced to his left and stopped.

  “What the…”

  Tilting his head, he walked over to the fence, to the section I had climbed through. A slat was clearly missing. He shook his head. “Jimmy, get out here.”

  The short heavyset Jimmy in a dirty white tee shirt came to the edge of the loading dock.

  “What’s up?”

  “How long has this fence been broken?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Jimmy asked, jumping down from the dock and walking over to Spencer. He bent over, reached through the hole in the fence and picked up the piece of wood on the other side.

  “This looks like it has been pulled off,” he said turning the long slat of wood over in his hands. “Probably kids.”

  “Where was security? Get Renaldo and Ken. Show them this and then fix it. Have one of the guys stay out here until we’re finished.”

  Jimmy headed inside the warehouse. Spencer squatted down by the fence. He stuck his hand through the opening. He picked up a small white card. It was one of my cards from the Nor Cal Swimming Association. It had fallen out of my pocket.