Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  He stuck a thermometer into my mouth before I could answer. Then he put a blood pressure cup on my arm and inflated it. He was watching the numbers on the screen by my bedside when Lena walked in.

  “Why am I not surprised?” he said looking at Lena.

  “Everything okay here?” she asked.

  Terrel did not look happy.

  “Let me clarify this for you. This is important, so pay attention.”

  Lena and I looked at each other and then at Dr. T.

  “Drug dealers…bad. They hurt people. They kill people. You listening?”

  We both nodded and waited.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  He took the cuff off my arm and pulled the thermometer out of my mouth.

  “What’s this?” he said, looking at my arm.

  There was four inch gash.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?” he asked me.

  I tried to remember. “Years ago. I stepped on a nail when I was about 13. I think it was then.”

  “Well, you’ve got a deep cut on your arm. Maybe you scraped your arm on a nail from the wharf’s piling. We’re going to clean it up and give you a tetanus shot. Then you’re ready to go home.”

  “T, it’s over now,” I said. “Spencer is in police custody. I did call Inspector Burrell right after I talked to you. I gave the police the address of his warehouse and they are probably there now. It really is finished.”

  Terrel didn’t say a word to me, but walked out of the room. When he came back he had a syringe in his hand.

  “I hope this hurts,” he said.

  35

  Lena and I spent most of the morning the next day talking to Inspector Carolina Burrell. Although officers had gone out immediately to the South San Francisco warehouse, it was vacant when they got there. The gate was unlocked. The only things on the loading dock were some empty water bottles. Inside, the conveyor belts were still in place, but there was nobody around to use them.

  Spencer’s office on the second floor had been stripped bare. His computer was gone; and his two small file cabinets were empty.

  I had asked about the person named ‘Tip’, but Inspector Burrell avoided the topic. Since the evidence had disappeared, she wasn’t sure that drug charges would hold. The list of clients and what looked like dealers, and the two sets of books, one legit, one not which Lena had downloaded from the JL & Associates’ computer could be important. Time would tell about that.

  But the death of his associate and friend, Justin Rosencastle, was another matter. She wouldn’t say much to us but, so far, Spencer was being held without bail.

  That afternoon, Lena and I were back in San Rafael. It was a lovely warm afternoon. We decided to walk down to the Sun Valley Market for a soda. It gave me a chance to tell Lena everything I had learned about Justin.

  As we strolled down the tree-shaded street, Lena looked over at me.

  “If Dick had accepted Justin as a brother, maybe they’d both be alive now,” said Lena.

  “Hard to say. They were on their own self-destructive paths.”

  “You saw the paper this morning, didn’t you?” Lena asked.

  “Yeah. The headline was something like, ‘East Bay Sports Nutrition Entrepreneur Accused of Killing Partner.’”

  “It didn’t mention us by name, just something about unsuspecting bystanders involved. It didn’t mention anything to do with drugs. We helped bring this guy down. Don’t you think we should get some recognition? At least our name in the paper?”

  “Probably not such a good idea. Since it looks like Spencer is part of a drug ring in the Bay area, he may have friends. I wouldn’t want those friends to know any more about us than they already do.”

  “Good point.” We walked into the neighborhood market, picked up some drinks and headed for the small tables outside on the brick patio.

  “Do you think Spencer could be charged with the death of Dick Waddell and for Jackie’s accident?” Lena asked, taking a sip of her iced tea.

  “I don’t know. It was Justin who provided the actual drugs. Terrel said that the autopsy results finally came back. Waddell’s heart muscle wall was slightly thickened and enlarged, which isn’t unusual for someone his age. But if you add street drugs to that… well.

  “We know he swallowed a capsule full of cocaine, although he probably didn’t know what he was taking—or didn’t want to know. It was just something called HT2 that made him alert and fast. Terrel said that the cocaine increased his heart rate and blood pressure and constricted the arteries that supply blood to the heart. He had a fatal heart attack in the water. If that wasn’t enough, the final toxicological results showed he was taking synthetic testosterone.”

  “Why couldn’t he compete on his own merits? We all slow down as we age,” said Lena.

  “His unreachable standards got in the way. Really sad. This whole drug ring…maybe the task force will learn something when they look at the ‘real’ set of books that you hacked into. How did you do that anyway?”

  “My newest talent. I’m on an internet group that is extremely helpful. Really, it wasn’t that hard. You know, the drinks, the RazzleD line of fluid replacement drinks aren’t bad. I tasted a few when I went for my interview. I don’t know if they were any better for an athlete than a glass of water, but they tasted okay. Do you think there are other athletes out there who were Justin’s clients, so to speak?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. But I’m not looking for them. I have to find another job.”

  “So it’s over?” asked Lena, as we gathered up our half full bottles and started the short walk home.

  “Well, almost. I do have one more thing to do. It involves another ride to the East Bay.”

  36

  When I pulled into the Matthew’s circular driveway at Opal Valley, a gardener was working in the front yard. He nodded, smiled, and gestured to the garage. I parked there and walked over to the front door. Out here in the Livermore Valley, it was steaming hot, over 90°. The white glare of the sun seared my skin as I stood at the front door. Glancing around, I couldn’t see or hear another person on the street. Occasionally a car passed by, but that was it. Looks like money buys you solitude, whether you want it or not.

  I rang the bell and a middle-aged Latina, short, full-figured with an apron tied around her waist, answered the door. She looked at me suspiciously.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’d like to see Pamela.”

  “She is busy. Who are you?”

  “I’m Trisha Carson. I was working on a memorial presentation, a tribute for her brother. I have some things I wanted to give back to her. You’re Renata, right?”

  “Si.” Her expression changed and she looked at me quizzically. “Then you know Senora Matthews?”

  “I do. I understand how difficult things have been for her.”

  “Okay, come in. She is outside in the back of the house. She is not doing well right now.”

  I thanked her and walked past the huge living room with the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the golf course. I glanced up the staircase, half expecting Spencer to step out of his home office with a phone to his ear. I continued by the palatial kitchen, the family room and the paneled study where I had looked through old photos of Dick Waddell.

  “The door is this way,” Renata said and she pointed to the double doors in the family room.

  Outside, a tall deep green hedge between the golf course and the house gave privacy to the backyard. The difference between the two landscapes was striking. On one side were wide open fairways, sand traps and greens baking in the sun. But on the house side, there was a cool, peaceful English garden.

  Pamela sat on a simple white Adirondack wooden chair on the patio. On the wide armrest was a glass of ice water. She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her face pale and puffy.

  “Haven’t you done enough?�
� She spoke in a weary whispery voice. I almost couldn’t hear her.

  “Pamela, this is not my fault.” I walked over and sat down beside her.

  “My brother is dead. My husband is in jail. Even Justin is dead.”

  She stared at me out of sunken eyes in a face overcome with sadness.

  “I don’t know what to do. I really don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not much more than a bystander in all this,” I said.

  “Oh, come on. You know that’s not true. The police think Spencer killed Justin. But that was really your doing, wasn’t it? That’s what Spencer told me.”

  “I didn’t kill him. Your husband did that. You know, you must know that he was a …he is…”

  I didn’t know how to tell her that her husband was a drug dealer.

  “He develops nutritional supplements. He wants to help people. That’s all he ever has wanted to do–help them achieve their top performance.”

  “Pamela, you’re kidding yourself. He’s been involved with drugs, illegal drugs, street drugs, call it what you will, since before he came to the Bay Area. His drugs killed your brother.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’re lying. Spencer would never hurt Dick. Never.”

  I sat back and looked out at the garden. She would have to figure this out in her own time. And it really wasn’t the reason I was here anyway.

  “Do you remember Holly Worthington?”

  “How do you know about Holly?”

  “I met her the other day. She’s homeless and living on the streets in San Francisco.”

  I told her what I knew about her sister-in-law. She listened quietly, not sure whether to believe me or not.

  “I think that through your husband, Dick found out that Holly was in the area and that she had a child. That’s why he came here to live. Yes, he wanted to be close to you, but he wanted to see Holly and maybe try and find his son.”

  “So you’re saying that Spencer has known about Holly and this child?”

  “Yes, for at least 15 years, if not more.”

  “And I have a nephew?”

  “He was given up for adoption years ago. But yes, you have a nephew. I think his name is Jeremy Reid.”

  I gave Pamela Richard’s address book and camera.

  “It’s all in here. If you want to contact her, call this number and ask for Dr. Tariq Kapoor. He can help you.”

  I gave her Dr. Kapoor’s card. I laid the photos I had planned on using for Dick’s tribute on the table next to the camera.

  “I came here to give these back to you.” On top were the two smiling teenagers, Dick and Holly, holding their blue ribbons.

  “Good bye, Pamela,” I said.

  She didn’t look at me. Instead, she picked up the photo and stared at it.

  37

  The text, like all text messages was brief, but telling.

  “Get here now. L is driving me crazy.”

  Terrel had driven Lena to her next open water swim. Unlike so many of them that had her up at 5:00 a.m. in the morning for a two hour drive, this swim was only 30 minutes away. Keller Cove was located through the tunnel at Point Richmond, one of the first exits off the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. I was up when they left. While she fluttered around the house throwing swim suits, goggles and towels into a bag, I made myself a cup of coffee, picked up the morning paper and went back to bed. A quiet serene morning was what I hoped for.

  But Terrel’s text had something else in mind for me. So I threw on my sweats, dumped the coffee in a to-go cup and headed out in the early morning once again to an open water swim. Who would be doing the swim evaluation? Would it be Bill? How awkward?

  Oh well, I’m a big girl. As I drove across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, I could see a slash of brilliant morning sun below the lumbering grey fog in the distance. While the sky was still overcast, there was a good chance that the sun would be out before the swim started.

  Once through the Point Richmond tunnel, I started to look for a place to park along the road. I was late and parking was not going to be easy. I drove past Terrel’s black Charger and pulled into a spot about a ten minute walk from the beach.

  The sidewalk skirted a cliff, high above the beach area. As I looked down, I could see the swimmers bundled up. Out in the water, the East Bay Regional Park lifeguards looked like two-inch high action figures, setting out huge yellow and orange inflatable buoys. The shiny buoys popped out dramatically against the deep grey sky and the surprisingly flat grayish green water of San Francisco Bay.

  Down on the beach, Terrel and Lena were sitting off to one side, watching the timers check their equipment. Terrel walked over as he saw me approaching.

  “She is out of control. I keep telling her to maintain the situation, be calm. But she’s not hearing a thing.”

  “She’s nervous. It all goes away once the swim is over. What time is the start?”

  “About 10 minutes from now. They just went through the starting instructions.”

  Terrel looked at me. I knew what he was about to say.

  “Don’t you dare leave.”

  He turned away and looked up at the sky.

  “Here’s the problem…”

  I cut him off.

  “Please stay, even if she is a pain in the ass, right now.”

  As if on cue, Lena came over to us, threw off her swim parka and said, “I can’t find my goggles. Oh my God, I left my earplugs in the car.”

  With that she was gone, running back to her swim bag, digging into it until she found the goggles. We watched as she jogged back to the water and walked in up to her knees. The announcer said that her wave would start in three minutes.

  “Don’t like these. Can’t see anything,” she said, as she jogged back past us again to her swim bag. She threw her dark goggles on the sand and dug around in her bag until she found the clear ones.

  “Better. Much better,” she said, as she passed us for the fourth time. She made it back to the edge of the beach as the timer gave the one minute signal. There was a countdown from 10 seconds to zero and the swimmers ran into the water, splashing and cheering until it was deep enough to swim.

  “She likes this?” asked Terrel, looking after the swimmers disappearing around a point of land.

  “Yeah, she does. She’ll be back to her normal obnoxious self once she runs across the finish line.”

  The sun had come out and the beach was warming up quickly. I looked around. Off to one side was Jackie. Her arm was still in a cast and so was one leg. She was quietly sitting by herself. Menton’s daughter Daisy stood by the food table cutting up bagels. The gangly Nick was missing. So was the booth for RazzleD.

  I walked over to the finish arch with Terrel. We stood about ten feet from the water’s edge watching the long line of swimmers now spread out in the distance.

  “Hey, Trish, hear you’re unemployed,” said the owner of the timing company glancing up from his laptop at the finish line.

  “Guess so.”

  “Don’t know if you’re interested, but we’re expanding. We have more events to time than we have staff. I want to set up and train another crew.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about working for us.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He reached into his pocket, hunting around for a business card.

  “Call me, maybe midweek, after I get these results finalized.”

  He handed me his card.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Terrel looked over and shook his head.

  “Seriously, you want to sit out on a beach with a computer and then deal with swimmers like Lena who complain about the results? Why don’t you find something that you really like? Go work for the San Francisco Giants.”

  “Just how would I get a job like that?”

  “You’ll figure that part out,” he said.

  I patted him on
the arm and started up for the walkway to the street. I made a slight detour aiming for a large green trashcan that was close to the food table.

  “Hey, Daisy,” I said.

  She glared at me and then stabbed one of the bagels in front of her.

  “What happened to Nick?” I asked.

  “He’s not in school anymore, because of you. You’re a snitch,” she said, turning her back to me.

  “He was doing things he shouldn’t have been doing.”

  With that, I reached into my backpack, grabbed all of my cards relating to the Waddell death, tossed them into trash and walked away. No need for these anymore.

  Standing at the top of the hill, I saw the swimmers rounding the first buoy and heading down the longest leg toward the Chevron pier. Even from a distance, I could make out Lena’s lopsided, but effective stroke. By the finish arch where Terrel was still standing, I noticed a tall man with a clipboard. Was he the event director or maybe he was the evaluator? It really wasn’t my concern anymore. I climbed into my car, switched on the radio and headed for home.