Nobody's Child (The Jeri Howard Series Book 5)

by Janet Dawson

  Cassie was on the front steps, resplendent in a red knit dress with gold buttons. She was holding hands with Eric, a tall blond with high cheekbones. He wore a thick sweater in a shade of blue that matched his eyes. Cassie’s parents were behind them, also dressed as though they were going to Sunday school. Mrs. Taylor enveloped me in a hug. Together with several of the Taylor siblings and their spouses and/or significant others, we trooped through the lobby and into the theater, where Mrs. Taylor had reserved what seemed like a row of seats. I settled in next to Cassie, trying to talk over the preshow buzz. The lights began to dim and the chatter lessened, then died. The Allen Temple Cantateers broke into a rousing gospel version of “Joy to the World.”

  I felt my mood lift, just as Cassie had predicted. That feeling carried me through Sunday afternoon, when I went to the large corner studio where Serena Filippo shared a kiln with two other potters.

  In recent years the Berkeley flatlands between San Pablo Avenue and Interstate 80 have become a magnet for art as well as light industry. Drawn by the low rents for large airy and well-lighted spaces, artists have converted warehouses into studios. The block-long one-story building on Eighth Street near Dwight showed a mixture of uses. A candle factory and a woodworking shop occupied space next to a print shop, and I saw several artists’ studios listed on the building directory. Many of them were participating in open studios this Sunday afternoon, which was as rainy as Saturday had been.

  As I walked through the door, I heard Christmas music, played on harp and flute. A CD player and a collection of disks rested on an old wooden office desk on the back wall. Near it, in the far corner, was a large Christmas tree which was decorated with gilded streamers and a variety of ornaments. Several wooden folding chairs were grouped on either side of the tree. Bowls of potpourri perfumed the air, and twinkling lights were strung on the otherwise unadorned ceiling, with its bare exposed rafters and big utilitarian light fixtures. Shelves constructed of naked planks resting on sawhorses were arrayed on three walls, displaying the potters’ wares.

  It was mid-afternoon and the studio was full of people, either examining the pottery or chatting with the hosts, two women and a man, all of whom had sprigs of holly tied with gold ribbon pinned on the right shoulders of their clothes. They took turns circulating through the studio and keeping an eye on the cash box in the top drawer of the desk. The man was in his twenties, wearing a loose-fitting purple sweater over gray pants. I examined the two women and tried to figure out which of them I’d spoken with on the phone this morning. The one nearest me, talking with a man and a woman who appeared to be friends, was tall and imposing, wearing a long dress patterned in an African motif. Her curly black hair was cropped close to her head, showing off an ornate pair of earrings in her pierced ears.

  The other woman looked more as though she were the same vintage as Aditi and Viraj. She was short, with graying blond hair which had been braided with a red, green, and gold taffeta ribbon. Red Christmas ball earrings hung from her lobes, and she was dressed in red leggings topped with an oversized green tunic, which set off her holly brooch. She stood at a table in the front corner of the studio, dispensing hot cider from a large pot with a heating element. I took one of the paper cups she offered and helped myself to a cookie from the nearby tray.

  As I sipped the cider, I made a slow circuit of the room, examining the pottery, which showed several distinctive styles and methods of firing. I spotted a piece of raku I liked, and decided to think about buying it. The small woman in red and green turned over cider-dispensing duties to the man in the purple sweater and accompanied a customer back to the desk, where she wrote a receipt for a large blue bowl and wrapped the purchase carefully in newspaper.

  “Serena?” I asked when the customer had departed.

  “Yes.” She smiled. The red glass balls in her ears swayed.

  “I’m Jeri Howard. When I called this morning, you were on your way over here, so you suggested I drop by.”

  She nodded again, the smile leaving her face. “The detective. I talked with Aditi last night. She says Maureen is dead.”

  “I’m afraid so. What can you tell me about her?”

  Serena didn’t answer immediately. Another customer had appeared at the desk, this one with a question about a vase. I replenished my cup of cider and took another cookie. When Serena was free, she introduced me to her partners. The young man, Payson, moved behind the desk, and the woman, Arnelle, took over at the refreshment table. Then the studio experienced a sudden rush of customers that kept all three potters busy.

  I decided I’d buy the raku pot, telling myself it was a gift for someone on my as yet untouched Christmas list. Then again, it was so lovely I might keep it myself. So much for Christmas shopping. I wrote out a check which Payson deposited in the cash box, then I sat down on a folding chair next to the Christmas tree.

  “Sorry about that,” Serena said when she joined me. “The customers ebb and flow. Want some more cider?” She herself held a cup, and with that hand she gestured toward the table. When I shook my head, she used her free hand to pull up a chair. Then she sat down, stretched her legs out in front of her, and sighed, as though she was glad to get off her feet.

  “Just so they come. How long have you been a potter?”

  She sipped the hot cider before she answered. “Forever. Well, since college, and that was over twenty-five years ago. I didn’t do much work while I was married. I was living up in Marysville and didn’t really have access to a kiln. After my divorce, I came back here to Berkeley. I’ve had the studio for ten years. With different people, though.”

  “Aditi tells me you sell your pottery on Telegraph Avenue.”

  “Not all the time, usually Saturdays when the weather’s good. I work a lot of crafts fairs, like the Peddlers Fair in Benicia, the Wine and Art Fair in Alameda.” She took another sip from her cup and swept her other hand around the studio. “All three of us just spent two weekends working the Harvest Festival in San Francisco. That’s a big one. I make more money at the crafts fairs. They’re more structured and organized. In fact, I may bag Telegraph altogether.” She sighed. “I’m getting too old to stand on sidewalks peddling my pottery. Besides, the scene on Telegraph gets weirder every year.”

  “I know. It’s always been strange on Telegraph, but it seems to have deteriorated. I just had this conversation with a friend of mine who has a store down there, Levi Zotowska.”

  Serena brightened. “Oh, I know Levi and Nell. Have for years. It really is a small world, isn’t it?” The smile left her face. “Well, Levi’s right about Telegraph. It was different when I was in school. Or maybe I was just younger. There have always been people living on the streets and sleeping in People’s Park, but I haven’t felt... well, threatened, until the past few years. I ask myself why, Jeri. The only answer I can come up with is that before, those people in the park seemed to be hanging out on their way to something else. Now it seems like the park is the end of the line. There’s nowhere else to go. No expectations. No progress. The older ones have given up. The kids have empty faces.”

  I nodded, recognizing the bleak picture she painted with her words. It was the same image Levi had evoked a week ago.

  “Did Maureen have an empty face?”

  “No,” Serena said. “She looked scared and out of place, but determined, as though she wanted to get out of there at the first opportunity. I noticed her right away. She was hard to miss, in those cast-off clothes, with a big belly.”

  “When did you first notice her?”

  She paused and took a sip of cider. “Late August, two years ago. That’s when the fall term starts at Berkeley. The students start coming back in the middle of the month. It’s always busy down there by the campus, but when school starts, there’s this huge influx of kids. And the older I get, the younger they look.” She laughed.

  “I knew Maureen wasn’t a student, even though she was about the same age as those freshmen,” Serena continued. “She looked mor
e like a runaway. Her clothes were scruffy and she didn’t have that scrubbed look, like someone who takes a shower every morning.”

  “I imagine it’s hard to keep clean when you’re living on the streets,” I said.

  “I know. She made an effort, though. Some of them don’t. Maureen’s hair was combed and her face was clean. When she asked people for spare change, she wasn’t aggressive, like some of the panhandlers around there. She was polite, almost apologetic. But what really got my attention was the fact that she was pregnant. She had to be five or six months gone, and she was carrying that baby high and sticking out in front.”

  Serena shook her head. “I remember thinking, My God, little girl, go home, you can’t have that baby here on the avenue. Finally I spoke to her, once when she got close to my stall. I asked her why she didn’t go home or to a shelter. She just looked at me like I didn’t understand and shook her head. Then I realized she was with Rio.”

  “Who’s Rio?” I asked. Then I recalled Levi mentioning the name, saying that he thought the man sold drugs. Was he the homeless man Aditi and Viraj had mentioned when they described their initial encounter with Maureen?

  Serena confirmed this. “He’s a fixture down on the avenue. About my age, mid-forties. I’d call him hard-core homeless. He’s a big guy, tough-looking, intimidating. I don’t like him. He makes me jittery.” She hugged herself with her arms, her shoulder muscles tightening. “Nobody messes with Rio. I don’t know if it’s fear or something else, but he must have some hold over the homeless people around there. I think he’s a dealer. He’s always got a bunch of street kids with him. Like maybe he’s using them as mules. Or for something else. When I saw that Maureen was with Rio, I wondered if he was the father of her baby. I’m sure he sleeps with those girls, exploits them in some way.” She twisted her face into a grimace.

  “Yet, according to Aditi and Viraj, it was this man who convinced Maureen to go with them in September of that year.”

  “That’s true,” Serena said. “All three of us were telling her she didn’t want to have that baby in People’s Park. But when he said it, she listened.”

  Was Rio looking out for the welfare of Maureen and her baby? Or did he simply want to get rid of her? I’d have to discover his motives myself. But first I’d have to locate him.

  “Where can I find Rio?”

  Serena shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Sometimes he disappears for weeks at a time. Maybe he’s hanging around downtown Berkeley, along Shattuck or University. Or it could be he’s moved to North Berkeley. There are quite a few homeless in that area near Shattuck and Vine. Wherever he goes, though, he seems to wind up back on Telegraph or People’s Park.”

  “I guess I’ll have to spend some time hanging out on the avenue myself,” I said. I was not relishing the prospect, not in rainy December weather. “Can you describe him? Other than big and intimidating.”

  “I’ve never gotten close enough to get a really good look at him. Didn’t want to.” She thought for a moment. “My ex-husband was six-two. I’d guess Rio is about that tall. Big through the chest and shoulders. Dark, black hair, brown eyes. He isn’t African-American but he could be Hispanic, or Native American. He might be Dyese’s father. But the little girl was— is darker.”

  Since Maureen was dead, it was too easy for people to talk about her child as though the little girl was dead too. Serena’s quick change from past to present tense underscored the fact that Dyese’s whereabouts were still a mystery.

  “Aditi had told me yesterday that Maureen had some money saved, that she was planning to visit her mother, then get an apartment and a job. But you saw her on Telegraph, panhandling again. When was that? Did you talk with her?”

  “August again,” Serena said. “Six months ago. I was so surprised to see her like that, especially after she’d spent the time up at Sebastopol. She was embarrassed too. She didn’t want to talk to me. In fact, after the first time I spotted her last summer, I didn’t see her for several weeks. It was like she moved to a different area, just so she wouldn’t encounter me. I saw her a couple of times after that, usually by herself, and once with Rio.”

  Rio again. He may have seen Maureen more recently than any of the other people I’d talked with. “Did you ever talk with her? This past summer, I mean?”

  “Yes, twice. The first time, I asked how she wound up on Telegraph again, but she wouldn’t tell me. And the last time, well, I never saw her again after that conversation.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  When Serena answered, her voice was tinged with sadness. “It was just after Labor Day. I’d spent the weekend up at Sebastopol. When I saw Maureen a few days later, in front of Cody’s, I bought her a cup of coffee. I urged her to go back there, to Mother Earth Farm. I knew from talking with Aditi and Viraj that they would be happy to see her and the baby again. She smiled and said she was planning to go back to the country, as soon as she could manage it. But she wanted to make it happen on her own, without asking Aditi and Viraj for help.”

  “During those three months, did you ever see Dyese?”

  Serena shook her head. “No. She didn’t have the baby with her. Thank God for that. I see homeless children these days, as well as adults. I asked about the baby both times I talked with Maureen. She told me Dyese was in a safe place.”

  Where was this safe place Maureen had hidden her little girl? Was Dyese still there, still safe? Or had she been murdered along with her mother, her body as yet unfound?

  That thought haunted me. When I looked at Serena, I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  Eighteen

  MY CONTACT WITH THE BERKELEY POLICE WAS A woman I’d met several years ago while working on another case. Lauren was a tall woman who wore a uniform and walked a beat in downtown Berkeley. I called her Monday morning and offered to buy her a cup of coffee before she started her shift. I also mentioned Rio’s name and the sketchy description Serena had given me. She lived in North Berkeley, so we met at the French Hotel on Shattuck. While Lauren snagged a table, I stepped up to the counter to order my latte, her cappuccino, and a couple of poppyseed muffins.

  “I couldn’t find out much on this Rio,” Lauren said when we were settled at the table. “Evidently he hasn’t been arrested, at least not in Berkeley. I’ve never seen him on my patch. Most of the homeless people I encounter don’t migrate much off Shattuck or University. Maybe it’s a mobility thing, or maybe they just get used to hanging out in a certain area. I did talk to a couple of the guys who patrol Telegraph. They know who Rio is, but they haven’t seen him in a while. They figure him for a dealer, but if he is, he’s careful. Nobody’s caught him at it. At least not yet.”

  Lauren paused, broke off a piece of her muffin, and popped it into her mouth. I sipped my latte and wondered if Rio was laying low for a reason.

  “You think he killed this girl?” Lauren asked, echoing my thoughts. “The one whose body was found up in the hills?”

  “It’s possible. I think he knows something, which is reason enough to make me want to talk with him. According to my sources, Maureen Smith spent some time with him in the past six months. And also two years ago, before her baby was born. My reason for being involved in this is the little girl. No one has seen that child since last March. Or no one will admit to it. I hope Dyese Smith isn’t dead too.”

  I sighed and took a bite from my muffin, washing it down with coffee. “Besides, how would a homeless man who lives on the streets transport a body up to the fire zone?”

  “Helped himself to a car?” Lauren theorized. “Or maybe he has a double life and he’s not homeless at all.”

  I shook my head. “I can speculate all I want but I won’t know anything until I find him and talk with him. I just need to know where to start. If he’s in his forties, maybe he’s a vet. Isn’t there a vets shelter here in town?”

  “Yes, right across from that park downtown. It serves homeless men. They line up on the steps about nine-t
hirty, ten at night to get the available beds. They’re back on the streets at six-thirty in the morning. Don’t count on your description to be all that accurate, though,” Lauren warned “If Rio has been living on the streets for any length of time, he could look a lot older than he is. I’ve seen forty-year-olds who looked sixty. It’s rough out there on the pavement.”

  Lauren narrowed her eyes and looked past my shoulder. I turned and followed the direction of her eyes. Two men bundled in layers of clothing were hitting on the customers lined up at the counter, asking them for spare change. If I had to guess, I couldn’t tell how old they were either. The two men saw us watching them. Then Lauren’s uniform registered. They quickly disappeared, back out onto the sidewalk.

  “Move along, move along,” Lauren said under her breath. She reached for another piece of her muffin. “Usually they stay outside. Or they’re down the street, hanging out around the ATM, asking people for spare twenties. Who ever heard of a spare twenty?”

  “I thought the panhandling ordinance prohibited solicitation within ten feet of an automatic teller machine.”

  “And six feet of a commercial building,” Lauren said. “So they move back a foot. You notice that ordinance didn’t stop those guys from coming in here. Voting on a ballot proposition isn’t going to magically solve the problem. I tell you, Jeri, this is really a hot-button issue. Half the people in town want us to roust the panhandlers, just sweep them off the streets. They’re tired of being hassled every time they walk down Shattuck. The other half is on the civil liberties bandwagon. Begging is free speech, according to the courts.”

  “It’s happening everywhere,” I commented. “San Francisco, Seattle. Even Berkeley, home of the Free Speech Movement where everything is political.”

  “Don’t I know it?” She shook her head and took a healthy hit of her cappuccino. “You should have been at those hearings on the panhandling ordinance.”

  “I read about it. Fairly contentious, as I recall.”