Swallowing hard, I braced myself for a bash on the head or the terror of a knife at my throat. The moment seemed to go on forever. Finally there was a shuffling sound, and then my attacker coughed — protracted, hacking cough that sounded like Doc Holiday caught up in a fit of consumption.
“Okay, lady, you can turn around now, just make it real slow. I gotta gun here, and you wouldn’t be first person I’ve used it on.”
I did what the man said, although I would have preferred not to. There is some small comfort in never having to actually set eyes on the creature who is preparing to do you in.
The reality wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. The man I faced was gaunt and wiry, with thinning blond hair that hung limply to his shoulders. A large tattoo covered his right forearm; a smaller one was on his left. His eyes were bloodshot, his face colorless and creased, like a piece of crumpled tissue paper. But to be honest he didn’t look anymore menacing than half the people I passed each morning on my way to die Berkeley BART station. Except of course for the gun.
The man sniffled, then glowered at me. He had the quick, jerky motions of someone with a nervous disorder or a history of drug abuse. “You want to tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing in this office?”
It was then that I noticed the little patch on the sleeve of his shirt — S.C. SECURITY. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I was probably in big trouble, but not in any imminent danger of bodily harm.
“My name is Kali O’Brien,” I said, surreptitiously double-checking to make sure I’d remembered to close the window. “Eddie Marrero’s wife gave me a key.” I held out the key that had fit but not turned, praying he wouldn’t give it a try himself.
The man started to say something and then another coughing fit took hold. The hand with the gun shook unsteadily. I know zilch about guns, but I’d heard the words “hair trigger” often enough that the coughing spasms made me nervous.
“If you don’t believe me,” I said, “why don’t you call his wife and ask her.”
“Even if you got a key, it don’t make sense your snooping ’round here in the black of night That’s why they hired me, you know. Been having all sorts of trouble. Vandalism, theft, that sort of thing. I’m supposed to keep an eye on the place.”
“Obviously there’s been a little mix-up,” I said, with a calmness I thought remarkable. “I was just trying to help out. I certainly don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“I can’t afford to screw up. Done that too many times in my life already.”
“But finding trouble where none was intended, that isn’t so smart either.” I did my best to come up with a reassuring, down-home kind of smile. “I’m a family friend from way back. Eddie and I went to school together in fact. Right here in Silver Creek.”
“You went to school here?”
I nodded.
“O’Brien,” he said, fixing the watery eyes on my face. “Yeah, thought you looked kinda familiar. Yours was the old lady who killed herself, right?”
I flinched. “Right.”
“Weren’t you some hotshot cheerleader?”
Wrong. “You must be thinking of my sister, Sabrina.”
“Yeah, Sabrina, that’s it.” The gun danced in his hand while his mind delved into the past “Blonde, blue-eyed, stacked. I remember her. So how’s she doing these days?”
I forced another smile. “Oh, just fine. She’s got three little kids now, all cute as can be.”
“Must be nice,” he said, looking off through the window into the growing darkness. “I got me a kid somewhere, too. Don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.” He paused a moment then said, “That still don’t explain what you’re doing here.”
The man was sharper than I’d given him credit for. “Eddie’s wife isn’t up to this, so she asked me to go through her husband’s things for her.” It sounded lame so I tried again. “She especially wanted me to check for Eddie’s watch. Seems he left it here Friday by mistake. It isn’t worth much, but it has sentimental value. She was worried it might get misplaced when the school starts cleaning things out.”
My companion scratched his nose. “You find it yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“You say Eddie left it here on Friday?”
I nodded. God help me, Eddie did wear a watch, didn’t he?
“I bet he picked it up when he stopped by Saturday morning. You tell the missus the police probably have it with all his other things.”
“Eddie was here Saturday morning?”
“Yeah. Saw him a little before noon when I was making my rounds.”
“Was he alone?” I tried not to sound too eager.
“Near as I could make out. Might have been someone with him later. I thought I heard voices when I passed by on the other side, but he might have been on the telephone, too.”
“Was there anybody else around?”
“Couple of kids, that’s about it. It’s pretty quiet around here on weekends. Why?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
“Look, you really shouldn’t be here, but seeing as how you’ve got a key and you’re helping out the missus, I’ll let you stay while I finish with this wing. Then you gotta leave and let me lock up, okay?”
There was nothing forced about my smile this time. “Thanks,” I said, with genuine heartiness.
“The coach, he was always real nice to me. You tell his wife I hope she finds that watch.”
Alone again, I sank into the chair, letting the what-ifs roll over me. What if the guard hadn’t believed me? What if the gun had gone off? What if it had been Eddie’s killer who’d come through that door?
I finally pulled myself together. I had maybe five minutes to finish my search; the shakes would have to wait. Leaning forward, I rested my arms on the desk and tried to think. I’d hoped to find some loose thread that might tie in with Eddie’s murder. Now there was a new twist. A couple of them in fact. Eddie’s office might have been searched. I wanted to know why and by whom. And I wanted to know why Eddie had come to the school Saturday morning when he’d told Jannine he was going to the tavern.
While my mind tried to sort through the possibilities, my fingers played with the smooth leather of Eddie’s desk set. It was a deep mahogany color, with matching picture frame and calendar. The sort of practical, but elegant thing that had “family gift” written all over it. The calendar was turned to Sunday. Absently, I flipped it back to Saturday.
Except that Saturday was missing.
I sat up straight and looked again. Sure enough, Friday gave way to Sunday. When I looked closer I could see the paper shreds where the page had been ripped out.
Damn.
Then I noticed on Sunday’s page, the indentations of a hastily scrawled message. I ripped the page out and stuck it carefully into my purse. I made a quick inspection of the retaining file drawer, then turned out the lights and left, taking care to move the trash can from under the window before heading for my car.
<><><>
When I got back home, I pulled the page from my purse and poured myself a glass of wine, all the while trying to ignore the dog whimpers at my feet. Reluctantly, I set the wine glass back down on the counter. Loretta really knew how to lay on the guilt.
“Alright,” I grumbled, “a quick one.” But she had something more leisurely in mind than a short spin down the road. It was almost half an hour before I was able to retrieve my glass of wine and finally examine the page from Eddie’s calendar.
As near as I could make out, there were the initials CN and a phone number. I couldn’t tell if the last digit was an 1 or a 6 so I tried it both ways. The first time I got a recording telling me to hang up and try again. Which I did, his time using the number 6 instead. The phone rang four times before the answering machine clicked in.
The voice was throaty and female. I had reached the Newcomb residence.
Chapter 10
There were three Newcombs listed in the phone book—a Bill, a Carla
and a J.P. Carla’s number matched the one I’d dialed, but it was one of those listings with no address. I’d taken a step forward, only to run smack into a brick wall. I cursed my luck, double-checked the phone number, and tried to figure out what ploy I could use to convince Carla to give me her address. Then I thought of Nick Logan, a friend from law school whose specialty is brick walls.
Early on, Nick spent a couple of years with a major downtown law firm, then jumped ship to follow his first love, computers. He still maintains a small legal practice heavily weighted with pro bono cases, but he derives most of his income (and his pleasure) from his work as an information broker. I’ve always been impressed with the term, but Nick tells me it’s just a fancy name for computer snoop. Of course, I find that impressive, too.
Nick answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey babe,” he said, “don’t tell me you’ve got your nose to the grindstone at this hour.”
“I’m not at the office. Not even in San Francisco.” I explained about my father’s death and my trip home to sort things out. “But it wouldn’t be unusual to find the firm’s associates still toiling away at this hour,” I told him.
“Not anymore. From what I hear things have really gone to hell in a hand basket over there.”
“They’ve put off taking on any new partners, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, and they’ve also put off giving raises and bonuses.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Bonuses had always been a significant part of our compensation.
“I had lunch with Sara. She says everybody’s pretty bummed out.”
Sara Stewart was an associate a couple of years behind me. She’s also an on-again-off-again girl friend of Nick’s. I’d introduced them years back. I’ve tried to stay out of their way since, so I didn’t pursue the lunch angle, but it was the only heartening sliver of news he’d handed me.
“Terrific,” I said gloomily. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“So don’t.” Nick’s been telling me for years I’m making myself old for nothing.
“At the moment, I don’t have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice, babe. But you didn’t call me for spiritual advice, did you?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to get an address for me.”
He chuckled. “I figured it was something like that.”
I gave him Carla’s name and number, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he could. Then I sat and stared at the blank page I’d pilfered from Eddie’s office. Was Carla his companion on those nights he’d claimed to be staying at the tavern? Was she somehow tied in with the ten thousand? There weren’t many women who would lend that kind of money to a married lover. Not willingly anyway, and not without some pretty steep assurances. What about the tavern buy-out and Eddie’s self-proclaimed need for legal advice? Was any of it connected or was I simply chasing my tail?
I had questions. Lots of them. But I was short on answers, and there wasn’t a whole lot more I could do about it right then. I didn’t want to sit and brood about my future at Goldman & Latham either, so I decided to tackle my father’s desk, a chore I’d been putting off all week.
My father believed in the open drawer system of record keeping. His desk was an old fashioned oak roll-top, and every nook, cranny, cubbyhole and drawer was stuffed to overflowing. Bills, announcements, coupons, credit can receipts, empty match boxes—they were all jumbled in there together. There was clearly going to be no central record of what he owed or owned. He’d gotten along just fine, but the probate process required hard data, exact figures, and inordinate attention to detail. All three were in short supply. In order to come up with a schedule of assets and debts, I was going to have to piece things together myself, starting with the bits and scraps in his desk.
I found an old folding table in the back room, dragged it over next to the desk, and began methodically sorting the pertinent from the dispensable. First I emptied all the cubbyholes, tossing what I didn’t need into the meta trash can I’d dragged in from the kitchen. Then I arranged what was left into piles, and started taking notes When I finished with the cubbies, I started on the drawers. I was more than halfway through when the phone rang. For a moment I held on to the hope it might be Ken.
“Hi, babe,” Nick said. “I got that address you wanted. Thirty-four Ponderosa, right there in Silver Creek.”
I grabbed a pen and wrote it down.
“Your gal’s a thirty-six year old registered Democrat with a good driving record. Five-foot-five, a hundred and twenty-four pounds, and single, at least at the moment.”
“Nick, you’re amazing.”
“It’s the database. This kind of stuff is easy. You want more?”
“Not at the moment, but thanks. As a token of my gratitude, I’ll buy you dinner when I get back to town.”
“I’ll let you, so long as you don’t go getting fancy on me.”
“Not a prayer,” I told him.
It was too late to go calling on a woman I’d never met, so I tucked the address into my purse and turned my attention back to the desk. Half an hour and another glass of wine later, I made it to the bottom drawer, where I found last month’s utility bill and a take-out menu for China Gardens on East Main.
I also found three shoe boxes filled with letters and cards, one box for each of us kids. Mine seemed to hold just about every letter I’d written since leaving home. Most were from my college days, when I still considered a long distance call an extravagance.
Pouring still another glass of wine, I settled onto the sofa and began to re-read some of the letters. They were pathetic. Filled with empty, impersonal chatter about class assignments, sporting events, even the weather, for God’s sake. And they were short, most of them barely a page. The birthday and Christmas cards I’d sent more recently were just as bad. Sometimes I’d penned a “Have a good day,” at the bottom, but usually I’d simply signed my name.
And yet he’d kept them all. Every single one.
My throat grew tight, and my stomach knotted over or itself. It was little consolation that my own box was fuller than either John’s or Sabrina’s.
I finished off the bottle of wine, which had been two thirds full when the evening began, then tumbled into bed, where I dreamed of my father. I saw him building the back yard tree house, a special hideaway we all three used right through high school. I saw him helping my mother stuff the turkey on Thanksgiving, humming under his breath. I curled next to him in the backyard hammock, snug and safe as a kitten, listening to the even flow of words as he read aloud.
A little after one, I awoke, soaked in sadness. As the night crept forward, I huddled under the covers and tried to clear my mind. I saw nothing, though, but the pictures I tried not to.
I finally fell back to sleep sometime after five, only to be awakened, what seemed like minutes later, by the screech of an electric saw. I checked the bedside clock — 6:45. My head was pounding, the fallout from too much wine and too little sleep, and my spirits weren’t so good either. But there was no getting back to sleep, not with that racket, so I stumbled out of bed and into my slightly rank sweats. I put a kettle of water on to boil, then remembered I’d run out of the special grind decaf I’d brought from home. The only thing in the cupboard was a jar of generic instant, but I was desperate. I made myself a cup, tasted it, then poured the rest down the drain. Maybe I wasn’t so desperate after all.
The saw continued to screech, my head continued to pound, and my mouth felt like the bottom of a bird cage. I took two aspirin, called to Loretta, whose spirits were as high as mine were low, and stomped angrily out of the house.
The racket seemed to be coming from the old Gallagher place down the road. I didn’t know who lived there now, although I was pretty sure it was no longer any of the Gallaghers. They wouldn’t have been hammering and sawing first thing in the morning. Or any other time for that matter. Two of the upstairs windows had been missing the whole time I was growing up, and whe
n a falling tree had knocked a hole in the front door the winter I was twelve, Mr. Gallagher simply nailed a sheet of plywood across the whole thing. From then on, the family used the back door.
I walked up the rutted driveway, past the old orchard, and knocked. The front door had been replaced. It was a beautifully crafted, eight panel door with shiny brass trim. A real improvement over plywood.
After a moment, I knocked again. Up close like that, the rasp of the saw was piercing. There was no way a gentle knock would be heard, so I started pounding and kicking and hollering with a vengeance. The sawing stopped; my banging and kicking continued for a moment longer, a window-rattling ruckus almost as unpleasant as the sawing. Then the door opened, and I stood nose to nose with my brother’s friend Tom.
“You?” My voice was about as pleasant as everything else that morning. “What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you, too,” Tom said, lifting the pair of protective goggles to his forehead. “I live here.”
“What happened to the Gallaghers?”
“Mr. Gallagher died. Mrs. Gallagher went to live with her daughter in Florida. Is that who you’re looking for? I’ve probably got her address somewhere.”
I pulled myself to my full five-foot-five and scowled. “Do you realize that it’s seven o’clock in the morning?”
“Seven-fifteen actually. And a truly lovely morning, too. You want to come in? I’ll make up some coffee.” Tom pulled the goggles all the way off, then brushed the sawdust from his bare arms. “It’ll take me just a minute to wash up.”
He turned and headed inside without waiting for an answer. I wasn’t about to be left talking to an empty door, so I followed. “No coffee,” I said tersely. “Caffeine makes me jittery.”
“I’ll make decaf then. Or herb tea. Jesus, are you always so surly?”
“Do you always wake the neighborhood with your God-awful hammering and sawing?”
“Ah,” he said, stopping midway through a room stacked with plywood and sheetrock. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”
Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) Page 8