Was I building a castle of sand, finding design in mere coincidence? Possibly. Probably, in fact. After all, it wasn’t the first time the girl had run away. And there were dozens of plausible reasons why she and Eddie might have each, independently, ended up on campus that day.
But then why had Eddie jotted Cheryl’s phone number on his desk calendar that Saturday?
The phone was ringing when I returned from my trip to the mailbox. I scurried to catch it in time, but I might as well have saved my energy. There was a brief moment’s silence, followed by a click. Telemarketing, I thought with disgust. Phones dialing other phones, automatically.
As if to prove my point, the phone rang again. This time, however, it was a honest to goodness call, the woman from Goodwill Industries calling to arrange a pickup date. I’d told her a week ago I would have the boxes ready by Friday. But a week ago the only thing on my mind had been the injustice of Sabrina’s hasty departure.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “I’ve been so busy with . . . with other things that I haven’t finished going through all the rooms yet.”
“You take all the time you need, darling. You only have one father. Saying good-bye is always harder than we expect.”
I thought of the upstairs bedroom I’d been avoiding, the desk I hadn’t gone back to since finding the cache of letters my father had been saving. The situation with Jannine had kept me busy, but in all honesty, I had to admit it wasn’t the only thing holding me up.
“It shouldn’t be much longer,” I told the woman. “I’ll get on it this afternoon.”
But instead of running off to sort through my parents’ old bedroom, the one my father had abandoned the day my mother died, I pulled out the box Jannine had given me and went through the tavern papers a second time.
The numbers added up, just as they had the night before. Maybe an accountant would see something I’d missed. It was worth a try. There was a chance I could find somebody in town who would be willing to take a look that afternoon. I started to put the pages in order. The two year-end statements, followed by half a dozen sheets of random monthly figures.
It was when I was putting the monthly accounts in chronological order that I noticed Baker Janitorial and Maintenance. It was listed under the column of expenditures for September. $95. That’s why the name had seemed familiar to me when Vicky mentioned it; I’d undoubtedly seen it when I’d gone over the accounts before.
As I was clipping the whole pile together, I happened to glance at the statement for this past April. Baker was no longer listed. Instead, there was an entry for Foothill Cleaning, at a monthly charge of $600.
I believe the old adage “you get what you pay for,” but that was quite a jump.
Out of curiosity I unclipped the sheaf of papers and once again pulled out September. Expenses for April, the most recent month I had, were nearly eight hundred dollars higher than for the previous September.
And this in a period of economic recession.
I got out the phone book and called Baker first. Luckily it wasn’t Vicky who answered, but a gravelly-voiced male who turned out to be Baker himself.
“I’m a lawyer going over the books for The Mine Shaft,” I explained. Another statement which was technically true but not entirely accurate. “I was wondering ...”
Baker cut me off gruffly. “We don’t do work for them anymore.”
“Yes, I know that, but...”
“Ten years we have, Marrero and me. Ten years of hard work and trust, and he tosses it out the window the minute he gets a better deal. Won’t even give me a chance to see if we can work it out.” Baker snorted. “I don’t have to talk to no lawyer of his. I don’t owe him nothing.”
He hung up with a deafening clunk.
I tried looking up the number for Foothill next, and came up empty-handed. The listings jumped from Foothill Acupuncture Center to Foothill Florist. It took me only a minute to come up with an alternate plan, however. I called the tavern and held my breath, praying I would reach someone besides George. My good angel was looking out for me.
“Hi,” I said to the voice that wasn’t George, “my husband and I are opening a small deli in town. We’re looking for someone to clean up a couple of times a month you know, a janitorial service. Well, my husband talked to somebody over there at your place and got a recommendation, but then, well, he lost the slip of paper he wrote it down on. Do you think you could give me the name and address again?”
“You need to talk to the owner. I don’t know much about that stuff.” There was some commotion on the other end, then the voice said, “Wait a minute. Hey, Wally, what’s the name of the guy who cleans up on Sundays, Jose something.”
Wally didn’t know the last name either, but he knew the address because he’d given the guy a ride once when his truck broke down. I thanked him effusively, which wasn’t an act, then headed over to pay a visit to Foothill Cleaning.
I had trouble finding the place at first because Foothill’s office wasn’t an office, but a tiny, rundown shanty in the hills outside of town. The woman who opened the door was young, Hispanic and very pregnant. She didn’t understand English, and she didn’t understand my fractured Spanish either.
“Un momento, ” she said finally.
That I understood.
She left and returned a few moments later with a man whose grasp of English wasn’t much greater. He, at least, could make some sense of my Spanish.
“George Marrero, The Mine Shaft,” I said, articulating carefully.
“Si. ”
“Do you clean for him? Limpia?” I made a sweeping motion with my arms as though I held a broom.
The man looked at me warily. “Es migra?”
“No,” I answered, “amiga. ” I was no friend of George’s, but I didn’t want Jose worrying that I was from immigration either.
He grinned broadly. “St. Limpio. ” He rattled off something else I couldn’t make out
“Es su patron?” I asked. Is he your boss?
The man nodded. “Trabajo mucho, ” he said, and continued speaking rapidly, gesturing with his hands to make his point
That was the extent of our conversation, and I’d understood only parts of it, but it told me all I really needed to know. George Marrero had replaced a reputable, longstanding cleaning service with cheap, probably illegal, labor. Jose might very well do a top-notch job, but I was willing to bet he wasn’t getting paid six hundred a month for his efforts.
What’s more, I had a pretty good idea where the money was going.
California businesses using a name different from that of the owner are required to file a fictitious name statement. This is public information that can be obtained through either the county or the Secretary of State’s office in Sacramento. The road to Sacramento is four-lane interstate a good part of the way, but it was still a long drive. I decided to head for Jacksonville, the county seat, instead. I thought it would be quicker, but I’d forgotten what Friday afternoon is like. By the time I made it to the courthouse, having poked along behind every tractor and Winnebago in the county, I was in ill-humor.
The two women behind the front counter were busy chatting. I waited politely for a couple of minutes while they discussed someone named Milo, whose first wife was bleeding him dry. When the story showed no signs of winding down, I cleared my throat and asked to see the records for Foothill Cleaning. The woman closest to me took the information, snapped her gum, then went back to talking to her friend. Finally, they moved together toward the record area at the back. When they returned, they’d moved on to discussing a Mike, whose finances seemed in better shape. He’d apparently just purchased a large and expensive boat.
While they debated the best attire for boating, I glanced at the listing of fictitious names. It was just as I expected — George Marrero doing business as Foothill Cleaning. He was skimming money from the bar into his own pocket. He probably paid Jose in cash, a de minimis amount at best. The healthy check to Foothill Cleaning we
nt into an account of his own. There was a good chance the janitorial scam wasn’t the only one he was running, either.
It wasn’t a pretty picture, but it explained why George had been so eager to keep Eddie from becoming involved. Duping Eddie’s father had probably been fairly easy. It was my guess he’d never looked at the books, just taken what his brother doled out. George had skimmed cash off the top, an easy thing to do in a business like his, and then divvied up the remaining profits.
But with Eddie in the picture, things changed. He was young and enthusiastic, ready to jump in with both feet. Eddie wanted to understand the numbers; he wanted things to add up.
No longer able to pocket cash, George had set up a dummy business or two. Everything looked fine on paper, but the money still found its way to George’s pocket.
That much fit pretty comfortably. The next step was a big one, though. I let it play out in my mind slowly.
George hadn’t simply wanted to keep the business to himself. He’d wanted to cover up the fact that he was embezzling funds.
Had Eddie caught on?
Had George killed him to keep him quiet?
Dead men don’t talk. It’s about as common a motive for murder as you can find.
Without more, it wouldn’t convince a jury. But I was hoping it would be enough to convince Benson. Or at least get his attention.
Chapter 19
After my experience with afternoon traffic on the way over, I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back to Silver Creek before Benson left for the weekend. In person might be better, but by telephone was definitely quicker. I found a pay phone in the lobby and called.
I might as well have saved my quarters.
“You’re grasping at straws,” Benson told me. “Trying to deflect attention from your friend.”
“I’m not grasping at straws,” I replied evenly. “I am trying to find out who really killed Eddie. If you ask me, it looks like George has a pretty good motive.”
“Kali, if you look hard enough, you can find any number of people with motives of some sort.” It was the same mildly indulgent tone a father might use when explaining to his son the necessity of daily bathing.
“Bilking your partner, cheating the IRS — covering up something like that is pretty substantial.”
“It could be a legitimate business, you know. Nothing says a guy can’t use the services of one of his own companies.”
“Unless it involves fraud. He’d probably know about Jannine’s gun, too. And he postponed his Saturday departure for Tucson at the last minute.”
Benson sighed. I could imagine his heavy jowls vibrating with the effort. “All right, I’ll make a note of it and have someone look into the possibility next week. That make you happy?”
I would have been happier if I hadn’t had the impression he was doing it strictly as a favor to his old friend’s daughter. “There might be a couple of other suppliers he’s doing the same thing with. You want me to check them out?”
“No, we’ll take it from here.” There was a pause. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to convince Jannine she’d be better off cooperating with us?”
“She is cooperating.”
“You know what I mean.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Haven’t you been listening to me? She didn’t kill him.”
“We’ve got a pretty good case, Kali. I’m only trying to make it easier on her.”
After I’d hung up, I realized I should have asked about Cheryl. Not that he’d have told me anything. Not that I was so sure it mattered any longer. With what I’d uncovered about George, the pieces fit rather nicely. Eddie running into Cheryl at school Saturday morning now seemed irrelevant.
The only thing was, Eddie’s murder aside, I found myself caring about the girl. I knew what it was to feel alone in the world, to have a parent who wouldn’t acknowledge your pain or confusion, a parent who looked right through you, as though you weren’t there at all.
But I also knew that on the streets, feeling unloved wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to you.
<><><>
By the time Tom arrived that evening, I’d managed to work myself out of the funk I’d fallen into after my call to Benson. If the police weren’t willing to investigate George Marrero, I’d do it myself. That thought, plus a short walk, a long, hot shower, and my favorite scooped neck blouse did wonders for my disposition.
The notion of spending the evening with Tom didn’t hurt either.
“Don’t you look spiffy,” he said, eyeing me in a way that made my skin tingle.
He looked rather spiffy himself. Snug jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and his proverbial cat-who-ate-the- canary smile. He smelled nice too, like a bar of fresh soap, which wasn’t surprising I guess, given that the curls on the nape of his neck were still damp from the shower.
“I brought you something,” he said, and handed me an off-sized paperback, Why Dogs Have Puppies and Other Imponderables. “I debated between that and The Complete Book of Dog Care. ”
“You’re all heart”
He laughed. “You’re getting old, Red. Fifteen years ago you’d have thrown the book at me and probably stomped your foot, too.”
“I never stomped.”
“Oh, but you did. So hard your curls used to bounce.” He eased himself onto the sofa, then cocked his head and studied me. “Old, but as beautiful as ever.”
“Oh, come on.”
“What you don’t think you’re beautiful?”
It was my turn to laugh. “No, I don’t think I’m old.”
The phone rang, and I went to answer it, trying to remember if my hair had ever been curly enough to bounce.
When I picked up the receiver there was a moment’s silence, followed by a click. I shrugged and went back to the other room.
“Your boyfriend again?”
“It wasn’t Ken who called the other night. I told you that. It was a woman I work with.”
“Ken? Hey, that’s cute. Ken and Kali.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I picked up an embroidered pillow and tossed it at him.
Then we both waited to see if I’d stomp my foot. “Come on,” he said, standing with a stretch, “let’s get going.”
I grabbed my purse and then thought to grab a jacket as well. The evening had turned breezy, with a smell of rain in the air. Already huge, dark clouds were drifting across the sky, cutting daylight short.
“Do you think we could stop by The Mine Shaft?” I asked on the way to Tom’s truck. “We don’t have to stay long, but I’d like to see it on a busy night.”
“This about Eddie Marrero?”
“More or less.”
Tom shot me a sideways glance, and waited.
“I think George has been skimming money from the business, and that’s why he wanted to keep Eddie out,” I filled him in on what I’d found that afternoon. “If Eddie hadn’t already discovered what was going on, he was bound to sooner or later.”
Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know, murder is quite a jump from palming a couple hundred a month ...”
“It could be more.”
“Palming even a thousand a month, it’s not big time corruption, Kali. Murder is. That’s a big leap.”
It was the same argument I’d had with myself earlier. “People have been killed over a whole lot less,” I observed.
Tom nodded, his forehead creased in thought. “You told me George and Eddie had worked everything out, though.”
“Maybe they had, and then George changed his mind. Or maybe George only wanted Eddie to think things were resolved.”
Tom drove in silence for a moment. “Makes as much sense as anything, I guess. What are you going to do next?”
“I’m not sure. I was hoping Benson would be interested enough that I wouldn’t have to do anything.” “And he wasn’t?”
“He said he’d have someone look into it, but he wasn’t exactly boiling over with enthusiasm.”
“Maybe he’ll
turn up something all the same.” “Maybe. But I’d better not count on it. If George killed Eddie, there’s bound to be something that ties him to it. I just have to find what it is.”
Tom kept his eyes on the road, squinting into the growing darkness. “You’ll be careful?”
“I’m always careful.”
“I’m serious, Kali. This is murder we’re talking about.”
“What are you, my keeper?”
He looked over at me, then shook his head and laughed. “You always were stubborn as a mule.”
<><><>
The Mine Shaft wasn’t my kind of establishment, but it clearly had no shortage of enthusiasts. The place was packed, the air thick with smoke and booze and sweat. We found stools at the bar and ordered beer, shouting to be heard over the din of laughter and the sharp, penetrating crack of dice.
It was a man’s bar, the kind of local hangout which attracted a regular, steady clientele, in this case mostly middle-aged and paunchy. There was a good deal of calling out to friends across the room, and an equal measure of amicable joshing. It was the sort of place you could almost call homey, if you were inclined to think of a bar in those terms. I wasn’t, but I could understand how some people might, and why George hadn’t been eager to embrace Eddie’s plans for live music and fried zucchini appetizers.
At the other end of the bar, George was listening to the animated retelling of a story with countless repetitions of “And then I says to him.” When the tale ended, both men laughed uproariously. George leaned across the bar top to add a final thought. Then he saw us, and straightened.
I gave him my best smile, but he turned away so quickly I doubt he saw it. “That’s him,” I whispered to Tom, who turned and followed my glance.
“I don’t know what he does with the money he skims,” Tom whispered back, “but he sure doesn’t spend it on clothes.”
Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) Page 16