Courage Matters: A Ray Courage Mystery (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 2)

by R. Scott Mackey

  “Don’t sound like cops to me,” she said.

  “I think they’re hired pit bulls Trujillo uses when going by the book isn’t working.”

  “Shit like that happens,” Rubia said.

  “That’s why I need you to ride shotgun with me for a while.”

  “How much does this shotgun gig pay?”

  “You get half,” I said.

  “Thought you said Stroud fired you and wouldn’t pay you a dime?”

  “He did.”

  “So half of nothing is my share?” she said.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Shit.”

  “Consider the benefit you get from my mentoring you,” I said.

  “Double shit.”

  We drove to the office of Barry Fein, CPA, on 21st Street. The old Victorian house had been converted to an office building. Rubia started to get out of the car when I did but I told her to wait so that she could warn me if Trujillo or the two goons showed up.

  “I’m a lookout now?” she said. “That’s skilled labor for my people. I should ask for a raise.”

  “I’ll double your salary. Call my cell phone if you see anybody who enters the building after me that doesn’t look quite right.”

  “If you’re not out in twenty minutes, I’ll come get you,” she said. “I’m hungry. The least you can do is buy me lunch before it gets too late.”

  “Okay. Twenty minutes.”

  More than half the offices appeared to be vacant according to the directory in the foyer. The interior walls needed painting, and the threadbare carpet curled up at the edges. The dark interior smelled musty as if a window hadn’t been opened in twenty years. I walked up the two flights of wooden stairs, the steps creaking with each footfall.

  I opened the door with a “Barry Fein, CPA” nameplate affixed to it and was surprised to enter a small—maybe ten foot by ten foot—office. Sitting at a desk facing me sat, I assumed, Barry Fein, a 30ish man with a full head of thick curly brown hair and a day’s worth of stylish stubble. He was dressed casually in a gray Oakland Athletics t-shirt.

  “I thought there’d be a reception area,” I said.

  “I like to keep my overhead low,” he said. He did not seem overjoyed to see me. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I?” I said, indicating the chair across from his desk.

  “I guess, but I’m kind of busy.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “What happened to your head,” Fein said to me after I sat down.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “What’s your occupation?”

  I told him my name and that I was a private investigator.

  “Maybe you should find another line of work,” he said. “That looks like it hurts.”

  On his wall was a diploma, a couple of official looking certificates, and a photo of Fein with a young woman taken at what looked like a River Cats game.

  “You went to Chico State,” I said, pointing at the diploma.

  “I did. Graduated ten years ago with a bachelor’s degree in accounting.”

  “Now you have your own business. Impressive.”

  “May I ask why you came to see me? Do you need an accountant?”

  “No, I am doing some work for a client and your name came up as part of the investigation so I thought it would be a good idea to see if you might be able to shed a little light.”

  “Shed a little light?”

  “Do you know a Craig Ziebell?”

  I wasn’t much of a poker player, had played maybe four or five times in my life, but I knew a tell when I saw one. Ever so subtly, the right side of Fein’s mouth twitched at the mention of Ziebell.

  “Nope,” he said. “Never heard of him. Who did you say your client was again?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I have to keep that confidential.”

  “Confidential. Okay. I don’t know Ziebell. Is that all you needed to ask me?” He made a show of picking up a stack of papers on one side of his desk and moving it to the other, ever the busy man who had to get back to work.

  “How about Andrew Norris? Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  He was stonewalling me. That meant something, but I didn’t know exactly what. Time to change course.

  “You’re a CPA?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you specialize or are you a jack of all trades?”

  “I mainly do company audits,” he said. “I’ll do taxes for some individuals, but usually they are officers in the companies that I audit.”

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I said.

  “Not really. No. Are we almost done here?”

  “An audit is like doing corporate income taxes?”

  “No, my job as an auditor is to review a company’s balance sheets, profit and loss statement and all the supporting documents to make sure everything’s cool.”

  “Sounds hard,” I said.

  “Not if you know what you’re doing.”

  “Do you know Lionel Stroud?”

  “Personally?”

  I nodded.

  “No. I’ve heard of him of course, but I don’t know him.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t know Craig Ziebell?” I said.

  “I already told you I didn’t.”

  “So what would you say if I told you that your name was in his appointment book a couple of weeks ago for lunch?”

  There was that twitch again at the mouth. He blinked once and then a second time.

  “I would say that it was probably another Barry Fein,” he said. “It’s not an uncommon name.”

  “Good point. I’ll keep looking. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  I left his office and went down the creaky stairs. Until I knew more about why he might be lying, I saw no point in busting Fein’s chops.

  “Did you get anything?” Rubia asked me when I returned to the car.

  “Sure did,” I said. “Jack. Jack Squat.”

  twenty-nine

  The hostess showed us to one of the small tables just off the bar. Of the maybe twenty tables packed tightly into the space only four were occupied, more a sign of the struggling economy than the quality of food and service at Horner’s. Sunlight poured in through the windows that ran the length of the front and one side wall, filling the thirty-foot high dining room with the giddy promise of spring.

  “Why’d you pick this place?” Rubia asked. “I can eat the entire menu and still be hungry.”

  “Relax and order what you want. I’m paying. It’s a business lunch. I can write it off.”

  “What do you think that mural is supposed be?” She pointed to the floor to ceiling mural on the wall behind the bar.

  “I don’t know. Scenes from an Italian summer or something like that.”

  “That part over there looks like a UFO cigar beaming up a bunch of peasants.”

  “That’s taken from a wine label,” I said, having learned this fact from the waiter the last time I’d been in the place a couple of years ago for Sara’s birthday.

  “Weird.”

  “You just lack sophistication,” I said.

  “Says you.”

  “I pray for your soul.”

  When the waiter appeared we ordered our drinks and food all at once. Rubia’s double order of truck tacos would set me back nearly thirty bucks. The double shot of Azcona Azul tequila on the rocks she ordered would probably cost that again. I ordered the Rueben and a Bear Republic Racer IPA draft. I justified the lunch-hour beer with my bruised ribs and swollen head.

  “Is Tommy here?” I asked the waiter when we finished ordering.

  “Let me check,” he said, which meant Tommy was there but would make himself available only if we merited the attention.

  “You’re not a cheap date,” I said to Rubia.

  “And I’m just warming up. Wait until the dessert menu arrives.”

  A couple of more tables filled as we waited for our drinks. T
he lunch clientele leaned towards the private sector downtown employees, the state and city workers preferring more modest fare.

  The stairs behind the small, curved bar led up to an office where most days Tommy worked when he wasn’t socializing with the crowd in the restaurant. A small window with venetian blinds afforded him a view of the dining room. Our waiter climbed the stairs after placing our drink order. He trudged back down the stairs a few seconds later to retrieve our drinks from the bar and bring them to us.

  Rubia and I drank without the formality of a toast. A few moments later Tommy descended the stairs and joined us.

  “Professor Ray,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s good to see you. Been way too long.”

  We shook hands and I introduced him to Rubia, who appeared star-struck and more than a little surprised that I was on a first name basis with Tommy Horner.

  Fame chose Tommy Horner not because he owned and operated one of the most popular upscale restaurants in Sacramento but because he was the first San Francisco 49ers quarterback to win two Super Bowls since Joe Montana.

  He starred more than twenty years before as the Sacramento State quarterback, was drafted in the second round by the 49ers and never looked back. Well, in truth, he did look back and that was how I met him. Tommy left college after his junior year to turn pro. To fulfill a promise to his mother he went back to Sacramento State after he retired to earn his bachelor’s degree in communication studies. I taught him those last two semesters and we developed a respect for one another, respect from him because I didn’t let him slide by because of his celebrity, and respect from me because he worked harder than anyone in my class.

  After retiring from his Hall of Fame career he returned to his hometown Sacramento, endearing himself to the locals for not turning his back on his roots and bolting for the brighter lights of San Francisco. That he coached a local high school football team, hosted a charity fundraiser for battered and abused women, and once tackled two purse snatchers outside of his restaurant burnished his legend as one of the greatest Sacramentans ever.

  “I heard you retired,” Tommy said.

  “True enough.”

  “And now you spend your free time eating expensive lunches with beautiful women.” Tommy smiled at Rubia, who, for the first time I could recall, blushed.

  “Be careful, Rubia,” I said. “He’s married.”

  “Big mouth,” Tommy said.

  “Listen, I wanted to ask you if you remember if a couple of guys might have had lunch here a couple of weeks ago.” I wanted to get to the point because I knew Tommy rarely spent more than a minute or two with his guests.

  “Maybe. Who are they?”

  “This would have been on a Wednesday two weeks ago. One guy’s name is Craig Ziebell, the other is Barry Fein.”

  “I know Fein. He eats lunch here all the time, usually at the bar by himself. He does my books for me. His office is just around the corner.”

  “Do you remember him being here two weeks ago?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because Barry and his friend—Ziebell did you say it was?—got blotto. Two and half hours they were here. Barely touched their food, but they went through a whole bottle of Ketel One. It wasn’t like Barry. I’ve never seen him drink during lunch.”

  “Did it look like they were celebrating something?”

  “Not really,” he said. “It looked like a business lunch, at least at first. Barry was even wearing a collared shirt, which is unusual for him. Guy likes t-shirts. I think that’s why he usually prefers sitting at the bar.”

  “Why do you say it looked like a business lunch?”

  “That Ziebell guy had a briefcase with him and he kept pulling out files and papers and showing them to Barry,” he said.

  “Did you happen to see what was in the files?”

  “No,” he said. “At one point I stopped by their table to say hello. I could tell that they were looking at spreadsheets and I saw a bar graph, you know, like financials, but other than that I’m not sure what it was. It looked like a pretty intense meeting, at least until they got snockered.”

  “What do you mean by intense?”

  “Serious. The other guy, Ziebell, kept making a point, almost like a sales pitch, but it didn’t look like Barry wanted to buy any of it. They weren’t exactly arguing as far as I could tell but they weren’t on the same page, if you know what I mean.” Tommy laughed. “I think that’s why Ziebell kept buying vodka tonics, so he could get Barry drunk and have him agree to whatever he was selling.”

  The waiter arrived with our food order. Rubia had enough food in front of her to feed half of West Sacramento, which meant she probably would order dessert as threatened. Tommy looked at her order and nodded. “I’m impressed.”

  “It’s a gift or a curse, depending on how you look at it,” she said. “I can eat all I want and not gain an ounce. On the other hand it can get expensive.” She actually winked at me.

  Tommy laughed. I rolled my eyes. Tommy turned his attention back to me as Rubia started in on the first street taco.

  “How come you want to know about Barry and the other guy?” Tommy asked.

  “Long story. I’ll spare you the boring details.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He shook my hand and then Rubia’s.

  “Don’t be a stranger, Ray,” he said. “Lunch is on me this time.” He slapped me on the back before he left.

  “You just got lucky,” Rubia said.

  “Yeah, I caught Fein in a lie,” I said.

  “Not what I meant. I order the biggest items on the menu and you get the bill covered by an NFL Hall of Famer. What are the odds of that?”

  “You’re right, it’s my lucky day.”

  thirty

  Any momentum we’d built up at lunch began to stall afterward. First we drove to Blake Rios’s offices out in Folsom, where we observed three young men in shirts and ties working along with a comely receptionist, who informed us Mr. Rios had departed on a short business trip and would not return until the following day. A visit to the Tyler household proved equally fruitless, with neither the Mr. or Mrs. at home. The same uniformed maid informed us that they had flown to Palm Springs to watch a golf tournament. I guess they weren’t terribly worried about the message Andrew Norris delivered to them just days before.

  “Do you think Horner was the Niners’ greatest quarterback ever?” Rubia asked me after we had returned to the car at the Tylers.

  “Nah, Montana, then Young, then Horner,” I said.

  “You’re crazy, man. The guy’s got two Super Bowl rings. How many do those other guys have?”

  “Montana has four.”

  “He’s an old fart, like you,” she said. “They didn’t play real football back then.”

  “What does that mean? What did they play?”

  “Wimpy ball, not like today.”

  “There is no hope for you,” I said.

  After the morning incident, I continually used my rearview mirrors as I drove, though there was no sign of the Accord or anyone else tailing me. I pulled into the parking lot at the Burke Building and told Rubia to wait while I checked to see if Burke was inside. Five minutes later I returned, disappointed.

  “Not there?” she said.

  “He left about thirty minutes ago. I asked if he went to the country club but his secretary said no. And she wasn’t all that nice about it either. She called me impudent.”

  “Did she hurt your feelings?”

  “I’m an emotional mess,” I said.

  “Do you want me to drive?”

  “I can buck up.”

  I pulled the car onto Highway 50 east, the opposite direction from home, the Say Hey, or IML. Rubia looked surprised.

  “Where we going now?”

  “It’s a hunch, a long shot at that, but it might be worth a short drive.”

  The bouncer who took the forty bucks from me grant
ing us access to Dream Girl Centerfolds rivaled the size of a mid-sized oak. I considered offering him a part-time job as my bodyguard in case Hector and Angel showed up again, but thought it might hurt Rubia’s feelings if I did.

  “We’re gone if Burke’s not here,” I said.

  “For forty bucks don’t you want to at least get a soda out of the deal?” Rubia said.

  “No,” I said. I hadn’t been to a strip club since a bachelor party some twenty years before. They made me uncomfortable, probably because most of the dancers were younger than my own daughter. If the scene made Rubia uncomfortable she did nothing to reveal it.

  It took a while to adjust to the cave-like darkness punctuated with stroboscopic flashes. Dream Girl overloaded the senses with its strobe lights, too loud music and mirrors on every surface to which they could be reasonably affixed. The surprisingly large space held two stages, though at the moment only one featured a live performer, a short redhead in five-inch heels. A cocktail waitress in a bikini served drinks while three even more scantily dressed dancers solicited the dozen or so patrons for lap dances. I could only make out the four guys at the tip rail, their faces lit each time the strobe light flashed. Burke was not among them.

  An F-bomb infused rap number blaring on the PA system started to fade while the dancer collected the dollar bills scattered about her on the stage. It amazed me that she managed to balance on those heels as she bent over to pick up the money.

  “Put your hands together for the enticing Cinnamon,” the over-hyped disc jockey said. He paused long enough to start the next song, a dance-mix version of “Light My Fire” originally by the Doors but now recreated using a drum machine and synthesizer. Over in France, Jim Morrison turned in his grave. Two more songs played after that, affording Cinnamon the time to remove, in order, a sheer shawl, a bra, panties, and then a second pair of panties underneath the first, which she shot rubber-band style at one of the stage-side patrons. After the music died, she went about the business of picking up dollars scattered on the stage before departing.

  “Now let’s give a hearty Dream Girl Centerfolds welcome to the lovely Pepper!”

  A tall brunette in a green teddy and the requisite high heels strutted out, making a beeline for the chrome pole at the center of the stage. Someone moved from a dark corner and took a seat at one edge of the stage. The brunette seemed to recognize the man as she flashed him a smile. She abandoned the pole and began working toward the man, inching the teddy down her slender frame.