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

by R. Scott Mackey

  thirty-three

  Jill looked surprised to see me standing at her front door when she opened it. She still wore the coaching shorts and top from practice, her face tanned from a day in the bright sun. I wanted to reach out and hug her right there, but wasn’t sure exactly where we stood after the other night. She eliminated any potential awkwardness when she hugged me tightly and we kissed.

  “I missed you,” she said after we broke our embrace and entered her house.

  “We went two years without seeing each other,” I said. “Now, after two days, I missed you, too.”

  “Funny how that works,” she said. I followed her into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a bottle of Lagunitas Pale Ale, used a bottle opener to remove the cap, and handed the bottle to me.

  After she poured herself a glass of red wine, we went outside to the patio, where we sat at a small table shaded from the late afternoon sun by a large redwood tree. She had a big yard that backed up to the America River levee. Somehow she found the time to plant each spring, even now in the early season the yard dazzled with red, yellow and orange flowers.

  “Is this a social visit or do you have important news?” she said. “There are no wrong answers, by the way.”

  “Both actually. I should probably start with the update on the whole Norris situation.” I filled her in on what happened when I left her house the morning before last when the two goons attacked me.

  The color drained from her face when I told her how I’d been attacked by Angel and Hector in the parking lot. “You could be dead right now. I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “And you think that Trujillo sent them?”

  “It’s my best guess. Either that or the person or persons who killed Norris and Ziebell.”

  “That’s kind of scary.”

  “I’ve got Rubia to protect me.”

  “Rubia barely weighs a hundred pounds. Get serious.”

  “I am.”

  This did little to soothe Jill. Her face grew somber. “I know you don’t want to, but you should just let it go. Tell Trujillo everything you’ve learned and let him take it from here.”

  “Not yet. I’m just now starting to get somewhere.” I told her about my visits to Barry Fein, Tommy Horner, Charles Burke, and then about following Fein and Prudence Carruthers to San Francisco, where they likely met with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  “I’m not sure how all this is connected,” she said.

  “I’m not sure yet either, but given that your father knew Norris and Ziebell and that both of them recently spoke with Fein, I don’t think it’s a stretch to guess that Lionel Stroud is somehow wrapped up in the middle of some bad stuff.”

  “It doesn’t look good.” She sounded dejected, as if resigned to the fact her father had become embroiled in something criminal.

  “I’m going to have to talk to him tomorrow. Is he in town?”

  She paused. “As far as I know. Not that he’d tell me if he was going anywhere. But at risk of sounding like a broken record and a nagging one at that, I really think it is time for you to wash your hands of this. All of it.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t. I think that if anyone knows what’s happened it’s your father and I need to talk with him.”

  The conversation did not elevate either of our moods. We sat silently watching a soft breeze rustle the leaves on the redwood tree. Two doves had nested in the crook of a low branch. They flew to different parts of the backyard, returning to the nest with twigs of various sizes wedged into their beaks. Several branches above the pair, a fat tan squirrel chattered and flicked its tail as another squirrel approached on the back fence. It was a regular Discovery Channel moment.

  “So are we going to talk about it?” Jill said.

  “I suppose we should.”

  “I’m glad about the other night. When I first came to see you at your bar the other day I had no intention of us… of things leading to what happened. In all honesty, I did wonder how you were doing and what you might think of me two years later, but that wasn’t why I came to see you.”

  “You were drawn by my stellar reputation as a private investigator.”

  “Just your stellar reputation.” She smiled at me. “The investigator part was a pure gamble.”

  “And the jury’s still out on that.”

  She let the comment go and we were silent for a time. I took a sip of beer before I decided I should say something.

  “How do we want to handle this?” I said. “Should we take it slow?”

  “That’s practically all I’ve been thinking about the last day and a half,” she said.

  “And what did you come up with?”

  “That we just see what happens. If we get to where it was at its best three years ago or so then great. If we don’t get to that place and just enjoy each other’s company now and again then so be it.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said.

  “The truth is I had forgotten about how much I enjoy being with you. After we broke up I put almost all of my emotional energy into coaching and ignored any other relationships unless you count what little I have with my father.” Jill paused for a moment, thinking. She picked up her wine glass, swirled the wine in the bowl before she took a small sip. “Being with you again just feels right. It feels really good.”

  “It feels good to me, too,” I said. “There’s been something missing the last two years. I mean I have Sara. I love her so much and she gives me so much joy. But that’s different.”

  “I’ll never be Pam, you know.”

  There it was. The subject that we’d ignored before, what had probably been the underlying cause of our breakup, was now on the table. Had I not gotten over Pam? Did I not let go and did that lead to the eventual demise of my relationship with Jill? I honestly didn’t have any answers. Could you really forget somebody you loved and were married to for twenty years? Should you even want to? Maybe years of psychotherapy could answer those questions. But I wasn’t interested in that.

  “I know that,” I said. “And I don’t think that matters. I loved Pam. I still love her memory. I see her when I look at Sara. I also want to live my life now. To have someone I can love and someone who loves me.”

  “That all seems fair to me,” Jill said. “I don’t think I was able to handle Pam and everything you had with her before. Now I think I can.”

  “This really is a new chapter in my life. I’m retired from teaching and the scholarly life. I’ve got a new business. I don’t necessarily need a relationship to make my life fulfilling. But it would sure be nice.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” But instead of taking a drink, she leaned over and kissed me tenderly on the lips.

  “Are you hungry? These adult conversations make me very hungry. How about I take you out to dinner?”

  “I’m starving but how about we stay in,” she said. “I’ve got two salmon fillets marinating in the fridge.”

  “Two? Were you expecting company?”

  “I was hoping,” she said.

  thirty-four

  Jill had an 8 a.m. staff meeting. Rather than arising early to make breakfast, we remained in bed together until she could stay no longer. She showered and dressed, leaving for campus a few minutes before the hour. I opted to return home for my own shower and a quick breakfast, leaving just after Jill.

  I recall almost nothing about that drive across town. At fifty-two years old, I felt love as if for the first time, intoxicated, euphoric and certain the world vibrated in rhythm with my personal frequency. Just a few days before the possibility that Jill and I could reunite had seemed so improbable. It had been maybe a year since I had pulled out of the near crippling pain of our breakup to begin living again with anything resembling enthusiasm. Now the book I had closed on us had reopened with limitless promise.

  I shaved, took a long, hot shower and then dressed in blue jeans, a red polo shirt, and topsiders. One of the
benefits of academia had been not having to doll up for a day’s work and I carried that sensibility with me into my new career. Checking myself in the mirror I realized I hadn’t stopped smiling all morning. What a dope, I told myself. An utterly ecstatic and shameless one at that.

  For breakfast I made two pieces of wheat toast, lightly buttered, a glass of orange juice and a cup of fresh brewed coffee. Instead of reading the newspaper, I decided to try getting my head around what might motivate someone to kill Andrew Norris and Craig Ziebell. I took a pen and pad of paper and jotted down what I knew.

  Stroud had concerns about Norris.

  Ziebell approached Norris a couple of months before and soon started receiving so-called investment payments from Norris.

  Ziebell had been popped once for a Ponzi scheme.

  Within the last week, Norris told at least two clients that something was wrong with their accounts.

  Ziebell approached Barry Fein, a CPA. Does Fein connect somehow to Norris or Stroud?

  Fein lied about meeting Ziebell.

  These seemed like the biggest, most important threads in the case. From them I tried to construct a viable theory. Ziebell knew how to construct a Ponzi scheme, but because of his reputation he couldn’t gain access to the kind of clients from whom he could fleece a significant amount of money, big money, not cash under the mattress stuff. He knew Stroud had these kinds of clients, but Ziebell did not have access to them. Norris did have access, however. Somehow Ziebell found some dirt on Norris and blackmailed him, first by making him pay cash disguised as investments. But Ziebell then wanted more and influenced Norris to begin diverting the investment dollars from some of Stroud’s clients into accounts set up for Ziebell. Then Stroud, already suspicious of Norris, found out what Norris and Ziebell were doing. Under this scenario Lionel Stroud emerged as the leading murder suspect, with the clearest motive—to stop the fleecing of his clients and protect his firm’s reputation.

  That theory had some possibilities, but it didn’t explain everything. What did Ziebell have on a straight arrow like Norris? How did Fein fit in? How could Norris divert money when Stroud controlled the investments? Could old man Stroud really kill someone? Why would Stroud let me get close to this mess if he suspected Norris of something significantly worse than stealing clients? Maybe he didn’t suspect it when he hired me. Maybe he knew it and wanted to set me up to take the fall.

  I had considered this last possibility before. Now, working through the logic of this scenario, the possibility that Stroud had played me hit hard. I put down the pen and stared out the window, trying to calm myself with reassurances that the police had absolutely nothing that could implicate me in either murder.

  After clearing the breakfast dishes I started the dishwasher. I hoped Rubia would be free for the day; having her around comforted me. I started for my bedroom where I was recharging my cell phone when I heard a knocking at my front door. I opened the door to find Trujillo standing there. He shoved a piece of paper within inches of my face.

  “Mr. Raymond Courage, we have a court-ordered warrant to search these premises,” he said by way of greeting. “I would appreciate it if you would kindly move out of the way and allow these sworn officers to search your house.”

  Four uniformed police officers and a woman in street clothes stood behind him. Each wore latex gloves and booties not unlike those Rubia and I used during our clandestine searches of Norris’s home and Ziebell’s office.

  “Let me see that,” I said, snatching the paper from Trujillo. “I want to read this first.”

  “Save us all some time,” he said. “Read while we start the search. I can assure you it is legitimate, signed last night by Judge Kennedy.”

  “Fine,” I said. I didn’t have anything to hide and the sooner they came and went the sooner I’d be exonerated. Part of me welcomed the intrusion because it would end all of Trujillo’s bullshit forever. I stepped aside and settled down at the kitchen table to read through the warrant.

  They worked in teams. One pair of officers looked through the kitchen, another in my bedroom. Trujillo and the woman I assumed to be a detective looked through the living room. When I finished reading the warrant, I stood to retrieve my cell phone from the bedroom so I could call Mark Scofield.

  “Where you going?” Trujillo said when he saw me leave the kitchen.

  “To get my phone to call my lawyer,” I said.

  “You can do that when we’re through. For now sit where you were.”

  “It’s just in the bedroom,” I said.

  “Leave it. At this point it’s possible evidence.” Trujillo was very businesslike, the hostility still there but below the surface. I got the feeling he had come here looking for something in particular, not merely to search my place to see what he could find.

  They didn’t ransack my home but they weren’t the Merry Maids either. In the kitchen they emptied drawers and cabinets then hastily tossed everything back without attempting to approximate the order in which they’d found things. I could see through my bedroom door that all my clothes had been thrown onto the bed, sifted through and left there for me to return to my dresser and closet.

  “The warrant doesn’t specify what ‘probable cause’ you have to search my premises,” I said to Trujillo in the other room.

  “You were at one murder scene and an eyewitness has you at another,” he said. “That’s enough probable cause for the judge.”

  Forty-five minutes later they had searched my entire home and found nothing. Trujillo told the four cops to go. I felt a sense of relief. Finally I’d be done with Detective Trujillo, his bullying, and the threat of the two thugs he’d sent to scare me off.

  “Now can I call my lawyer?” I said. I didn’t wait for his permission and started for the bedroom again.

  “In a minute,” he said.

  “And you know, I didn’t really appreciate the visit from Frick and Frack two days ago. If anyone had seen us I’d have your ass for brutality.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trujillo said.

  “Don’t be coy. You’re not good at it.” I said this with much bluster, yet something in Trujillo’s eyes made me unsure.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  He came up to me, the woman a step behind. He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket and held it up for me to observe. The bag contained a single item. A flash drive. My flash drive.

  “What’s on it?” he asked.

  “Not much, just some of my old class assignments, maybe a syllabus or two. You know, college stuff.”

  “I could take this into the station and have our computer guys go through it, but that takes too long. How about you fire up your computer and show us what’s on the disk?”

  If I refused he would take the flash in and they would find the files I’d copied from Ziebell’s laptop. If I opened it in front of them here I had a fighting chance of boring him with the routine files in hopes he would stop me before we got to the Ziebell documents.

  Five minutes later I had the list of files on the flash drive up on my screen. Trujillo must have anticipated my strategy. He told me to skip files whose titles clearly indicated they were from my teaching days.

  “Open this one,” he said. He pointed at the file titled “Stroud_vs_Market.”

  I did as told, my heart racing. Trujillo must have recognized it in an instant. “What’s that?”

  “Just some financial analysis of my client,” I said.

  “What do you know about a laptop computer that was sent to my attention a couple of days ago?” he said. “It happened to have this same file on it. The guy who mailed the laptop to us from a UPS store downtown identified a picture of you and said you told him to mail it. It was Ziebell’s laptop.”

  “Coincidence and mistaken identity?” I said.

  “Now open these files.” Trujillo pointed to the five icons representing the JPEG files of Stroud, Norris, Burke, the Tylers, and Rios that I’d copied. I clicked on the first
file, which showed Norris and Burke having lunch.

  “Another coincidence?” Trujillo said.

  “Please stand up,” the woman said to me the first time I had heard her speak since entering the house.

  “Why?” I said, though I did start to stand, the woman’s imperious tone impossible to ignore.

  She grabbed my right wrist and cuffed it behind my back before doing the same to my left. The entire action took a couple of seconds, her efficiency impressive.

  “Mr. Raymond Courage you are under arrest for the murders of Andrew Norris and Craig Ziebell,” she said and then proceeded to read me my rights.

  thirty-five

  The arrest cost me two days in jail and $50,000. Mark Scofield convinced the judge, despite the prosecution’s claims to the contrary, that I deserved bail, which was set at $500,000. I had to drain over half my savings to cover the bail bondsman’s ten percent fee. I also had to put up my house as collateral in case I skipped. If the charges went to trial I had no idea how I could pay Mark to defend me. He estimated his time alone would cost at least $100,000. Court fees, expert testimony and other services would be on top of that.

  Mark drove me home after I’d made bail about four in the afternoon. My answering machine showed that I had twelve messages. The cell phone, still in my bedroom since my arrest, also indicated that I had messages awaiting me. Going through the messages did little to elevate my mood. Calls from Jill, Rubia and Sara constituted the bulk of the messages, all left in grave tones and urgent requests for call backs.

  I called Sara back first, consoling her with assurances that the charges were baseless, little more than a misunderstanding. She pleaded with me to reconsider my change of career and to go back to teaching once this whole thing was all over. I laughed to myself about this, thinking that she and I had come to a reversal of roles, she now the parent-figure in the relationship.

  My conversation with Jill proved even more difficult. She broke down during the call, blaming herself for getting me into trouble, offering to do anything she could to help me and wishing that she understood what the hell was happening. I told her that if anyone was to blame it was I.