Finally, I called Rubia.
“Jailbird, what’s up?” she said, apparently her caller ID recognizing my phone number.
“I’m not in the mood,” I said.
“Make any new friends in the bucket?”
“Yeah, we’re having a wine and cheese reception tonight at my place. Why don’t you join us?”
“Love to, but I’ve been kind of busy while you’ve been off on vacation,” she said.
“Where are you now?”
“Pouring drinks. Making money.” An awkward silence ensued that made me uneasy. I feared what it meant. I couldn’t address it on the phone, not if Trujillo had maybe tapped my phone.
“How about I buy you a drink then?” I said. “In about fifteen minutes?”
Ten minutes later I arrived at the Say Hey. Three men and two women sat at the bar and another half dozen patrons sat at the tables watching basketball highlights on the TV screens. Rubia stood behind the bar pouring drinks. I hugged her, neither of us saying a word. She broke our embrace and went over to pour two Anchor Steams. We moved to an empty table in the corner.
We settled into our seats and I took a long drink of the beer. I hadn’t slept much in jail. The beer would go right to my head, but I didn’t care.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” I said. “Nothing about what I did, nothing about you or anyone else being with me. Nothing.” This is what I wanted to tell her on the phone but was afraid Trujillo might be listening and implicate Rubia in my mess.
“I knew you wouldn’t, professor. No doubt in my mind.”
“I’ve been selfish,” I said. “I shouldn’t have involved you with this thing. You have a record. Getting busted for breaking and entering wouldn’t look good. It could put you back in jail and ruin all the great things you’re doing at IML. I’m sorry.”
Rubia leaned into me and for a second I thought she might grab my wrists. “I did those things with you because I wanted to. You’re the one who is in trouble. I’d go to jail again to help you today, tomorrow and the day after. Don’t apologize to me. You’ve always had my back and I’ve always got yours. It’s what we do.”
Our eyes met and we looked at each other for a long moment. “You’re a good friend,” I said.
“Bet your ass. And don’t be getting all sentimental on me. We got work to do to prove you didn’t kill anybody. So what’s your plan?”
I nodded. I’d misread Rubia’s silence during our phone call. She’d not been concerned that I’d sold her out; rather, she wanted to know what we would do next.
“I… we need to make a run at Stroud and break him down,” I said. “He’s a tough SOB but if he had anything to do with the murders then we need to get it out of him. Can you go with me to his house first thing tomorrow morning, say around seven?”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing’s wrong. Do you have another plan other than going after Stroud?”
“Why? Stroud’s at the heart of all this. He murdered those guys, had someone do it, or knows something about who does. For all I know he’s already framed me for both the killings, though I don’t think he’s given Trujillo anything yet.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Until my lawyer got to the jail, Trujillo kept trying to draw me out,” I said. “He wondered why I talked to the guy at Evergreen Mortgage and Loan about Ziebell just before the murder, why I stole the laptop and copied the files, and where I stashed the gun at Norris’s. I think that’s all he’s got. Either that or he’s holding back whatever Stroud has told him. In any case, I’ve got to get to Stroud or I’m screwed.”
Rubia did not quickly agree with me. She did not agree with me at all. She took another drink of beer. She watched the basketball game for a few seconds. Finally, she returned her attention to me.
“I’ve got some bad news,” she said. “I knew everything you’ve been saying about Stroud and how important he is in all of this. So, as soon as you got popped I started following him, starting at lunch that same day.”
“And?”
“To make a long story short, he’s gone. Out of the country gone.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I followed him to Executive Airport on Freeport. He got into a private jet and flew off. It was just him and the pilot. He had a ton of luggage, six or seven bags, so it looked like he was leaving for a long while. I went into Global Air, that’s the company that leases the planes, and acted very impressed with the plane that flew off. You know just bullshitted with the guy to see if I could find anything. Learned the plane was a Learjet 60 with an extra gas tank.”
“Is there some significance about the plane or the gas tank?”
“Yeah, I’m getting to that. So, I ask the guy at the counter how far a plane like that could go and he says normally about 2600 miles but with the extra gas tank it could go over 3100 miles. Then he says the Cayman Islands are about 2700 miles away and that the Lear would make it all the way.”
“Stroud is flying to the Cayman Islands?”
“That’s what he said. But get this, he said he was going to stop there for a couple of days and then the plane was heading down to South America.”
“Where in South America?” I said.
“I didn’t ask,” Rubia said. “I thought the guy was starting to think I was more than just curious so I didn’t push my luck.”
“Jill didn’t say anything about her dad leaving the country. She probably doesn’t even know.”
“It looks pretty suspicious,” she said. “The timing of it and all. Two guys he’s got problems with are murdered and he leaves the country.”
“To say the least,” I said.
“So that’s why I asked if you had another plan besides going after Stroud. Do you?”
“No. How about you?”
Rubia shrugged. I took another drink of beer.
thirty-six
“Rubia is sure that it was my father she saw get on that airplane?” Jill said. She sat on a barstool at the counter watching me prepare dinner on the island in the center of my kitchen.
“She said she’s seen your dad a couple of times before here and there. And she saw the photo Ziebell took of him. She followed him from the office and there’s nobody there that resembles your father. Most of his employees are younger than he is.”
“True.”
I cracked six eggs into a bowl, whisked them into a light froth, and added a little salt and pepper. Next I sliced a couple of mushrooms and some green onions, while the microwave cooked two pieces of bacon.
“This is all so bizarre,” Jill said.
“Yes, bizarre is an appropriate adjective, among others.” I could see that she had almost finished her first glass of wine so I retrieved the bottle from the refrigerator and poured her some more. Jill had been drinking more than when we dated before, which I attributed to the stress she must have felt over her father.
“You think he did it, don’t you?” she said after I finished pouring. “You think he killed those two men.”
I returned the bottle to the refrigerator before I grabbed a block of cheddar cheese nestled next to a cube of butter.
“It’s looking more and more that way,” I said as I began to grate the cheese onto an empty plate. “I know this has got to be hard on you.”
“I just don’t see why my father flew to the Cayman Islands.”
“And then to South America.”
“Even more bizarre,” she said. “I’m almost certain he’s never been to either place before. Aren’t the Cayman Islands where they have all those offshore bank accounts for hiding money or avoiding taxes or something.”
“Yes. There are other places but the Caymans are supposedly a popular choice for parking money you don’t want people to know about.”
“Even if he had money there wouldn’t it be easier to use the Internet to wire it to himself somewhere else if that’s what he was planni
ng?” she said.
“Yeah, it would. It doesn’t make much sense. Has your dad ever mentioned knowing someone from the Caymans or South America? Anything at all that might inspire him to go there?” I made a mental note to learn if any South American countries had non-extradition policies for United States citizens.
“Not unless they have awe inspiring golf courses. That’s the only thing my dad does when he goes on vacation—play golf. As far as I know he’s never golfed outside of the United States. In fact, he almost always golfs in California, either at Del Paso or down in Southern California when he stays at his beach house.”
I finished grating the cheese. I checked the bacon in the microwave, deemed it sufficiently cooked, and placed it on a cutting block, where I chopped the slices into small squares.
“I wonder if he’s gone for good,” I said. “Off to Bolivia or Peru or Argentina or someplace where he can get lost and spend his money.”
Jill sighed. “And you’re left holding the bag.”
“We went almost five minutes without bringing that up,” I said, toasting her with my beer glass for our accomplishment.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just teasing,” I said. In truth I was having a hard time focusing on our conversation, my mind drifting back to the two glorious days spent in jail and the arduous, expensive and potentially ruinous path that lay ahead. “Besides, Mark Scofield doesn’t think they have much of a case. He’s going to move for dismissal of the charges on insufficient grounds.”
“Don’t lawyers always do that?”
“Now you’re raining on my parade. Go with me on this. Mark will get the charges dropped.”
“I like a guy with a cup half-filled attitude,” she said.
I didn’t feel like a guy with a cup half-filled attitude. I’d been reckless and stupid, blundering in on Norris’s corpse at his house and Ziebell’s at his office. It was almost as if someone was one step ahead of me, anticipating my moves to set me up, or to prevent me from finding something. Stroud had the intellect and the reach to do something like that. Now here I was at fifty-two years old facing two counts of murder one with special circumstances. Count your blessings, I had reminded myself in jail. I had Jill, Sara and relatively good health. That pumped me up until I realized that if convicted all these blessings would be taken from me forever.
“You never cooked much for me before,” she said, watching as I poured half of the egg mixture into a small skillet. I was glad that she changed the subject. “I kind of like it.”
“They’re just omelets. And Caesar salad out of a bag.”
“It looks good,” she said. “I think I could get used to this.”
“Maybe I’ll take cooking lessons and become your kept man.”
“My own boy toy, I like the sound of that.”
“I’m not exactly a boy.”
“You’ll do. Besides, I’m not exactly a girl anymore.”
Jill, like me, must have contemplated the prospects of growing out of middle age into senior citizen status—alone. I wondered if that notion alone had made her reconsider our relationship, or if she truly felt something special for me, no matter our ages. Either way, it didn’t matter. She and I were back together and for now I cared little about why.
We ate at the kitchen counter and somehow that felt more intimate than if we’d dined with fine china and linens in the dining room. It felt good to have a conversation over dinner, it felt even better having it with someone who I caught every once in a while stealing a look at me.
She helped me put the dishes away and clean up the kitchen. Now past eight o’clock, it had grown dark outside.
“You look tired,” she said.
“It’s been a long couple of days.”
“I should go so you can rest.”
“You should stay.” I went to her and put my arms around her drawing her close. I could have stayed that way forever.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
thirty-seven
The next morning started with frustration and grew worse from there. With Lionel Stroud apparently out of the country and unreachable, Barry Fein became my second choice for gleaning information that might exonerate me. Once again Rubia and I followed Fein from his house, but instead of going to his office, where I planned to confront him, he drove straight to Carruthers, Overland and Moore.
He remained at his lawyer’s office all morning. I kicked Rubia loose about eleven, telling her there was no sense in both of us wasting the day. Fein didn’t break free for lunch or emerge from the office in the afternoon, leaving me with little to do but sit in my car, feed the parking meter and stew over not having any control over my fate.
It wasn’t until six-thirty that he finally walked out the front door of the office, got into his car and drove off. I followed him, making little effort to conceal the tail. He drove east past Stockton Boulevard into the Sacramento’s Elmhurst neighborhood, where he pulled in front of a tidy bungalow. He stayed inside the car for several minutes before a brunette dressed in jeans and a black top came out of the house, carrying a purse and a sweatshirt. It took a few seconds for me to realize where I’d seen her before, the woman in the framed photo taken at the River Cats game that hung in Fein’s office. She no sooner entered the car before Fein burned a little rubber as he hurried off.
He slogged through the late rush hour traffic on Highway 50, pulling off at Jefferson Boulevard in West Sacramento, finally entering a crowded parking lot about a quarter of a mile from Raley Field. I paid the ten dollar fee and parked a few cars away from Fein. They walked toward the stadium at a brisk pace, by now the seven-fifteen first pitch had come and gone. The River Cats were launching the new season with exhibition games against the San Diego Padres, who were tuning up for the Major League season with a three-game series against our local minor league team. The newspaper said the game would be a sellout and even after the game had started I could see the line for tickets extended well down the plaza, a good fifty people deep. As we approached the stadium entrance, Fein gave his girlfriend a ticket. If I stood in line to buy a ticket I’d lose Fein in the throng inside the stadium.
“How much you want for one?” I said to a ruffled scalper fanning a dozen or so tickets in front of him.
“Ain’t selling no singles,” he said. “Fifty bucks for the pair, ninety for four.”
“Fine, give me two.” I handed him two twenties and a ten, keeping my eye on Fein as he passed through security, delayed somewhat as the guard checked through his date’s purse.
Once they passed the turnstile they headed directly towards their seats, heading down an aisle that was about even with the third base bag. I followed a few steps behind, ignoring the usher who requested to see my ticket. Fein and the brunette had to slide past a full row of fans to reach their seats in the middle of the fifth row. Even with the line of ticket buyers still out front, the place was already jam packed. There were no empty seats next to, in front of, or behind Fein. I cursed my continued run of bad luck.
“Sir, I’m going to have to see your ticket stub.” The jowly usher in the trademark straw hat and blue work shirt put his hand gently on my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I said, handing him one of the tickets in my hand.
“This isn’t your section.” He smiled as he said it, ever polite. “These seats are out in right field, in the festival seating section.” Festival seating, a euphemism for the cheapskates’ area where you sat on the grass.
I walked back up the aisle to the mezzanine and alternately watched the game and Fein for three innings. At the start of the fourth, Fein finally stood and headed my way up the aisle. I turned away as he approached. Once he passed by, I walked just behind him as he got into the long line for food.
“Tovares is throwing some serious heat out there, don’t you think?” I said.
“Yeah,” Fein said, glancing back over his shoulder, but not really looking at me.
“How come you lied to me about not knowi
ng Craig Ziebell?”
“What?” He turned around. “Oh, shit it’s you again? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I just need a couple of answers. By the time you’re at the front of the line and ordering your beer you can be done with me.”
“I already answered your questions. I don’t owe you dick.”
“You lied to me before. I talked to Tommy Horner who confirmed that you and Ziebell had lunch together, a long lunch at which you got pretty drunk.”
“So? Big deal.”
“You want to tell me what you talked about for so long?”
“No.”
“Here’s what I think,” I said. “I think Ziebell had something on you and was blackmailing you.” It was a shot in the dark.
“You’re crazy. Leave me alone.”
“I think maybe you decided not to go along with it and he turned you into the SEC. That’s why you hired Prudence Carruthers and why you were summoned to appear before the commission in San Francisco.”
“You’ve been following me, you asshole.”
“So what did Ziebell have on you?”
“I’m not talking to you.” He started to walk out of the line. I grabbed him by both shoulders, the action drawing no attention in the continual flow of fans jostling through and around our line.
“You are talking to me,” I said. “Two men have been killed, I have been threatened, beat up and arrested. You know why. Now if you don’t tell me what’s going on, things could get ugly.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Just tell me what you know and maybe I’ll get the hell out of your life. It depends on what you tell me.”
He exhaled. “What a fucking week. It’s probably going to be in the news anyway. Let’s go over there.” He pointed at an empty table where you could stand and eat a hot dog.
“Okay, tell me what’s going on,” I said once we reached the table.
“I knew Craig from college. Not well. We lived in the same dorm freshman year and had a couple of classes together. Except for running into him now and again since we graduated we haven’t stayed in touch. About three weeks ago he called me wanting to have lunch, said he had something he wanted to run by me.”
Courage Matters: A Ray Courage Mystery (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 16