by Susan Dunlap
“But what does the temple get out of the tea?”
Heather finished one arm and paused. “Jeez, Officer. The stuff’s two dollars a box, you know. And twenty-four Penlops push it every day.”
“And that’s all?”
Heather shrugged and turned her attention to the remaining arm.
I considered insisting. The obvious move was to stroll across the courtyard and open a few of those cartons. But it was nearly five, getting dark. The wind was picking up and all signs pointed to the first heavy rain of the year. Katherine Dawes would be hurrying home from the Oakland Assessor’s Office.
Chapter 13
I SPENT TWENTY MINUTES in the entryway at the commune under the nervous eye of the same hostess before Kitty Dawes appeared. When she arrived from work, she looked like a young woman from the middle economic stratum of the Bay Area. She had long brown hair, and wore a western shirt and jeans.
I introduced myself. “I need some information about Self-Over. I understand you’re one of the students there.”
She hesitated. Wariness appeared to fight with eagerness to proselytize. The latter won. “I was in the first Self-Over class. That was four years ago. It changed my life.”
“How so?”
She led me up the sagging staircase, through an array of toys, paper bags and general clutter on the landing, to a surprisingly comfortable room at the end of the hall. I settled in an over-stuffed chair as she continued her tale of self-improvement, i.e., any situation can offer some thing for Number One. When she wound down, I said, “Are you still seeing Garrett?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a continuing program. You can go back to support groups and you can even have private sessions with Garrett.”
“And that’s what you do?”
She beamed. “Yes. I meet with Garrett at least once a month.”
“And do…?”
“We talk about my progress. How I’m dealing with my life. How things are better. What opportunities there are that I should be aware of.”
“Does Garrett meet with all the graduates so often?”
Her smile grew wider, and I felt sure I was on the right track. “I doubt it.”
“You must be important to him. Maybe more than just a student.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just a student.’ ”
I nodded. Damn it, I was forgetting the lingo of the game. Now I’d have to spend time reassuring her. “Perhaps as one of the founding students, I mean…”
She smiled again.
“When did you last meet with Garrett?”
“Last night.”
“And before that?”
“Let me see.” She pulled a date book out of her purse. “You learn to keep records when you work in the assessor’s office. Garrett says that’s good. It keeps you from missing things. He says working in the assessor’s office has been good for me. Ah, wait here. Last month, the twenty-third.”
I stared. That was two weeks ago. “Not since then?”
“That’s still more often than a lot of people see him.”
I lowered my voice. “Kitty, it’s important that you tell me the truth. If you were with Garrett and don’t want people to know…”
“Hell, my old man wouldn’t care, if that’s what you mean. Garrett’s not like another guy, you know. It’s not like that. I’d tell you if I’d been there more. But you see, I’m handling my own problems now and I don’t need to go so often. I usually go once a month, unless…”
“Unless?”
The door opened and a tall man in overalls walked in.
Kitty turned, relief evident on her face. “This is David,” she said. “My old man.”
“David Allbright,” he said, extending a hand with a confidence and ease that seemed out of place in this building.
“We’ll only be a couple of minutes,” I said. “I was just asking Kitty about Self-Over.”
“Oh, yeah.” He flopped on the sofa next to Kitty. “Great thing, Self-Over. That’s where Kitty and I met. Really been a big help to both of us, but particularly to Kitty. She still sees Garrett.”
“You were going to tell me what you talked about, Kitty.”
The look of wariness was back on her face. She stared at David, waiting for him to answer for her. I wondered what, indeed, Self-Over had done for her.
“Besides your personal growth,” I insisted.
Still she hesitated. “Well, we talk about my job.”
I started to remind her she’d already said that, then stopped. “What, specifically?”
“Well…”
“About the assessor’s office? About taxes?”
“Well…”
“Go ahead, Kitty,” David said. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing.”
“You won’t tell my boss,” Kitty pleaded. “I don’t think they’d understand. There are funny little customs at the office.”
“If it’s not illegal, we don’t tell anything unnecessary.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
She pulled her feet up under her. “Okay. I have a special arrangement with Garrett. You see, there’s a list of properties with delinquent taxes. You probably know this. If your taxes are delinquent for five years, the property automatically reverts to the state.”
I nodded.
“Two years before that there’s a list published.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, at that time a lot of real-estate people read the list and buy up pieces cheap. Anyone can do it. Anyone can see any of our records any time. You could walk in there tomorrow and ask for records and see how long the taxes were overdue. It’s easy to find out about a specific property. But it’s not so easy to find out all the properties that are going to be on the delinquent list.”
“So?”
“Don’t you see?” All her hesitation was gone. “If someone doesn’t pay taxes for three years, getting slapped with late charges all the time, there’s a reason, and it’s usually because they don’t have the money. And they might be willing to sell the property below market value.”
“And Garrett Kleinfeld wanted to know who those people were?”
“Yes. He had a deal with a realtor. I don’t know how many they bought up. I forget. But it must have been quite a few.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
Now she beamed again. “Before I went to Self-Over, I would have given Garrett the information just because I thought so much of him. But I’ve really learned to watch out for myself. Other people pay five hundred dollars for the group meetings and private sessions. Mine are free.”
I stood up. “One last question. Did you tell Garrett about the Padmasvana temple property?”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t know. I just have addresses, and I see so many I never remember them.”
It was well after six when I arrived at the station. I checked my desk, finding nothing new concerning the murder, signed a couple of forms and threw out the latest message from Nat. How long would he be willing to eat with his fingers in order to get the satisfaction of possessing the conjugal stainless? And come to think of it, why, after all these months, had he suddenly developed this passion for reclaiming it? That had not occurred to me before.
Banishing thoughts of domestic problems, I considered how to handle the thornier problem of having missed the staff meeting. Lt. Davis’s office was down the hall. Many times I had approached it with considerable trepidation, but none more so than now. Its very tidiness made me uncomfortable. And the lieutenant had the habit of observing a case so closely that he found seventeen small but necessary things left undone. More than once I’d left that office feeling incompetent. But the cases did get done, swiftly.
Now I decided to give him the meat of the Kitty Dawes interview, and hope. “Lieutenant,” I said as I sat on the hard chair, “it seems there is a long-standing business relationship between Garrett Kleinfeld and Vernon Felcher.”
As I recounted wh
at Kitty Dawes had told me, he sat back, fingering his mustache, eyes half closed, as if capturing the picture under those dusky lids.
When I had finished, he said, “And what do you conclude from this, Smith?”
“As far I know, it’s legal and probably quite profitable. I’d suspect Kleinfeld is getting a bit more than reduced rent in Felcher’s building.”
“And?”
I had often wondered whether the lieutenant’s proddings were aimed at eliciting points that he himself had already discovered or whether they were in fact merely proddings. But I pondered those sorts of thoughts at home. Now I rushed on with the facts. “Three years … Well, one thing is that Kleinfeld led me to believe that he knew Felcher because Bobby came to some of his classes. Obviously, that’s twisted backward. He knew Felcher a good year before that.”
“And?”
“And”—I leaned forward—“that’s probably why Bobby went to Self-Over. Maybe he was a conduit between Kleinfeld and Felcher.”
“Why would they need a conduit? Their arrangement is not illegal.”
I sat back. “True. A bit melodramatic. No reason they couldn’t just phone one another.” I stared at the pile of papers at the corner of his desk, so neatly stacked, no errant edge presuming over the line. “But still, Self-Over doesn’t seem like something that would appeal to Felcher. He’s not likely to pay hundreds of dollars for a philosophy that he could explain to his son in half an hour. And even the introductory classes—the ones Bobby went to—aren’t cheap. I can’t believe that was all just for Bobby’s benefit.”
“Why, then?”
“That I don’t know. If Felcher had Bobby going to Self-Over for a reason, what reason? The boy had been living in Visalia with his mother. Felcher brought him back here and sent him to Self-Over. Why?”
The lieutenant tapped his finger on the edge of the desk. “Try a different tack. What actually happened then? You understand?”
“Uh-huh. Well, a Penlop came along and recruited Bobby, and—Oh, okay. So Felcher and Kleinfeld set Bobby up to be recruited and live in the ashram so that … so that, well, so that he could keep an eye on their potential investment.”
Lt. Davis’s finger stopped. “Or so he could do something that would ensure their getting the land.”
“Or find out something.”
“And maybe he did.” Our words were coming faster.
“And Padma’s people learned about it and killed him.”
For a moment we both sat silent, bemused by the way our ideas had suddenly clicked into place.
It was the lieutenant who spoke next. “Okay, Smith, try that. Young Felcher finds out something damaging in the temple, and in order to keep him from reporting back to Felcher Senior, someone there kills him. Hmm. Yet and still, the question is, what could he have found out that would have been so incriminating?”
“I’m not sure, but if the ashram was a potential investment turned up by Kitty Dawes Kleinfeld-Felcher, that would mean it, unlike her religious institutions, was not exempt on property taxes. That seems an expensive oversight on Braga’s part.”
“In order to qualify for a religious exemption,” the lieutenant said, “a church must prove to the Investigators from the assessor’s office not only that it is nonprofit, but also that the church building is used solely for religious purposes.”
“Ah. So the tea business could disqualify them. It must be bringing in a bundle.”
“Hmm. Or the threat of financial investigation is the deterrent.”
I stood up. “Whichever it was, if we think the temple crew killed Bobby Felcher, that idea must also have occurred to Felcher and Kleinfeld. It certainly gives Felcher a class-A motive for doing in the guru.”
The lieutenant nodded. “Check it out, Smith.” I started for the door.
“And Smith, be here for staff meeting tomorrow—on time.”
Chapter 14
I DROVE QUICKLY TO Comfort Reality, but for once the office was empty. Had Kitty warned Kleinfeld, and had Kleinfeld broken with tradition and warned Felcher? Or had Kitty even bothered?
I called into the station. The man on the beat checked Felcher’s home address. Nobody there, either. I sat in the car, watching the traffic, thinking. The rain had started. The streets shone, and to the eye of a cop, looked lethal. It hadn’t rained since March. Now, a mere six months later, it was as if drivers had forgotten everything connected with slippery roads. Either they were cutting in and out of lanes or inching along in first gear. Before the night was over, the department would be jumping. I was glad I was no longer on traffic detail.
I sat back, picturing Lt. Davis at his desk, staring at me, the ever-present finger smoothing his mustache. “If you can’t find Felcher, then what else do you need to know?” he would be asking me. What else? What else? What was it that Bobby Felcher had found out?
The obvious move was to drive across town and have a look at those tea cartons.
I started the car.
It took a quarter of an hour to get there. Though the rain slowed driving, it had the advantage of keeping people off the streets and, more important now, out of the temple courtyard. For once, as I headed to the back of the temple, there was not a Penlop in sight. The rain was already soaking into my wool uniform, and I hated to think how I’d smell, much less feel, in a few minutes. I reached to try the knob of the basement door.
In the rain I almost missed the sound of voices coming from Braga’s office window.
Releasing the knob, I moved closer, the water dripping down the side of my hat as I listened.
“You think you can get more for this land, Braga, you try.” I recognized Vern Felcher’s voice. From the clicking that underlined his phrases, I could picture him playing nervously with one of his ballpoint pens. The footsteps I took to be Braga’s habitual pacing. For nerves, they were a real pair.
“Nobody else will buy this land,” Felcher went on. “Get that through your head.”
“We’ll see.” Braga’s simulated calm contrasted with Felcher’s clipped delivery.
“Nobody else will want it. Listen, how long did the old girl you inherited it from own it—thirty years? Maybe even longer, right? You know what termites can do in thirty years? You know how much dry rot you got here? You see those cracks? I can tell you what that says about your foundation. Listen, what you got here is a temporary dwelling. Look at the angle of this floor. You put a marble on it, it would crash through the wall. You’re talking about jacking up the structure and sliding in a new foundation. You’re talking twenty thousand bucks, just for the temple. Then the altar boys’ house, that’s an even bigger job. Nobody’s going to buy a wreck like this place.”
There was silence broken only by the slap of Braga’s feet and the clicks from the ballpoint pen. The rain splatted on my shoulders.
“I know about your variance for the land.” Braga, using his professional voice, still sounded uneasy. “Don’t try to cheat me, Felcher.”
“It’s not worth a hundred and fifty now.” I could almost see Felcher’s leer of victory. “When you had a going concern here, maybe, but now—Listen, Braga, you better get out while you can still make a profit. Another month and all you’ll have here will be a wayward boys’ home.”
“Now that’s where you’re mistaken. You’re looking at the ashram only on a materialistic plane.”
Felcher snorted.
“No, no. In another month I will have a new guru straight from the monastery in Bhutan. He will meet his followers under the memorial statue of Padmasvana.”
“Where you going to get the dough for that? I know your habits, Braga. In another month the state’ll sell this place for taxes.”
“The faithful will be anxious to contribute to the memorial. They’ll empty their pockets in one last show of love.”
Felcher snorted louder. “You got ten days. In ten days you can have a hundred and twenty thou in your pocket, or you can be standing here empty-handed, waiting for the termites to fin
ish off this place. You got ten days, Braga.”
The pen stopped clicking. Footsteps moved away from me, toward the office door. Neither man spoke.
The footsteps stopped. “Braga.” Felcher’s voice sounded assured. “Maybe you don’t want to sell this place. Maybe you want to let those guys from L.A. come up here and beat their hundred thou out of you, huh? Yeah, I know about that. And those boys don’t like to hear ‘no.’ ”
“Forget it, Felcher. I’ve got time.”
“Time, hah! What—a month, two months, with ‘interest’ piling up? There’s no other way for you to get the dough, and the longer you wait, the worse off you are.”
I expected Braga to protest, but he didn’t. I would like to have heard his rebuttal. For Braga, those physical threats added the stick to Felcher’s hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar carrot and explained why he would kill Padma now.
I hurried around to the front of the temple in time to catch Felcher. “I need to know the details of both your offers for this property.”
Felcher stared. “The offers? Offers are private matters.” Oddly, he ignored my eavesdropping.
“Nothing’s private in a murder investigation.”
Felcher’s fingers pressed together hard, as if he missed his ballpoint pen. “I never wrote out an offer.”
“Come on, Mr. Felcher. You offered Braga some amount. How much?”
He moved in toward me till the curve of his paunch nearly brushed me. “Lady”—his voice was softer—“I got my affairs to protect. I can’t have this getting around.”
I nodded.
“Look, it’s like this. I gotta have this parcel in ten days or my variance runs out. I hadda work like hell to get that, and there’s no chance of them coming up with an extension on it. But Braga don’t need to know that. The point is that what the parcel would have brought a couple of days ago—”
“I heard your reasoning when you explained it to Braga,” I said sharply. “Look, Mr. Felcher, what you and Braga have here is a conspiracy to defraud the rest of Padmasvana’s organization. Now, I’m—”