Till The Old Men Die (The Jeri Howard Mystery Series Book 2)

by Janet Dawson

  “What are you doing? You’re making a mess, that’s what you’re doing.” Belinda folded her arms and looked exasperated as I scooped ground coffee out of the bag onto the paper towels I had spread out on the table. The supply room was redolent with the aroma. “Just what do you expect to find?”

  “At the moment I’m not doing anything but getting coffee under my fingernails.” The bag was now half empty, and I probed the rest of the way with my fingers. If Dolly had stashed that microcassette in the coffee, surely she would have protected it by putting it in a plastic bag. But I didn’t feel anything like plastic or paper. I touched the bottom of the bag. Then my finger encountered something metal.

  “More towels.” I waved at the roll, and Belinda tore off several sheets, spread them on the table, and stepped back as I dumped the rest of the coffee out of the bag. Then I lifted my prize up to the light, holding it by the numbered plastic end as I blew coffee dust off the metal surface.

  Belinda looked at the object in my hand and shook her head in wonderment. “Of all the crazy places to hide something. It’s a locker key. Like at the bus station.”

  “Or the airport,” I said, remembering the parking stub in Dolly’s desk.

  Twenty-six

  “SLOW DOWN,” I TOLD ALEX AS I HUNCHED OVER my computer. “I didn’t catch all of that.” I raised one hand and brushed my damp hair off my forehead, then took a hit from my bottle of mineral water. Despite the open window, my office felt like a steam bath. The sun was melting in the west, over the buildings along the Oakland waterfront. I pulled the tail of my cotton shirt from the waistband of my slacks, fanning myself with the material. I hoped the evening fog was coming through the Golden Gate, its cooling mercy heading for the East Bay.

  Alex switched off the recorder and reached for his beer bottle. After taking a long swallow, he ran the bottle over his face, then set it on the floor. He had one leg hitched over the arm of the chair in front of my desk and managed to look far cooler than I did. Maybe it was because he had unbuttoned his shirt halfway down his chest and was fanning himself with an empty file folder.

  “Ready?” he asked. I nodded, shifting in my chair. He tossed the folder onto my desk, held the microcassette recorder up to his ear, and hit the play button. From where I sat I could hear nothing but the hum of my computer equipment, but earlier when I had played the tape the sound of voices speaking in Tagalog was discernible, even through the background noise of the Compass Rose bar.

  “I think this is Rick Navarro talking,” Alex said. “No, it’s Max. Damn, they sound so much alike.” He repeated the Tagalog words, then slowly translated them into English, pausing frequently as my fingers flew over the keyboard, transcribing the tape.

  I had called Alex from the Oakland Airport after I found the locker where Dolly Cruz hid the envelope. She had stuffed it into a red and yellow cosmetic bag similar to the one at her office. I felt like a knight who had finally located the Holy Grail after a long and arduous quest. I stood in front of that locker, grinning, barely hearing the airline announcements being broadcast over the loudspeaker. Elation and exhilaration made my fingers tingle as I unzipped the bag and pulled out the envelope, its black handwritten address bearing Dad’s name. Superimposed over a row of brightly colored stamps on the upper right-hand corner was a cancellation stamp dated the day after Lite’s Manibusan’s murder. Inside, I found half a dozen folded papers and the tiny cassette.

  The documents were photocopies and two of them were in English. The first was Olivia Cardiff Beddoes’s report of the incident in San Ygnacio. As I read through the second document, I understood what she hadn’t that night long ago, when a dying Carlos Manibusan said something about an American and a priest. The sheets were dated May 1945 and signed by a U.S. Army intelligence officer stationed in San Fernando, Pampanga Province, the Philippines. In it, the officer detailed his interview with three men from San Ygnacio who had been accompanied to his office by a priest from San Fernando, Father Agustin. One of the men was Carlos Manibusan.

  The men from San Ygnacio gave statements to the officer, evidence against a landowner named Rufino Navarro, who had collaborated with the Japanese during the war, specific incidents and dates that Carlos Manibusan had written in a notebook. He was reluctant to part with his notebook, but the officer told him the information must be verified. After much discussion, Father Agustin promised to return the notebook to San Ygnacio, and Carlos Manibusan gave it to the officer.

  I suspected the army officer had not kept his end of the bargain, and that the information against Rufino Navarro had never been confirmed. But the priest kept his promise, though Carlos was dead by the time his notebook was returned. The third photocopied document was handwritten Tagalog. I’d seen that writing, faded blue on yellowed sheets, bound in an odd-shaped black notebook. It was tucked into a clear plastic bag, mingled in with Dr. Manibusan’s World War II files. Perhaps Carlos Manibusan’s widow had kept it all those years, finally giving it to her son, the professor. Its pages may have started as a schoolboy’s exercises, but they ended as a record. He’d been murdered for the evidence it contained, just as his son had been murdered for further evidence of the same crimes. The irony in both cases was that the killer had not obtained what he sought.

  As Alex translated the pages in Carlos’s notebook, the story of Rufino Navarro’s collaboration took shape, coming to vivid life when added to the voices on the tape Lito recorded the night of his own murder. The professor had waved these photocopies under the nose of the man responsible for his father’s death.

  “Son of a bitch, Jeri,” Alex said, stopping the recorder. “You were right. Max tripped himself. He admitted it.”

  We had been listening to the tape over and over again for more than an hour. The conversation we transcribed revealed that the silver-haired, silver-tongued cat first denied Dr. Manibusan’s accusation. Then, finally, inadvertently, he revealed his knowledge of the notebook’s existence. The professor seized on that rent in the fabric of Max Navarro’s story, tearing an even larger hole.

  The transcript, the documents, and the notebook itself were full of dynamite, the kind of ammunition that could torpedo Maximiliano Navarro’s ambitions to run for president. I was as cynical as the next person about politics, whether in the United States or the Philippines. After all, Marcos himself had been tried for murder back in the 1930s, and his war record, too, had been subject to question. But maybe the climate had changed. Maybe even the most jaded citizen would have second thoughts about voting for Max Navarro, particularly if he could be linked to a more current murder in the Bay Area.

  Alex shook his head. “Not a chance. It’ll be business as usual. Max will weasel out of this.”

  “Maybe not. If we put this stuff into the right hands,” I said, thinking of Javier as my printer spat out two copies of the transcript. “I like to think there’s some justice in the world, even if it comes from unexpected places.”

  “I suppose that’s why you do what you do.” He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. The sun was down now and a breeze finally found its way into my third-story window. It felt good, and so did Alex’s embrace. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No, you’re not. I do a solo, Alex. I can take care of myself, and I don’t want you involved in this.”

  “I’m a decorated veteran of the finest navy in the world. You’re telling me I’d be in the way?”

  “I’m the private investigator. And yes, you would.”

  I took the pages out of the printer and locked one copy in my filing cabinet, along with the rest of the evidence.

  “Will you at least take a gun?”

  “I’m better with my wits.”

  “But Max has all those bodyguards.”

  “I’m not going after Max, not directly. Rick is the weak link in this chain. My guess is that Max told Rick to tidy up this particular mess, and Rick blew it. Rick is running scared, and that means he can be had.”


  “It also means he can be dangerous,” Alex pointed out.

  I headed across the Bay Bridge with his admonition to be careful riding with me, the second copy of the transcript tucked into my purse. I had to choose my moment to talk with Rick, away from his father. It was a good bet that Nina Agoncillo would know where her fiancé was, even though she might not be willing to tell me directly, after the grilling I’d given her Sunday night. Before leaving my office I had called Salvador Agoncillo’s house, pretending to be a friend of his sister’s. Nina’s sister-in-law answered the phone and, with a little prompting, told me Nina was having dinner with the Navarros.

  When I reached San Francisco, I cut across town, my Toyota laboring up to the top of Vallejo Street. I parked across the street from the tall stucco mansion and waited. A yellow-gold light burned in the front window, diffused by the fog that lay like a shroud on the streets of Pacific Heights. Headlights loomed through the mist as a car approached the nearby intersection, then turned, heading down the steep slope toward the marina. Finally, about a quarter past ten I saw another set of headlights, this time in the driveway of the Navarro house. The car turned right onto Vallejo. It was Rick Navarro at the wheel of his sleek black Jaguar with Nina Agoncillo in the passenger seat.

  I turned the ignition key on my Toyota and followed him as he turned right on Divisadero and right again on Jackson, heading west all the way to Arguello Boulevard. A left turn pointed the Jaguar south, toward Golden Gate Park. He was taking Nina home, I guessed, keeping an eye on my speed and the traffic as I tried to stay half a block behind the Jaguar, which purred along with more power than my four-cylinder basic transportation. At Geary Boulevard I sped through a yellow light as it turned red, not wanting to lose Rick. He turned right onto Balboa Street and made a quick right turn into the driveway of the Agoncillo home, just past Sixteenth Avenue. I parked on the same side of the street, a couple of houses this side of the Agoncillos.

  Rick walked Nina to the front door. The porch light illuminated them as they spent several interminable minutes lip to lip, her arms wrapped around him under his jacket, his hands stroking first her shoulders, then down the sides of her dress and circling her waist. I waited until Nina went into the house and opened my car door, ready to nail Rick before he got back into the Jag. Then I hesitated as a San Francisco patrol car drove by slowly, making its rounds. The cop on the passenger side gave me the eye, wondering what I was doing sitting in a parked car in his neighborhood. By the time the patrol car passed, Rick Navarro was behind the wheel of his expensive Jaguar. The engine roared to life and he backed it out of the driveway. But he didn’t retrace his route. Instead, he took Park Presidio Boulevard to Geary, a major east-west thoroughfare, and turned right. He was headed downtown rather than home, and that suited my purpose just as well.

  I followed the Jag east toward the glittering skyscrapers, managing to keep Rick in sight despite the number of traffic lights. When he reached the Civic Center area, he headed for the South of Market district. He pulled the Jag into his parking space in front of Pacific Rim Imports on Townsend Street. I drove by slowly but kept going. This part of Townsend was deserted, and I didn’t want to be noticed, at least not now. Ahead of me I saw the lights of a bar just past the corner of Townsend and Second, smeared around the edges by the fog, which was thicker down here on the city’s waterfront. I parked close to the intersection and quickly made my way back to the brick facade of Pacific Rim. By now Rick had disappeared through the single door to the left of the big double doors that had been open the day I visited the warehouse.

  I pulled a set of picks from my purse and checked the street for any watchers, but by now the ends of the block in either direction were obscured by fog. The door was locked, but it was just the spring lock rather than the dead bolt, so it was easy to gain access. I slipped inside, cringing first as the door creaked, then again as it shut with a click that seemed to reverberate around the walls of the warehouse. The center bank of fluorescent lights on the high ceiling were on, illuminating the main aisle between the tall wooden shelves. The light was on in the second-floor office at the back of the building. I could see part of Rick’s office through the glass window that looked down on the warehouse, but Rick was nowhere in sight.

  I walked quickly up the center aisle, then up the stairs, my hand reaching into my purse for the transcript. Slapping the papers onto his desk might be a trifle dramatic, I thought, but effective. As I stepped onto the landing, Rick heard me.

  “Eddie?” he called. “Is that you?”

  He was expecting Eddie the Knife, and soon. I didn’t like that prospect, especially after seeing the crazy look in Eddie’s eyes the day I visited his grandfather, as he threatened to kill me the next time he saw me. He was unpredictable and dangerous and his presence would change the equation. I was beginning to wish I’d brought my gun. Or even Alex.

  It was too late for any of that now.

  Twenty-seven

  RICK’S OFFICE LOOKED THE SAME AS IT HAD WHEN I first visited it the previous week, with the big carved storyboard on its easel and the masks and fans decorating the walls. Rick was seated behind his big desk in the center of the room, in shirtsleeves, his jacket visible in the closet on the back wall. He faced the door in anticipation of Eddie’s arrival. Now his eyes widened in his square face as he saw me walk through the door. I tossed the folded sheets of paper onto the desk. They slid across the smooth bare surface and came to rest at the base of the gold-framed photograph of Nina Agoncillo.

  Rick tore his eyes away from me and stared at the papers. Then he reached for them as though he couldn’t quite get his hands or arms to work. He unfolded the sheets and glanced at the pages, the paper crackling in his fingers. His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened as he read.

  “I think the transcript is fairly accurate, even though it’s a translation. You can be the judge of that. After all, you were there.”

  “Where’s the tape?” he asked, his voice rough. “And the documents?”

  “The same place as the notebook. Locked away.” I moved away from the door, taking a few steps to my right, glancing through the glass window down to the warehouse. I didn’t want to be surprised by Eddie Villegas.

  “I thought you had the envelope until this afternoon, when I was talking with your father. He’s sure you have it, maybe because you told him everything was under control. Then I saw the look on your face and I realized you didn’t. It has a certain symmetry, doesn’t it? Max and Efren Villegas murdered Carlos Manibusan to destroy evidence of Rufino’s collaboration with the Japanese. And you and Eddie Villegas murdered Lito Manibusan to cover both crimes. But none of you will get away with it. The proof’s still out there. All those ghosts are pointing fingers at you.”

  Rick refolded the papers and shoved them away. Then he sat back in his brown leather chair, his arms folded across his chest, chin down. I kept my eyes on his hands as I laid it out for him.

  “Nina was very informative. Both she and Dolores Cruz were in the corridor near the elevators that night, and they both saw you and Eddie leaving the St. Francis right behind the professor. You followed Dr. Manibusan to the garage, you held him while Eddie stabbed him, then you searched his body. That’s how you got blood on your cuff. Dolly saw it when you returned to the party.”

  Rick looked startled at my words, wondering how I knew. It was third-hand hearsay, but maybe the weight of what I knew and guessed would force an admission from him. “When you searched the professor’s body, looking for the papers, you found that empty microcassette recorder. You knew the professor taped everything that was said in the bar. The documents were gone. But you had no idea what Dr. Manibusan did with them, until Nina mentioned that she’d seen Alex’s uncle that night.”

  “Nina has nothing to do with this,” he said heavily.

  “Not directly. But she saw Dr. Manibusan mail the envelope. With a little prompting, she even told you who it was addressed to. Then you told her it wasn’t important a
nd whisked her off to Hawaii so she wouldn’t talk to the police. From the newspaper accounts of the murder, you knew my father found the body and you connected his name with the name on the envelope. He didn’t know what it contained, so you figured you could let it ride for a while. But you didn’t figure Dolly Cruz into that equation.” I shook my head, watching his brooding face. His eyes met mine, then quickly flicked away.

  “Dolly decided that being paid off with a green card wasn’t enough to salve her ego after being booted out of your father’s bed to make room for the new and more socially presentable Mrs. Max Navarro,” I continued.

  “Hell hath no fury, and Dolly was no exception. She decided to enact a little revenge of her own and make some money in the process. She must have guessed how you got that bloodstain on your cuff. After all, she saw part of the confrontation in the bar, and she may have seen the professor with the recorder after you and your father left. She certainly saw the address on the envelope when she bumped into the professor in the lobby. That’s how she knew where to look. Eventually she found it and started putting the screws to you and your father. She waited until your father was due to arrive on one of his regular inspection visits because you’re particularly vulnerable when Max is around. He expects you to handle everything without mistakes and he doesn’t tolerate failure well, does he?”

  Rick’s lips tightened, and he shifted in his chair. I figured I’d correctly summed up one aspect of his relationship with his father. “Dolly put on the pressure and you sent Eddie Villegas looking for the envelope, first at the university, then at my father’s town house. But Dolly got there first, and she hid the evidence. That’s why you didn’t find it when you killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said, bringing his head up to glare at me. He unfolded his arms and put his hands palmsdown on the desk, as though he were going to propel himself out of his chair. “I was out to dinner Friday night. With witnesses.”