“I hope my investigation can ease your wife’s mind.”
He nodded but was noncommittal.
I waited a few seconds, then continued with my questions. “Did Philip have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
He scoffed as if it were the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “No. Phil was a good man.”
I let that sentiment sit between us for a few seconds before continuing. “Gemma said some of Phil’s clients from Quaffman’s went with him when he opened his own shop. Mr. Haskell, this may be a crazy question, but could Mr. Quaffman have held a grudge against Philip?”
He stared at me like I’d lost every last marble. “Held a grudge and what? Lured him to the park and somehow hanged him? No way. Look, my wife is grieving. I don’t know what good it’s doing her to think someone had it in for Phil, but it’s just not true.”
I understood where he was coming from…unless his wife was right. So far, nothing led me to believe she was, but I wasn’t done digging around.
“Please don’t encourage her,” he said.
“I haven’t found anything yet to support her theory, but she hired me. I’m just doing my job.”
He dipped his chin, resigned, then raised his gaze to me again. “I get that, but please wrap it up quickly. She needs to accept Phil’s death.”
I agreed one hundred percent. “One last thing. Your son’s cell phone is missing, is that right?”
“Missing isn’t the right word. We just don’t know where it is.”
“I assume you’ve looked through his apartment?”
He gave his head a little shake and heaved a sigh. “Yes, we looked through his apartment. Everything’s been boxed up and put in storage. No phone.”
The missing cell phone, in my opinion, supported the idea that someone killed Philip and took his phone to hide something. But what? A phone call or text about a meeting? But those records could be obtained by the police from the cell provider if they changed their view to murder instead of suicide.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Haskell,” I said as I gathered up the remains of my meal and stood. “I’ll keep you and your wife posted.”
I left him sitting with his half-eaten burrito and his grief.
Chapter 7
Spring in Sacramento meant allergies. A breeze had kicked up between the time I’d arrived at La Favorita Taqueria and the time I’d left. My eyes felt layered with an itchy grit. I fisted my hands to stop myself from grinding the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I turned the key in my car’s ignition then reached to the glovebox for the bottle of allergy eye drops I kept there. I threw my head back, held one eye open with my thumb and index finger, and squeezed a few drops in at the lower lid. I switched hands and treated the opposite eye. As I blinked away the medicated tears, someone suddenly pounded on the driver’s side glass. I yelped and jumped in my seat. “¡Hijole!”
My hands instinctively went into an attack position as I swiveled my head to see who was accosting my car. Tim Haskell stood there staring at me and smiling guiltily, as if I’d caught him red-handed doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
I gulped, pushing my racing heart back into my chest cavity. When you were investigating a possible murder, your senses were heightened. “You scared me!” I said after I pressed the button to roll down the window.
“I didn’t mean to. Sorry about that. I was thinking that you should go visit some of Phil’s baseball buddies. They knew him better than anyone. They’ll tell you what kind of man Phil was.”
I pulled my notebook from my purse and flipped it open, repeating the names Marnie had shared with me.
“Yeah, that’s a few of them.”
“Do you have their contact info?” I asked.
He took his cell phone from his back pocket and slid his finger across the screen until he found what he was looking for. He held it out for me to see and I wrote down Ricky’s phone number. “He’s one of Phil’s best friends,” he said.
I glanced in my rearview mirror as I drove off. Mr. Haskell stood there, hands in his pockets, staring into the distance as if he were in a trance. I hoped he was right and that Philip’s friends would be straight with me. But a feeling of unease settled in my chest. I wasn’t confident that Mr. Haskell knew everything about his son.
Manny summoned me into his office the minute I walked into the conference room of Camacho and Associates. “Ven aqui, Dolores. Sientate.”
I followed his directions, entering his office and sitting in the chair opposite his desk. Thankfully he hadn’t called me his poderosa, something he’d taken to doing lately.
Manny was not one for small talk. He didn’t say anything, but just slid a piece of paper across the desk to me. I knew right away from the format, boxes, and sections on the paper that it was the police report on Philip Haskell’s suicide. I scanned the information. The body was found hanging from a tree in the McKinley Park Rose Garden at seven p.m. on a Monday. A note was found in his car apologizing to his family. Death by asphyxiation was the final determination. The toxicology results weren’t in yet. Other than that, it was cut and dry.
I looked at Manny. “I’ve talked to Philip Haskell’s fiancée and his father. Both of them agree that Philip didn’t have any enemies.”
He drummed the pads of his fingers on his desk. “So why does Marnie Haskell think someone else was involved?”
It was a rhetorical question that neither of us could answer. I knew, though, that before long I was going to need to pay a visit to Mrs. Haskell to delve deeper into that question. There had to be a reason why she was so convinced.
“The only viable lead so far is Philip’s old boss. When Philip left to open his own company, he apparently took some of Quaffman’s clients with him. Seems like a stretch, though.”
His gaze burned into me. “There is no such thing as a stretch in a possible murder investigation.”
“Do you believe it’s true, though?” I asked. So far nothing indicated murder.
He clasped his hands in front of him, pressing his thumbs together. “I do not disbelieve her. Not yet. She thinks this for a reason. Your job is to figure out why, and if she’s right. If, in the process, you disprove it, pues, so be it.”
Manny had taught me to formulate a hypothesis and then work to prove or disprove it. So far, the only hypothesis I could formulate was that someone else had been involved in Philip’s death. That was what I had to find evidence to support.
Or not.
So far, not.
But I’d barely just begun. “I have the name of one of Philip’s baseball buddies. I’ll get in touch with him. See what he thinks of Mrs. Haskell’s theory. Her husband thinks Philip’s death has her a little unglued. My words, not his. He said Philip was a good person. He can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt him.”
“What about his cell phone?”
“No sign of it. His dad said all Philip’s belongings were packed up and stored. No phone. Gemma, the fiancée, doesn’t have it and says she hasn’t seen it. I’ll ask Mrs. Haskell about it again.”
I made a mental note to ask Jack to tag along on that house call. I wanted Mrs. Haskell to be as calm as possible. Jack could be the one to make sure that happened.
“Let me know if you find it. We need to look through his contacts. Recent calls. Texts. Anything that looks out of the ordinary. Add the police report to your file and keep me posted.”
And that was it. No poderosa. No burning looks that made me squirm in my seat. Just business. All business. My conversation with Reilly bubbled to the surface of my brain. I opened my mouth to speak, but instantly thought better of it. What would I say? So, Manny, you were married to Sadie…and you have a daughter with her? And she owns this business with you?
I imagined the scenario. He’d stare at me like I was out of my mind. It was crossing
business and personal, something Manny did not do. He kept his private life…private. Me nosing around in it would not make him happy.
I kept my mouth shut, took the police report, and scurried out of his office. Once I’d called Marnie Haskell and she agreed to meet me the next morning at nine o’clock, I headed out for my appointment with Joe Quaffman.
Chapter 8
I was no fool. I hadn’t given my home address for my appointment with Joe Quaffman. Instead, I’d given the address of the family restaurant. I was more than capable of handling myself, but there was no need to put myself in unnecessary danger. This was a potential murder investigation, after all.
I’d never met a repairman who arrived at the beginning of the time window, but I arrived a few minutes before four—just in case. Abuelita’s parking lot held quite a few cars and not a single repair truck. I considered waiting in my car to avoid the possibility of getting roped into working the dinner shift, but since my brother had moved out of our flat and into his own place downtown, I hadn’t seen much of him. I missed him.
Decision made. I pushed through the door and stopped short. It was like a ghost town. It was too early for the dinner hour, but still, someone should have been at the counter. There were always menus to wipe, floors to sweep, salt shakers to fill, or a million other little restaurant tasks. Not a soul was in sight. I turned right and peeked into the dining room. A lone diner sat with his back to me, a newspaper spread out on the table, the plate of his finished meal set aside on the table next to his.
Strange. Abuelita’s didn’t share a parking lot with any other business so who did those cars in the parking lot belong to?
I did a one-eighty and headed back to the front, skirting around the counter. Two hinged swinging doors led to the kitchen. The right was for going IN and the left was for going OUT. Not so long ago, there’d been an incident with a plate of chicken mole, me using the wrong door, and a collision with Antonio—all in the presence of Jack. Not something I wanted to repeat.
A quick glance through the little square window confirmed that the coast was clear, so I pushed through the IN door…and stopped short. I could see the top of Antonio’s head, covered with a white chef’s skull cap, on the line. The people on the other side of the stainless-steel warming shelf formed a half circle. It seemed Antonio was holding court.
I let the door swing closed behind me and listened.
“We’re going to start with skewered blackened corn cobs sprinkled with parmesan cheese, loaded black bean nachos, and margarita quesadillas—”
“What does that mean?” someone asked. It sounded a lot like my cousin Leti, but I couldn’t see her through the throng of people, so I couldn’t be sure.
“They’re filled with sweet onions and peppers, chicken, cheese, and they’re topped with lime butter and salt. Delicioso, trust me.”
“¿Que mas, m’ijo?”
That had been my aunt’s voice, one hundred percent. I looked at the back of each person. Tía Roselia, tía Marina, my mother, Chely, my cousin Zac and his wife, Lucy, my dad, Roberto, Gracie, her baby sound asleep against her shoulder, my cousin Eloisa, and Leti and her fiancé Mark.
Aha. So this was about Leti’s wedding. From the looks of it, Antonio was catering it. How had I not known that?
I frowned. Because Antonio didn’t live with me anymore. I was out of the loop. Still, it was muy interesante. My brother was branching out.
I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but his description of the margarita quesadillas made my stomach growl anyway. I edged up next to my oldest brother and put my hand on his shoulder. “Looks good, eh Beto?” I asked.
He turned to me, gave a little smile, and nodded. “He’s doing a good job with this place. Pops is going to be able to retire and it’ll be in good hands,” he whispered. “Now, if only Raymundo would come back.”
We all wanted Ray back in Northern California, but he was happy as a stuffed piñata living in San Diego and working as a DJ. But Beto was right. Antonio had spent his twenties goofing around and having every bit of fun he could, but now? With his own apartment, a chef’s hat, and catering gigs, he seemed to be settling into his thirties with gusto. Our dad was still going strong, but he was slowly giving more responsibility to Tonio, and it looked like Antonio was up for the task.
“Next we have chicken mole, three varieties of tamales, and carnitas.” He swept his arms out and grinned. “Bien, eh?”
My mother started clapping. Even from where I stood on the fringe of the crowd, I could see tears of pride glistening in her eyes.
“What about the beans? And the rice?” tía Roselia’s frown was the exact opposite of my mother’s proud smile, but Antonio didn’t let it faze him. “Por supuesto, tía. Frijoles y arroz, guacamole, salsa, chips, and a fresh corn tortilla station. We’ll have it all.”
“It’s perfect, Tonito,” Leti said. “Can we taste now?”
“Absolutely,” Antonio said. He handed a stack of paper plates to our dad and before long, the half circle of people had reorganized themselves into a buffet line. I’d have been leading the pack if I hadn’t filled up on tacos already. Too bad, because Antonio had outdone himself. It all looked—and smelled—so good.
I checked my watch. 4:05. I hadn’t told the lady on the phone that I’d be meeting Joe at a restaurant. I poked my head out the swinging OUT door, but there was no sign of Joe Quaffman. “I’ll be back,” I told Beto, then scooted out of the kitchen and out the front door.
All the same cars were parked in the lot. I leaned against the wall and waited, bracing myself against the growing chill. The wind had picked up and the temperature was dropping. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. I turned to go back into the restaurant when a white van pulled in to the parking lot, stopped, then started to drive back out. Quaffman Electric was printed on the side panels in big bold black letters
“No!” I yelled. I started to run across the lot toward the van, waving both my arms over my head. “Wait!”
The van jerked to a stop and the driver put it into reverse. He backed up, stopped, turned the tires hard to the right, then slowly drove toward me. He rolled down the window. “Service call?”
I nodded and pointed to Abuelita’s. He pulled into a parking space, got out, and handed me a business card. “Joe Quaffman,” he said.
The more time I spent on the job as a PI, the more cautious I became. It was another of Manny’s lessons. I doubted he had ever been a Boy Scout, but he lived by the scout rule of always being prepared. It seemed like a good practice to me. Con cuidado. Be careful. That had become my mantra, which meant I’d searched Joe Quaffman so I’d have a visual of the guy.
The image I’d seen online was true to the man now standing in front of me. He had sandy-colored hair, eyes the shade of worn leather, hollow cheeks, and a narrow face. His company shirt was neat and tucked into the waistband of his worn jeans. He had a khaki canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t exactly attractive, but he wasn’t unattractive, either. I knew better though than to judge a person based on anything physical, and if I took Marnie Haskell’s concern about her son’s death at face value, then Philip’s former boss was as viable a suspect as anyone. I didn’t believe in guns. I wasn’t about to have my own weapon turned against me, which, statistically, happened more often than not. I liked to say that my body was my weapon. Jack had given me a whole new perspective on that phrase, but the truth was that I was a black belt in Kung Fu. Although I hadn’t been keeping up with my training lately, I could take a man down without breaking a sweat.
Meeting in a public place, a.k.a Abuelita’s, meant I didn’t have to worry as much as if I’d met him at my flat. Then there was the added bonus of my two brothers and a host of other family members being just inside the kitchen. There was no cause for concern. Joe Quaffman looked to be in his early sixties. He was tall—over six foot by a few inches—and he was lanky wi
th long floppy limbs. I could picture him flouncing around with a cowardly lion and a rusty tin man. It would be no contest between us, if it came to it. Joe Quaffman would hit the ground before he knew what was happening. Hopefully that wouldn’t be necessary. He didn’t immediately strike me as a murderer. Not that that meant anything.
I led him into the restaurant and to a table by the window. I sat, but he gave me a puzzled look and remained standing. “You have an electrical problem here?” he asked.
I’d assumed his office assistant would have filled him in on my phone call and what I wanted, but he seemed to have no idea why I’d set the appointment. He had a solid seven or eight inches on me so I had to tilt my head back slightly to meet his gaze. “I called your office to see if I could talk to you. The woman who answered said I had to make an appointment, so that’s what I did.”
His body language instantly changed and he grew visibly wary. “Talk to me about what?”
“Philip Haskell,” I said, then watched closely to gauge his reaction.
Only there wasn’t much of one. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his shoulders straightened, but that was it. “He’s dead.”
Ay dios. People were so blunt. No, Poor bastard just passed away, or What a tragedy, or Poor Philip, yeah, what about him? There was no sugar-coating. Drove me loca. “I know. There are some questions about the circumstances of his death.”
He looked around the dining room. The one person who’d been there was gone now, and it was still early for the dinner rush. The place was deserted. “Is there an electrical problem?” he asked again.
“No. No electrical problem. I had to make an appointment to be able to talk to you.”
“About Phil?” he asked.
“About Phil,” I confirmed.
“What do you mean there are questions about his death? He hanged himself.”
I grimaced at how blunt he was. “Yes, that’s what the police report says.”
Drop Dead Lola Page 6