Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (25 page)

And this in a period of economic recession.

I got out the phone book and called Baker first. Luckily it wasn’t Vicky who answered, but a gravelly-voiced male who turned out to be Baker himself.

“I’m a lawyer going over the books for The Mine Shaft,” I explained. Another statement which was technically true but not entirely accurate. “I was wondering
...”

Baker cut me off gruffly. “We don’t do work for them anymore.”

“Yes, I know that,
but...”

“Ten years we have, Marrero and me. Ten years of hard work and trust, and he tosses it out the window the minute he gets a better deal. Won’t even give me a chance to see if we can work it out.” Baker snorted. “I don’t have to talk to no lawyer of his. I don’t owe him nothing.”

He hung up with a deafening clunk.

I tried looking up the number for Foothill next, and came up empty-handed. The listings jumped from Foothill Acupuncture Center to Foothill Florist. It took me only a minute to come up with an alternate plan, however. I called the tavern and held my breath, praying I would reach someone besides George. My good angel was looking out for me.

“Hi,” I said to the voice that wasn’t George, “my husband and I are opening a small deli in town. We’re looking for someone to clean up a couple of times a month you know, a janitorial service. Well, my husband talked to somebody over there at your place and got a recommendation, but then, well, he lost the slip of paper he wrote it down on. Do you think you could give me the name and address again?”

“You need to talk to the owner. I don’t know much about that stuff.” There was some commotion on the other end, then the voice said, “Wait a minute. Hey, Wally, what’s the name of the guy who cleans up on Sundays, Jose something.”

Wally didn’t know the last name either, but he knew the address because he’d given the guy a ride once when his truck broke down. I thanked him effusively, which wasn’t an act, then headed over to pay a visit to Foothill Cleaning.

I had trouble finding the place at first because Foothill’s office wasn’t an office, but a tiny, rundown shanty in the hills outside of town. The woman who opened the door was young, Hispanic and very pregnant. She didn’t understand English, and she didn’t understand my fractured Spanish either.

“Un momento,
” she said finally.

That I understood.

She left and returned a few moments later with a man whose grasp of English wasn’t much greater. He, at least, could make some sense of my Spanish.

“George Marrero, The Mine Shaft,” I said, articulating carefully.

“Si. ”

“Do you clean for him?
Limpia?”
I made a sweeping motion with my arms as though I held a broom.

The man looked at me warily.
“Es migra?”

“No,” I answered,
“amiga.
” I was no friend of George’s, but I didn’t want Jose worrying that I was from immigration either.

He grinned broadly.
“St. Limpio. ”
He rattled off something else I couldn’t make out

“Es su patron?”
I
asked. Is he your boss?

The man nodded.
“Trabajo mucho,
” he said, and continued speaking rapidly, gesturing with his hands to make his point

That was the extent of our conversation, and I’d understood only parts of it, but it told me all I really needed to know. George Marrero had replaced a reputable, longstanding cleaning service with cheap, probably illegal, labor. Jose might very well do a top-notch job, but I was willing to bet he wasn’t getting paid six hundred a month for his efforts.

What’s more, I had a pretty good idea where the money
was
going.

California businesses using a name different from that of the owner are required to file a fictitious name statement. This is public information that can be obtained through either the county or the Secretary of State’s office in Sacramento. The road to Sacramento is four-lane interstate a good part of the way, but it was still a long drive. I decided to head for Jacksonville, the county seat, instead. I thought it would be quicker, but I’d forgotten what Friday afternoon is like. By the time I made it to the courthouse, having poked along behind every tractor and Winnebago in the county, I was in ill-humor.

The two women behind the front counter were busy chatting. I waited politely for a couple of minutes while they discussed someone named Milo, whose first wife was bleeding him dry. When the story showed no signs of winding down, I cleared my throat and asked to see the records for Foothill Cleaning. The woman closest to me took the information, snapped her gum, then went back to talking to her friend. Finally, they moved together toward the record area at the back. When they returned, they’d moved on to discussing a Mike, whose finances seemed in better shape. He’d apparently just purchased a large and expensive boat.

While they debated the best attire for boating, I glanced at the listing of fictitious names. It was just as I expected — George Marrero doing business as Foothill Cleaning. He was skimming money from the bar into his own pocket. He probably paid Jose in cash, a
de minimis
amount at best. The healthy check to Foothill Cleaning went into an account of his own. There was a good chance the janitorial scam wasn’t the only one he was running, either.

It wasn’t a pretty picture, but it explained why George had been so eager to keep Eddie from becoming involved. Duping Eddie’s father had probably been fairly easy. It was my guess he’d never looked at the books, just taken what his brother doled out. George had skimmed cash off the top, an easy thing to do in a business like his, and then divvied up the remaining profits.

But with Eddie in the picture, things changed. He was young and enthusiastic, ready to jump in with both feet. Eddie wanted to understand the numbers; he wanted things to add up.

No longer able to pocket cash, George had set up a dummy business or two. Everything looked fine on paper, but the money still found its way to George’s pocket.

That much fit pretty comfortably. The next step was a big one, though. I let it play out in my mind slowly.

George hadn’t simply wanted to keep the business to himself. He’d wanted to cover up the fact that he was embezzling funds.

Had Eddie caught on?

Had George killed him to keep him quiet?

Dead men don’t talk.
It’s about as common a motive for murder as you can find.

Without more, it wouldn’t convince a jury. But I was hoping it would be enough to convince Benson. Or at least get his attention.

Chapter 19

After my experience with afternoon traffic on the way over, I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back to Silver Creek before Benson left for the weekend. In person might be better, but by telephone was definitely quicker. I found a pay phone in the lobby and called.

I might as well have saved my quarters.

“You’re grasping at straws,” Benson told me. “Trying to deflect attention from your friend.”

“I’m not grasping at straws,” I replied evenly. “I am trying to find out who really killed Eddie. If you ask me, it looks like George has a pretty good motive.”

“Kali, if you look hard enough, you can find any number of people with motives of some sort.” It was the same mildly indulgent tone a father might use when explaining to his son the necessity of daily bathing.

“Bilking your partner, cheating the IRS — covering up something like that is pretty substantial.”

“It could be a legitimate business, you know. Nothing says a guy can’t use the services of one of his own companies.”

“Unless it involves fraud. He’d probably know about Jannine’s gun, too. And he postponed his Saturday departure for Tucson at the last minute.”

Benson sighed. I could imagine his heavy jowls vibrating with the effort. “All right, I’ll make a note of it and have someone look into the possibility next week. That make you happy?”

I would have been happier if I hadn’t had the impression he was doing it strictly as a favor to his old friend’s daughter. “There might be a couple of other suppliers he’s doing the same thing with. You want me to check them out?”

“No, we’ll take it from here.” There was a pause. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to convince Jannine she’d be better off cooperating with us?”

“She is cooperating.”

“You know what I mean.”

It was my turn to sigh. “Haven’t you been listening to me? She didn’t kill him.”

“We’ve got a pretty good case, Kali. I’m only trying to make it easier on her.”

After I’d hung up, I realized I should have asked about Cheryl. Not that he’d have told me anything. Not that I was so sure it mattered any longer. With what I’d uncovered about George, the pieces fit rather nicely. Eddie running into Cheryl at school Saturday morning now seemed irrelevant.

The only thing was, Eddie’s murder aside, I found myself caring about the girl. I knew what it was to feel alone in the world, to have a parent who wouldn’t acknowledge your pain or confusion, a parent who looked right through you, as though you weren’t there at all.

But I also knew that on the streets, feeling unloved wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to you.

<><><>

By the time Tom arrived that evening, I’d managed to work myself out of the funk I’d fallen into after my call to Benson. If the police weren’t willing to investigate George Marrero, I’d do it myself. That thought, plus a short walk, a long, hot shower, and my favorite scooped neck blouse did wonders for my disposition.

The notion of spending the evening with Tom didn’t hurt either.

“Don’t you look spiffy,” he said, eyeing me in a way that made my skin tingle.

He looked rather spiffy himself. Snug jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and his proverbial cat-who-ate-the- canary smile. He smelled nice too, like a bar of fresh soap, which wasn’t surprising I guess, given that the curls on the nape of his neck were still damp from the shower.

“I brought you something,” he said, and handed me an off-sized paperback,
Why Dogs Have Puppies and Other Imponderables.
“I debated between that and
The Complete Book of Dog Care. ”

“You’re all heart”

He laughed. “You’re getting old, Red. Fifteen years ago you’d have thrown the book at me and probably stomped your foot, too.”

“I never stomped.”

“Oh, but you did. So hard your curls used to bounce.” He eased himself onto the sofa, then cocked his head and studied me. “Old, but as beautiful as ever.”

“Oh, come on.”

“What you don’t think you’re beautiful?”

It was my turn to laugh. “No, I don’t think I’m old.”

The phone rang, and I went to answer it, trying to remember if my hair had ever been curly enough to bounce.

When I picked up the receiver there was a moment’s silence, followed by a click. I shrugged and went back to the other room.