Sand Dollars (9 page)

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Authors: Charles Knief

BOOK: Sand Dollars
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“Just a little. Enough.”
“Where did she get the gun?”
“It was Paul's. He kept it in his room. She put it back after. I checked.”
Brave. Determined. Neat, too. The perfect housekeeper. “You are in no danger with Juanita around.”
“Yes. I know,” said Claire.
“Of course”—I glanced at the shotgun, where it leaned against the wall—“you seem to be able to take care of yourself, too.”
“I'm fairly well protected in the event of a skeet invasion.”
“I can't be a bodyguard and investigate your husband's disappearance, too.”
“Maybe you can hire some help. How much would that cost?”
“I'll make some calls tomorrow, look around. I'll come up with somebody.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Have Juanita make up one of the spare bedrooms. I'm ready to turn in.”
The storm continued through the night and hung on with the rising of the dawn. I spent a warm, comfortable night burrowed under borrowed down, sleeping the sleep of the blessed. Not even dreams disturbed my peace. When I woke, the light coming through the windows was murky gray, an analogue to the sound of the rain hitting the roof and dripping from the eaves. I rolled out of bed, surprised how cold it was in San Diego.
I showered and dressed in the husband's clothes, conscious of what the widow Peters might be trying to do, yet willing to accept the gifts. When I went downstairs, Juanita had breakfast waiting, a plate of sausage and scrambled eggs mixed with a fiery red sauce that looked homemade.
“Good morning!” she said. Some people's cheerfulness in the morning was forced. Juanita's was genuine. Like many people who had lived on the edge, she seemed to take each day of life as a gift.
“Good morning, Juanita. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, jess. Mees Claire is still asleep. She sleep late most mornings now. Not like before.”
I assumed that meant before her husband's death.
“Does she go into the office?”
“No. Not now. There is not much to do these days, I hear.”
“Who runs the company?”
“Guy named Adrian. I don't know his last name. He's there every day. He's a young guy. But things are pretty slow. Joo want juice?”
“No, thank you. Can you ask Mrs. Peters to give him a call this morning? I want to go to the office and look around. I couldn't yesterday.”
“The audit?”
“That's what they told me.” Of course Juanita would know. She operated in the center of the Peters household universe and everything was discussed in front of her as if she wasn't there.
“It's over. I hear Mees Claire talking last night on the telephone. Just before the prowler. There's plenty trouble, no?”
“Sounds like it,” I said.
“Qué lástima
,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Mees Claire doesn't need any more trouble. She is a good person.” Juanita looked at me, as if I had answers. I didn't have any. I didn't even know the questions. When I didn't respond, she continued. “Okay, I'll tell her. Where will joo be?”
“Out,” I said, instantly regretting the abruptness of my reply, knowing it came from my impotence. My plans were simple. I would go back to the hotel and call Sergeant Esparza. “Why don't I go out there now if the audit is over. That way they can call you and get permission while I'm there.”
“Okay. Mees Claire will be awake by then.”
I ate the rest of my breakfast in silence. Juanita busied herself with laundry and other chores. When I finished, I took my dishes to the sink, rinsed them, and put them into the dishwasher. Juanita came in carrying my clothes. They were folded into a neat, compact stack a marine drill instructor would applaud.
“Here are your clothes, and here is a jacket belonged to Meester Peters. It might fit joo, jess?” It was a brown-suede jacket with Thinsulate lining. I tried it on. Although extra large, it fit a little tight in the shoulders, but well enough, and it would keep off the rain and the chill.
“Gracias,
Juanita.”
“
De nada,”
she said, automatically answering in Spanish. Then she giggled. “Oh, joo speak e-Spanish very good!”
“I speak the accent Without a trace of the language,” I said.
She screwed up her little face and burst out laughing. “Joo are a funny man, Meester Caine. Joo make me laugh.”
“And you are a good woman, Juanita. Keep Mrs. Peters safe, and call me if anything happens.”
“And I'll let Mees Claire know they will call from the office.”
“Thank you very much.”
I changed back into my own slacks before I went out to the car, the husband's high-water pants uncomfortable in both their appearance and their symbolism.
The Range Rover was where I parked it the night before but there was something different about it. Sometime during the night someone had run a sharp edge down both sides of the body and had written something on the hood. I stared at the highly stylized markings, recognizing them as similar to gang graffiti, trying to decipher them until they made sense. The writing was in Spanish.
“Mate lo,”
I said aloud, reading the tortured characters. “Kill it.” It also meant “Kill him.”
I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the body, then opened the hood and searched the engine compartment. I checked the wiring for the ignition, following it from the key switch through the fire wall into the electrical system. The battery wires betrayed nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing was out of place. Unless someone was world class, there was no bomb on the Range Rover.
But I still felt the adrenaline flow and my butt pucker involuntarily when I turned the key and the engine kicked over.
So our visitor hadn't gone. He was still around after I arrived. And he was bragging about it. There was ego involved.
I smiled. That was something I could use.
On the way out to Petersoft, Ltd., I tried Sergeant Esparza. He was in.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Unless something strange comes up today.” I could hear men laughing in the background, an explosive male baritone of testosterone and camaraderie. Someone slapped a desk with the palm of a hand. It didn't sound angry. “'Course, strange things come up every day around here.” There was another round of laughter in the background, Esparza playing the room.
“Do you know any ex-cops who are available to work bodyguard? I need a couple of men. Experienced guys.”
“You want someone who's worked bodyguard. Not just some retired stiff off patrol.”
“That's what I need.”
“Sure. You got a pen?”
I fished around, found a Mont Blanc in the inside pocket of Peters's jacket, Jack Kinsman's business card in my wallet. “Okay,” I said. “Name and number?”
“Ed Thomas. He's a retired detective sergeant. Used to work SWAT, too. Has his own license and I know he takes bodyguard jobs. He can get a couple of guys, too. They all carry. They're all ex-cops. Thomas is picky about who hires on with him, so you'll get a good team. Tell him Greg Esparza gave you his name.” He gave me the phone numbers for Thomas, both cellular and office.
“I'll tell him,” I said. “And I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Meet us at eight-thirty. They have very strict laws in Mexico, so don't bring your roscoe.”
“My what?”
“Your gun.”
“I don't carry a gun.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Just don't bring it.”
I thanked him again and phoned Thomas. He was in his office and agreed to meet me at the marina for lunch. I told him how to recognize me. He told me he'd find me by asking the hostess.
Smart man.
Petersoft, Ltd., occupied a three-story concrete building along Torrey Pines Road between the UCSD campus and the Salk Institute. The building didn't look as if it had been constructed from the ground up. It appeared to have landed after a voyage through deep space. The windows looked strange, long thin vertical lines with no apparent conscious spacing, their meaning obscure until I recognized the pattern: bar code, spelling out some formula or name or something in light and space and concrete. The asphalt parking lot, as big as a football stadium and hidden from Torrey Pines Road by landscaped berms, was nearly empty.
I parked the Range Rover in a spot near the entry. The front door was locked. I peered through the glass. The first floor was as deserted as the parking lot. A hand-lettered sign instructed visitors to go around the back.
Rain was still falling hard, but I walked along the pathway next to the building. Thick landscaping covered the grounds and the trees offered some meager protection, but by the time I made the rear of the building, the rain had soaked my head and shoulders, and I began to wonder if Peters had left a hat around, too.
An open door and metal stairs were my reward. I followed the stairs to the second level, opened the fire door, and found people.
A pretty blonde in her early twenties wearing 501's and a bulky white pullover sat hunched over a workstation near the door. She ignored me and continued peering at the screen in a nearsighted way that made me wonder why she didn't wear glasses.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where I can find Adrian?”
“He's in the lab,” she said, not looking away from her task. She pointed toward the other end of the building. It was a crooked point, but I followed her finger and found a glass enclosure in one of the corners.
“Thanks,” I said.
There was no reply.
I made my way through a half-abandoned landscape of workstations and empty cubicles. Wastebaskets overflowed and trash littered the floor as if people had moved out in a hurry, and the ones who remained didn't give a damn about the mess. It reminded me of the old proverb: something like “Why worry about your haircut when you're about to lose your head.”
Two people occupied the lab, looking at some papers laid out on a desk. Both were young. Both male.
“Excuse me,” I said again. “Is there an Adrian here?”
“That's me.” One of the men focused his attention on me. He was tall, nearly my height, with high cheekbones and clear gray eyes. He wore his blond hair longish, swept over the back of his head like a lion's mane. When he looked at me, there was little interest.
“I'm John Caine.”
“Claire called. She said to give you whatever you needed. What do you need?”
“I don't know,” I said. “But I'd like to see Mr. Peters's desk.”
“His office is upstairs. I'll take you.” He spoke quietly to the other young man, who nodded and folded the papers they had been scanning and went out the door.
“Come on,” Adrian said to me. “We'll take the stairs. The elevator's out.”
I followed him up the fire stairs to the third floor. In the corner of the building, with windows facing both the Pacific and the groves of eucalyptus trees lining Torrey Pines Road, was an all-glass enclosure. Even the door was glass. Adrian unlocked the door and stepped aside.
“I'll be downstairs. You need anything, come get me.” His hostility covered him like a blanket.
Not knowing what I'm looking for is standard for me, but
I know what I want after I've found it. There was nothing here but more questions.
I sat in Paul Peters's leather chair, my feet on his desk, and gazed through the glass wall at the empty executive floor. He had been king of all he surveyed. His domain, now crashed and burned, was another victim of the accident. Or whatever it was.
Were I Paul Peters, with a beautiful and loving wife and a successful company, a life I had carved from nothing at all with my own two hands and intelligence, why would I want to leave all this? Why would I subject my friends and employees and family to the stress of dealing with the mess I left behind? Ego had to be involved. What would make a man abandon all this, including this monument to his ego?
What had Claire said about another woman? A year ago, last December, Paul Peters had attended a seminar in real estate investment. In Palm Desert. There would be records. There would be expenses. He would have been given a notebook, a syllabus, handouts. There would be hotel bills, airplane tickets, expense-account vouchers, possibly a list of attendees. Of course the company would have paid for it. Why have your own company if you don't use it?
In the third drawer of his credenza I found a collection of leather desk-model Day-Timer notebooks. In the book for the previous year, in the month of December, I found a notation about the seminar. December twelfth through the sixteenth. Desert Hot Springs Resort. Room 1651. There were four telephone numbers scratched on the page under the notation. I took out my notebook, which today was Jack Kinsman's business card, and copied the numbers.
That was the solitary clue. There were no Polaroid photographs of a young vixen wearing only a lewd smile, no hidden notebooks, no agendas of trysts. I spent an hour making certain there were no more leads before I gave up. It was almost time to meet Ed Thomas.
I went downstairs and found Adrian drinking coffee, leaning against the top of a partition, talking quietly with the same young man who had been in the lab.
“I'm through,” I said.
“Okay. You lock it up?”
“I didn't have the key.”
“Okay. I'll do it.” He made it sound as if I'd put him out.
“Did Paul Peters carry a personal Day-Timer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Not.”
“Would he have kept it here?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you find out who gave the real estate investment seminar in Palm Desert that Mr. Peters went to in December of last year? And can you get me a copy of his expense account? All receipts?”
“Sure. When do you want it?”
“Friday okay?”
“I can do that.”
“Can you get me a list of people who attended?”
“I can try.”
“How many people went through his office since he, uh, died?”
“You. Me. Mrs. Peters. Mr. Stevenson. And those guys from the government yesterday.”
“The audit?”
He nodded. “They tore the place apart. They asked me the same questions, except for that investment seminar stuff. They wanted everything.”
“IRS?”
“I don't know. Just the government.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Sure.”
“I'll call you if I think of anything else.”
“Okay.”
Feeling like a blabbermouth, I fled down the stairs and braved the elements back to the Range Rover. I had the glimmering of an idea, but I wasn't sure where it would go.
Just like all my other ones.

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