Dead in the Water (10 page)

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15

Saturday evening, I was
standing next to McCovey Cove once again at AT&T Park waiting for Justin.

“Where is he?” I wondered, looking at the crowd streaming into ballpark. As a concession to my safety-conscious sister, I took the Giants ferry in from Larkspur Landing. She thought this date was a big mistake. She brought up our conversation with Pamela, Waddell’s sister, and her less than enthusiastic expression when we asked about the guy with the Afro in the swim team photo.

“He’s a bona fide weirdo,” said Lena.

I had a return ticket just in case things didn’t work out.

Dressed in my best SF Giants World Series tee shirt and orange and black ball cap, I waited by the ferry exit, the spot we had agreed upon. No Justin. The crowd began to thin. I could hear the sounds of the national anthem being played.

Am I being stood up? I started to walk back to the Port Walk. At least I could watch the first three innings for free. Then, I didn’t know what I’d do for the next two hours until I could get back on the ferry and go home.

My phone pinged. A text from Lena. “Everything okay?”

“He’s a no show,” I typed back. I checked my messages. Nothing from Justin.

“Jerk—him, not you,” Lena sent back.

I tried calling him. It went right to “You know what to do. Here comes the beep.” I hit redial. Same response. “Justin, where are you? The game is starting,” I said into the phone.

Baseball, in general; this game, in particular, had lost its luster. All that cheering and frenzied excitement were like yesterday’s garlic fries stuck to the floor in the bleachers. What was I expecting? Still looking for the prince charming who liked baseball, to sweep me off my feet and take me to an endless series of games? Guess I won’t be on TV tonight.

I sat down on the bench we had sat on a few days ago, pulled out my 3 x 5 cards and leafed through them absently. Why do I care what happened to these people? They weren’t family. Originally, I felt a kinship because of my own thoughts about death. That was until one of them messed with my car.

I shuffled the cards and looked at the associations once again, who connected with whom. They reminded me of a DNA molecule; there were different ways they fit together. But the results were still the same. One person was dead, another was seriously injured.

I pulled out two blank cards. Someone else connected with each person. That was Justin. I wrote his name on the card, underlined it. On the second card, I wrote the words “my car” and walked back to the entrance to the ferry, sat on a nearby bench with my chin in my hands and waited for the game to be over.

It was near midnight when I walked off the ferry at Larkspur Terminal. I couldn’t get away from that boat fast enough. A Giants win meant a happy crowd. This was a very happy crowd. I heard the low rumble of Dr. T’s Charger before I saw the black car. Terrel had come to pick me up.

“Trish. Over here,” he called.

Inside, the car was meticulously clean. I thought about the dirt on my shoes and what it would do to the passenger’s side rug pad.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Forget him. He’s not worth your time or energy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

We rode in silence for a while.

“I called the medical examiner at Lake Joseph’s hospital to discuss Dick Waddell. They sent the results of his preliminary toxicology screen to the sister.”

“And?”

“They are identical to Jackie Gibson’s. Cocaine, meth. Only Waddell had a much higher drug count in his system. The ME is going to call me with final results from the toxicological screen and the autopsy when they come back.

“Trish, someone is selling dangerous drugs to swimmers in the open water world. This combination—cocaine and meth—it’s lethal.”

I looked out the car window into the black night.

“At first, I wanted to help, I really did. I felt such compassion for Waddell’s family. I tried to make sense of it before, but now I don’t know. If they want to take drugs and drive off cliffs, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“You’ve had a tough couple of days…your car…Justin not showing up.”

Terrel kept his eyes on the road as we headed up Highway 101 toward San Rafael.

“I’m worried about Lena,” he said.

“She doesn’t take drugs. You know that.”

“She could end up a victim.”

“The last thing Lena is, is a victim. She’s tougher than an old rawhide whip.”

“You and people connected to you could be in danger. Someone destroyed your windshield and the side panels of your car. Coming up, I learned a lot about the justice of the streets, revenge and displaced respect. To get you to stop doing whatever you’ve been doing, they may target something or someone else you care about.”

“Lena?”

“Maybe. Anyway, keep an eye on her at the swims.”

“I do that already.”

I looked over at Terrel. “Consider this scenario. According to my very limited research, the victims, Dick and Jackie, were an item. Mike Menton and Jackie were an item. Maybe Mike wanted Dick out of the way. People do crazy things for love.”

“That’s where your theory falls apart. With Dick out of the way, Mike had free access to Jackie. Why would he hurt her?”

“Mike is pretty tightly wound from what I’ve seen. If Jackie goes through men—men swimmers, unless she is into other sports as well—she might have had another guy on the back burner. You know, a main man and a backup…always making sure that there is someone waiting in the wings.”

“You think he’d hurt her because he is about to get dumped? It doesn’t make sense. Anyway, you can talk to Menton and find out about Jackie.”

“I tried that. I called him from work. I chased him down at the Cold Water Clash and he made it clear he didn’t want to talk to me.”

“What about Jackie?”

“She is in no condition to talk to anyone. You know that.”

“She must have friends. Someone on her swim team, maybe. Her coach. Bet they know a lot about her.”

“I’m not sure this will do anything but get me in trouble.”

“Seriously, all you have to do is have a conversation with someone. You’ve got the connections now through work. And the phone numbers. Trish, people are getting hurt. One died, one almost died. I care most about Lena and you, but this could affect anyone who comes in contact with the killer.”

“Killer? A killer?”

“Yes. I think you were right in the first place. None of this is a coincidence.”

T pulled into our driveway. I got out and stood by the car.

“You’re not coming in?”

“No, I have the next shift at the hospital. Lena knows. Consider what we talked about, okay?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Lena had fallen asleep in front of the TV. On the screen was the classic fight between good and evil. In this case, good was a sheriff at a coastal town in New England who was terrified of water. Bad was a really big shark who was dining on the local residents while they played in the water. I watched for a while considering the plight of the reluctant hero facing an angry town who didn’t want their beach shut down over a holiday weekend and a frightening shark with a span of teeth broader than a double wide trailer.

At least he was a sheriff, I thought to myself. He had some idea of what he was doing. Maybe T was right, but who was going to listen to me? I can’t even get a guy to show up for a date.

I tried to call Justin one more time. No response. With that, I picked up a blanket, threw it over my sleeping sister, switched off the television and made my way through the dark house to my bedroom. I sat down on the edge of my bed looking at the shadows outside the window.

Not tonight. Not this time. If I wasn’t able to sleep, I had a place where I needed to go. I picked up my backpack and headed outside to the Checker cab.

It was 2:00 a.m. when I parked around the corner from Richard Waddell’s empty house in Martinez. Except for a few outside porch lights, the neighborhood was dim and hushed. A light blanket of fog rubbed out the stars and shrouded the thin slice of moon.

I walked quickly down the path to Waddell’s backyard, unlatched the gate and slipped in. Once again, I climbed up on a garden chair next to the kitchen window. Luck was with me; the plastic window lock had not been replaced. Pushing the window open, I pulled myself inside the dark kitchen. The small flashlight attached to my key ring threw just enough light to lead me through the house to Waddell’s bedroom.

I stood there quietly, listening. No sounds, except the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears and my unsteady breathing. I was alone. Harsh deep shadows hugged the slim beam of light as it panned around the room. Moving slowly, soundlessly toward the closet, I stopped and held my breath when a skittering ‘thump, thump, thump’ bounced across the roof. The noise stilled, then started again. Probably a squirrel. More important to me, it was an alarm. Don’t screw around. Get what you came for and leave.

Waddell’s closet was deep. His shirts, pants and suits were hung on both sides. I had seen Spencer throw the swim bag back behind the racks of shoes. I knew exactly where it was. Make that, exactly where it should have been. It wasn’t there.

I needed to find the swim bag. I needed to get that small plastic baggie with the empty capsules. The narrow ray of light flitted across the bedroom…nothing…under the bed…nothing. I pulled open the tall chest of drawers and did a quick look…nothing.

I sat down on the bed and looked around. What had I missed? Swim bags aren’t big, but they aren’t small either. If it was here, I should be able to see it.

Someone…probably Spencer, maybe even Pamela, had taken it.

I glanced at the night table by the bedside. The small drawer of the night stand opened easily. Not much there. Two pens, a crossword puzzle book, an old address book, condoms, and a point and shoot digital camera. I slipped the address book and camera into my pocket and headed back for the kitchen. I shimmied through the window to the backyard. Stopped and listened. No sounds at all except the shooop, shooop of the sprinklers in the yard. I silently lifted the latch and headed up the sidewalk to the Checker.

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16

I followed Terrel’s suggestion
and called Jackie’s coach under the pretext of writing something about her for the upcoming swimming newsletter. The coach told me to show up after morning practice to meet Theresa Renoit, one of Jackie’s lanemates. So now I was standing in the parking lot outside a swimming pool in Pacifica at 7:30 a.m. on a Tuesday and I was cold. Heavy mist hung like a damp curtain from the saturated grey sky.

When the swimmers started to roll out the door, dressed for work, carrying swim bags and soggy towels, I asked one man in a three-piece suit to point out Theresa.

“Here she comes,” he said nodding toward a tall lanky woman, about 5’10”, clutching a knee length blue warm-up parka with one hand and pulling a swim bag on wheels with the other.

“Hey, Theresa. I’m Trisha Carson from the Nor Cal Swim office. Your coach said you might be able to help me.”

Theresa said a few words to the women she was walking with and came over. She had a quick smile and bright blue eyes. Her straight brown hair brushed her chin. She smelled of chlorine and jasmine shampoo.

“Yeah, Coach mentioned that you might be here this morning. What’s up?”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, maybe something to eat while we talk?”

“Food? You have my undivided attention. During the last half hour of workout, my stomach was growling. All I could think about was food.”

We sat in comfortable easy chairs next to a fireplace at the coffee shop. The warm rich aroma of coffee filled the air. Soft jazz could be heard underneath the low early morning conversations going on around us. I picked up my café mocha and the cup warmed my hands. It might be summer everywhere else in the Bay Area, but this morning it was still middle of winter in Pacifica.

“So what is this all about?” Theresa asked.

“Jackie Gibson.”

“Unbelievable accident. Our team sent her flowers and we’re filling out a card for her. She came so close to dying.”

“The office was thinking of featuring her in the newsletter. It was suggested that I talk to you.”

“Perfect. Well, she’s been on the team for about six years. Good swimmer, good lanemate.” Theresa stopped.

“I need a bit more information.”

“She does the open water swim circuit. She doesn’t compete much in pool meets.”

“Yeah?” I nodded, encouraging her to keep going.

“Not for publication—but she’s not the best swimmer in the world. Well, her swimming isn’t that bad. But she doesn’t work at it very much. Spends her time talking a lot before she gets in the water. Cuts the workout short. Doesn’t show up that much to get better, if you know what I mean. You gotta put time in the water to improve.”

“Wouldn’t think of publishing any of this. I saw her at the Cold Water Clash. She is very pretty.”

“That’s part of her problem. She’s a major flirt and the guys fall all over her. Not the best atmosphere sometimes, but the coach keeps it under control during practice. Most of the time, our heads are in the water.”

“Just curious…did Jackie have a particular boyfriend? Or were they all her boyfriends?”

“She was a pro at handling men. Somehow, they all thought she was interested in each and everyone of them. The rest of the women on the team would watch in amazement. Sometimes we’d tease her about it in the locker room, but she never said much.”

“Was there a current guy she was seeing?”

“She spent a lot of time with Dick Waddell. You know, the swimmer from Texas who just died at the open water swim a few weeks ago?”

I nodded.

“She liked him. Really liked him or that’s how it looked. But you never know with her. She also talked about Mike Menton. But it was different somehow. I once overheard a cell phone conversation with Mike. She kept saying ‘no’ to whatever he was asking. He seemed pretty pushy. She eventually agreed to do whatever he wanted. That came as a surprise to me.”

“Why?”

“Normally, nobody could force Jackie into doing anything she didn’t want to do.”

“Mike, Dick…the lady had her hands full. Was there anyone else?”

“Always—there was always someone else. She mentioned that she was having dinner with someone after the Clash but was thinking of cancelling it.”

“Do you know who that was?”

“No. She didn’t say. But it sounded like another swimmer or someone involved with the open water scene. Hey, I have to go pick up my kids and get them to daycare. My husband is probably wondering where I am so he can go to work.”

“Just one more question. Was Jackie taking any medications, drugs, vitamins, that kind of thing?”

“I wouldn’t know. Why would you need information like that for your story?”

“I don’t. Not really.”

I thanked Theresa and watched her go out the door into the drippy fog. I pulled out my cards, reached for a clean one and wrote a bunch of question marks on it. Underneath that I wrote “Jackie’s newest.”