Death of a Crabby Cook (15 page)

The deaf man spun around and looked at me aghast, as if offended that I had interrupted him while he was about to pepper my aunt.

“What the hell!” the man said, sticking his fingers in his ears and wiggling them around. “You're going to make us deaf with all that screaming!”

“Dillon?!” I said, recognizing his voice and finally seeing through all the theatrical makeup, fake mustache, and maintenance man getup. “What are you
doing
?”

“I'm talking to my mom, Darcy. What does it look like I'm doing? Why did you scream like that?”

“You scared the crap out of me! I thought you were the murderer, getting ready to attack her with a can of pepper like you—like he did Boris. Why are you holding it like that?”

“We were just trying to figure out what happened—”

Before he could finish his explanation, the doors to the School Bus burst open. Jake bounded in, his eyes wide. He was holding a rolling pin and he looked like he meant to use it, but not for rolling out dough.

“What's going on?” he said, ready to rumble. After a second he seemed to realize no one was about to get murdered and he lowered the floured weapon. “Darcy?
Abby? Are you all right?” He eyed the costumed Dillon.

“We're fine, Jake,” Aunt Abby said. “It was all a big misunderstanding. Darcy thought this nice maintenance man was going to hurt me and she overreacted, didn't you dear?” Aunt Abby shot me a look that said
“Back me up, here.”
Obviously she was trying to keep Dillon's identity a secret.

“Uh . . .” was all I could manage. I glanced at Jake.

He was staring at the intruder, his eyes narrow. “Dillon? What are you doing in that ridiculous costume? Your Inspector Clouseau act isn't helping things.”

“Shhh!”
Aunt Abby whispered, moving protectively next to her son. “He's undercover. The cops and the feds are after him, remember?”

“How did you know it was me?” Dillon asked Jake, seeming more concerned about being recognized by Jake than about being pursued by law enforcement.

I glanced down at Dillon's shoes, a dead giveaway the last time he tried to “go undercover.” But this time he wore a pair of tattered athletic shoes. I wondered where he'd gotten them. Goodwill?

“Well, first of all, your hands and fingernails,” Jake said. “They're too soft and clean to belong to someone who deals with the dirt around here. Although the disguise is a pretty clever way to gather some dirt, I suppose.”

Dillon held up his hands and checked his nails. Jake was right. Those were the hands of a computer guy, not a maintenance guy. How could I have missed recognizing my own cousin? And how come Jake recognized him so quickly?

“I think it's a brilliant disguise, son,” Aunt Abby said, beaming up at Dillon with parental admiration. “And so far the cops haven't made you.”

Made
him? Who was this woman I called my aunt Abby?

“How long have you been around here?” I asked Dillon, still nonplussed at his appearance.

He shrugged noncommittally and glanced at the back of the bus. I followed his look and spotted an open cupboard. Inside, next to a bunch of cooking supplies, was a rolled-up sleeping bag.

“You
slept
here last night?” I asked, stunned that Dillon would actually hide out in his mother's food bus with the police looking for him. Then again, maybe such an obvious place was easy to overlook, just like a maintenance man was easy to overlook in a food truck lot.

Aunt Abby gave Dillon's arm a motherly pat. “I found him this morning, lying there on the cold, hard floor, poor thing. You don't know how relieved I was.”

“Dillon!” I cried. “The police are going to think you're guilty because you're hiding out!” I turned to Jake. “Isn't that right, Jake?”

He didn't answer.

“Jake?” I said, irritated at his lack of focus on such a serious development.

“What?” Jake said.

“Never mind!” I snapped. I turned back to Dillon. “So, Clouseau, did you learn anything playing maintenance man?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Beneath all that dark makeup, Dillon still managed to look smug. “You know those vegans?”

“Vandy and Sierra?” I said. “Yeah, what about them?”

“You know how they didn't get along with Boris and kept putting up those ‘no meat' signs?”

“You think their vegan beliefs are strong enough to make them murder a meat lover?” I asked. “Seems a stretch.”

“Not when you hear what I found out about them,” Dillon said, trying to sound mysterious. He helped himself to one of his mother's caramel brownies.

“Well? Tell us!” I said, exasperated.

“They're fanimals.”

“Huh?” I was too confused to say anything.

Jake asked, “What's a fanimal?”

“It's this bizarre subculture where people dress up and act like animals. There are all these conventions and Internet sites and stuff for people who really,
really
like animals.”

“So, Sierra and Vandy love animals and like to dress up.” I looked Dillon over. “Sort of like you in your various costumes. But that doesn't make them potential killers.”

“Let me finish!” Dillon said, rolling his eyes. “Gosh!”

“Go on, Dillon,” Aunt Abby said, after shooting a daggered look at me.

“Well, fanimals started at a sci-fi convention about ten years ago, when fans started dressing up as animal characters, like Wookies and Ewoks, and it took off. There are all these Internet sites like Animorphs and FanimalCity and FurNation you can join where you can chat with other fanimals. There's a bunch of pictures of them wearing everything from ears and tails and paws to full-on fur suits, like bears and raccoons and foxes, with heads and everything.”

“So basically it's Halloween whenever they feel like it,” I said.

“Well, to each his own,” Jake said, shrugging. “It may be embarrassing for them if word gets out, but it's hardly a motive for murder.”

“No,” Dillon said, “but it got me curious about Boris. Did he have something on his computer that would be a problem for them?” He paused.

“Well, did he?” I asked.

“I found some pictures of Vandy,” Dillon said.

“Sex pictures?” Aunt Abby said, raising her eyebrows.

Dillon shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“There were pictures of her . . . alone . . . at a restaurant . . . eating a big, juicy hamburger,” Dillon answered.

“You're kidding!” I said. So vegan Vandy was cheating on vegan Sierra with a carnivorous hamburger. If Sierra found out, it would probably ruin their relationship.

But was that motive enough for murder?

•   •   •

As I watched Jake walk back to his truck something caught my eye.

The door to Boris's truck opened. I expected Cherry to step out but was surprised to see a man exit. A man wearing cowboy boots.

Tripp Saunders.

I peered through the window, watching until I saw him walk behind Boris's truck and disappear.

I grabbed my purse. “I've got to go. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?” Aunt Abby cried, her eyes wide.

“Dude, you're leaving?” Dillon said. “Aren't you going to ask those vegans some questions or anything?”

“Later,” I said, and fled the bus for my car. Today it was parked in the lot beyond the circle of food trucks. I jammed the key in the lock, opened the door, slid in, and started the engine.

Tripp's Meat Wagon was easy to spot, thanks to the ginormous sign and bright red paint job. I pulled up to the lot exit and waited for the truck to pass me on the street, keeping my head down to avoid being spotted. Traffic was heavy along the marina, as usual, but that made it simpler to tail the truck, since Tripp couldn't go any faster than the rest of the other cars on the road. I followed him as he zigzagged through the city, keeping my distance and allowing a couple of cars in between us.

I followed him for fifteen minutes, until he turned south near the freeway, into the warehouse district of Potrero Hill. I pulled over and parked on the street several yards away, being careful not to appear obvious. Slinking down in the seat, I watched as Tripp got out of the meat truck, locked it, and headed toward an old warehouse that had seen better days. The faded sign painted on the outside read
WHOLESALE MEATS
.

Several of the windows were boarded up with wood panels. The rest were embedded with chicken wire. Some were cracked; all were filthy and opaque. Tripp unlocked the door, glanced around, then spat out the toothpick he'd been gnawing on. He pulled open the double doors and slipped inside, closing them behind him.

I got out of the car, ignoring the fact that I was in a twenty-minute loading zone, and headed for the warehouse, rehearsing what I'd say if Tripp caught me. He
might recognize me from Aunt Abby's bus, so I couldn't use the “Gee, I'm lost, can you help me?” ruse. I had to come up with something better if I found myself face-to-face with this possible murderer.

Then again, I could just call the police and let them figure out what was going on behind those locked double doors. And what would I say?
“Hi, Detective Shelton. I followed the Meat Wagon guy to a warehouse near Potrero Hill and I think something bad is going on inside.”

Yeah, that would bring him running.

I had to see for myself what was going on inside first before I called the cops and made a complete fool of myself. Plus, if I blew this—and Tripp
was
guilty—I might ruin the only chance I'd have of finding out the truth.

By the time I reached the double doors, I had the only plan that I knew would be foolproof: don't get caught.

I tiptoed up to one of the windows that wasn't boarded over and tried to scratch off the grime that had collected over who knew how many years, but I only managed to blacken my hand and fingernails. The wire-paned windows seemed to have just as much grit on the inside as on the outside. When I looked closely, I realized it wasn't dirt that blocked my view, but gray paint. The windows had been painted over on the inside to keep snoops like me from peeking in.

There were scratches and holes here and there, but nothing large enough to allow me to see inside. I made my way along the row of panes, searching for a chip in the paint that would give me a glimpse into the warehouse. After trying all the windows on the left side of the double doors, I moved to the right side and searched again. About half a dozen panes down, I found a small
hole in the paint about the size of a nickel. I pressed my eye to the dirty pane and strained to see inside.

The warehouse was brightly lit, something I couldn't tell from the outside, thanks to the blocked views. There were no hanging animal carcasses, no signs of refrigerators, no butcher table, nothing to indicate a meat-processing plant. Instead, in the middle of the mostly empty room were several large tables filled with electronic equipment—mostly computers and printers. I also spotted what looked like a thermal laminator—we had a couple at the newspaper office—along with a few digital cameras, paper cutters, and stacks of paper.

Tripp Saunders was perched on a stool, bent over some loose papers, peering at them closely with something like a jeweler's loupe.

What was the meat delivery guy up to?

My phone played “It's a Small World.” Aunt Abby!

Dammit! I'd forgotten to turn off the ringer!

I
had
to change that ringtone.

I peered into the peephole to see if Tripp had heard the ring, hoping the walls were too thick for the song to catch his attention.

He was staring in my direction. Frowning.

Crap! I had to get out of there—fast, before he caught me. He must have recognized the tune—the same tune he'd heard the night Boris died. Not good.

Starting to panic, I ran around the side of the building. The weedy area was cluttered with old machine parts, broken-down signage, rotting two-by-fours, and probably lots and lots of rats. I tried to step over any loose boards and watch for upended nails, but in my hurry, I scratched my arm on a sharp piece of metal sticking out of what looked like a discarded mattress. Apparently I had escaped into a local dumping ground for everything from broken tools to disused furniture.

I ducked under an old door with the paint peeling off in large flakes. No doubt lead paint, with my luck. If I didn't get tetanus, I'd surely come down with brain damage in a few years. Curling myself into a human ball, I
slowed my breathing and prayed Tripp wouldn't find me in this garbage heap.

In the distance, I heard the double doors slam open against the metal walls.

“Who's out there?” Tripp yelled loud enough that I could hear him and so could anyone else within half a block. “I know you're here! I heard your phone.”

I held my breath.

Silence.

Seconds later I heard footsteps crunching over gravel. The crunching grew louder as Tripp rounded the corner; then it stopped abruptly.

What was he doing? No doubt scanning the area, looking for any sign of the Peeping Tom with the Disneyland cell phone ring. Or readying his weapon of choice. Or alerting his minions for backup.

Which reminded me. I
still
hadn't turned off my phone. Aunt Abby was sure to call again. Slowly I snaked my hand into my pocket and flipped the tiny switch with my thumbnail to silence the ringer. I only hoped my aunt hadn't called earlier because she was in some kind of trouble.

The crunching started up again. And grew closer. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I felt a trickle down my back. Tripp was nearing my hiding place. A few more steps and I'd surely be discovered. My heart beat so loud I was sure he could hear it.

A loud thud, only a few feet away.

Then another. Even closer.

I knew exactly what Tripp was doing—searching through the refuse, piece by piece. It would be a matter of seconds before he came upon the discarded door that hid me. As soon as he heaved it over, I'd be caught.

I was trapped like a rat in a—

An ear-piercing scream filled the air, followed by a long string of swearwords.

“Get away from me, you filthy rats!” Tripp yelled. Only he didn't say “filthy.”

I heard him throw down whatever heavy piece of trash he'd been holding and take several steps back, cursing as he retreated. With a last f-bomb, I heard him scramble back around the corner. You'd have thought he was being chased by giant rats.

I peeked out from behind my hiding spot. No sign of Tripp.

I stayed scrunched down for a few minutes, waiting to hear the comforting sound of the warehouse doors closing again before making a dash for my car.

Seconds later a rat the size of Godzilla ran across my foot.

I gave a silent scream, cupped my mouth, and was out of that garbage heap, down the street, and back in my car faster than an Olympic runner on steroids.

•   •   •

After my breathing returned to near normal, I tried calling Aunt Abby as I headed back to Fort Mason. No answer. That couldn't be good. I left a message that I'd called and would be back at the School Bus soon. I hoped Dillon was still with her, and that the cops—or whoever—hadn't caught up with him. I needed to talk to him. He might be able to figure out what was going on with Tripp and all that computer equipment in that warehouse.

I smelled like crap, but there was no time for a shower. I'd wash up in the sink, put on a fresh apron, and hope
the cooking smells covered any unpleasant odors. When I arrived, I parked the car in the lot adjacent to the food trucks again and headed directly for Aunt Abby's Big Yellow School Bus. At four o'clock, the serving day was pretty much over for her comfort food, but the lights were still on in her bus—a good sign, I hoped. I bounded inside and was relieved to see her and Dillon still aboard. Dillon, not surprisingly, had changed into yet another disguise. This time he wore a pair of white overalls and a white cap. The words sewn onto the front of the uniform read “San Francisco Health Department.”

Where did he get these outfits?

“You're kidding me,” were the first words out of my mouth. “Health inspector? Why not Inspector Gadget?”

“Who?” Dillon said.

“I think it's brilliant,” Aunt Abby commented. “He blends right in. No one will recognize him dressed like a health inspector.”

I shook my head, then felt a burning on my arm. I held it up to check the spot where I'd scratched it earlier. It was in nearly the same spot as the wound I'd collected when I'd fallen, but on the other arm.

“What happened to you?” Aunt Abby asked, her eyebrows raised to an alarming height. “And your hair? It looks like a rat's nest. What have you been doing?” She reached into a cupboard for the first aid kit and pulled it down, then went to work on my scratch.

Did she have to say “rat's nest”?

“It's nothing. Could have been worse,” I said, reminded of the rats. Black plague. Hantavirus. Ugly teeth marks. Not to mention nearly being caught by Tripp Saunders. Who knew what he would have done if he'd
found me. “But I did find out where Tripp works. It's no meatpacking plant—that's for sure.”

“How did you find him?” Dillon asked. “I tried to find his business online but came up empty.”

“That's because his business is bogus. I followed him.” I winced as Aunt Abby dabbed alcohol on my wound.

“Sweet. What'd you find out?” Dillon asked

I described the equipment I'd seen through the hole in the covered window.

“Anything else?” Dillon asked.

“A bunch of papers,” I said.

“What kind of papers?”

“I don't know. White. Some were cut into the size of business cards. There were a few photographs of people—head shots. Small. Oh, and something that looked like squares of sandpaper.

Dillon nodded. “He's making fake IDs.”

“What?” I said.

“Fake IDs.”

“You mean, like, so underage kids can buy beer?” I asked.

Dillon shook his head. “I doubt it. He's probably making them for illegals and selling them for megabucks.”

“Seriously?”

“Sounds like it, from what you described,” Dillon said. “Fake IDs are big business these days. Against the law, of course, but there's a huge demand for all kinds of fake documents, especially for illegal aliens. And they're pretty easy to make.”

“You know how to make fake IDs?” I asked as Aunt Abby placed a large Band-Aid over the scratch on my arm. She would have been a great nurse.

He shrugged. “You don't need to be a genius or anything. The easy way is to just scan an ID into your computer, open it in Photoshop, insert a photo, change the text fields—name, birth date, hair, eye color, stuff like that—then print it on heavy cardstock, cut it out, and laminate it.”

“That's the easy way?” I asked, realizing I could never enter the fake ID business if my life depended on it.

“Yeah, but from what you described, it sounds more like Tripp is using professional equipment. The initial setup costs a bunch, but the results look totally real, and the payoff can be huge.”

“What's the professional method?” Aunt Abby asked. I wondered if she was thinking of starting up a side business.

“Same as the easy way, but you also need Teslin paper, butterfly pouches, a laminator, and a magnetic strip encoder, just to get started. You have to find a template for your state on Internet sites like Peer-2-Peer file sharing or BitTorrent. Then use Photoshop to change the text fields—that's standard. Scan in the photo and signature image files. If you have a passport photo, that works best. Change the background and color variance, then add a PDF417 bar code. You can find those online too. Last, you'll need to encode a magnetic stripe so it's scannable. They aren't cheap, but there are discount suppliers online if you know where to look. Then just print everything on synthetic microperforated paper with an inkjet printer, laminate it in the butterfly pouch, add a hologram, and you have a whole new life.” Dillon grinned, proud of his questionable knowledge.

I was sorry we'd asked.

“Who
are
you?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Where do you get a hologram?” Aunt Abby asked.

“Like everything else—online,” Dillon said matter-of-factly.

Ha. I wondered if Amazon carried them. They sold everything.

“A generic one is fine,” he continued. “Most people don't bother looking at it. But if you really want it to look pro, you use the shield-and-key hologram—it's a transparent rainbow, and pretty much impossible to tell that it's fake.”

“And this really works?” I asked, finding it hard to believe that making fake IDs could ever be a simple task for someone like me.

“If you know what you're doing. There are tricks, like sanding the edges a little to make the card look worn.”

Hence the sandpaper I'd spotted on one of the tables.

“Dillon,” Aunt Abby, said, “you haven't made any of these fake IDs, have you?”

“No way. It's totally illegal,” Dillon said.

As if that had stopped him from hacking into computers.

“But I know a few people who do, and they're making hella cash,” Dillon continued. “They sell them through a bunch of different outlets. I'll bet Tripp sold his through places like Boris's food truck. It would be pretty easy to buy, say, lunch, then pay a little extra for it and get a fake ID along with it.”

Hmm. Could be the connection to Boris's death we'd been looking for. “How much do people pay for fake IDs?” I asked.

“Anywhere from a hundred to a grand, depending on what kind and how many.”

A grand! “Can these friends of yours make any kind of ID you want?” Aunt Abby asked.

“Yep. Driver's licenses, green cards, social security cards, credit cards, library cards, just for starters. There was this big ring in New York last year that was finally busted. They were making around two mil a year. People ordered the IDs in the morning and had them by afternoon. They were distributed by pawn shops, street food carts, knockoff jewelry shops, places like that. I'm telling you, identity theft has become big business.”

“So really, Dillon, how do you know all this stuff?” I asked. “Who are these ‘friends' of yours?”

Dillon shrugged.

“Darcy, he knows all of this because he's supersmart,” Aunt Abby answered for him.

He's more like a savant,
I thought. I'd read about Asperger's syndrome when I'd first met Dillon years ago. He had so many of the characteristics—lacking social skills, fixated on routine, avoiding eye contact, preoccupied with computers, talks a lot about his favorite subject, prefers the quiet of his bedroom. But no one had ever approached Aunt Abby about his possible disorder. To her he was simply “supersmart.”

“So if Tripp is making and selling these fake IDs, and using places like Boris's truck to distribute them, why would he kill Boris?” I asked.

“I dunno. Maybe Boris didn't want to do it anymore,” Dillon said. “Didn't you say you overheard him say something like he was finished with whatever? Maybe
he threatened to rat on Tripp and Tripp killed him to shut him up.”

I thought about Cherry Washington. “How does Cherry fit into all of this?”

“You said you saw her with Tripp,” Dillon said.

I nodded. “And she seems quite eager to take over Boris's business. But again, there's no connection to Oliver Jameson's death.”

“Maybe Oliver was selling IDs for Tripp too,” Aunt Abby suggested, packing up the first aid supplies.

I turned to her. “You think Oliver might have been involved in this? But why?”

“You said his business was dying,” Aunt Abby suggested. “Maybe he needed the money.”

“And you think Tripp is going around killing all his middlemen?” I said. “Seems unlikely.”

“Maybe I can do some digging on Cherry Washington—see if there's a connection to Jameson we might have missed,” Dillon offered.

I nodded. “While you're at it, see what you can find out about Tripp Saunders. Is your laptop here?”

Dillon nodded.

“Okay, tomorrow I'll go back to Bones 'n' Brew and see if I can find out anything more about Oliver from his sister—what's-her-name.” I said. “Maybe if I ask the right questions, she can provide some kind of link between these two chefs and/or Tripp. As soon as we get cleaned up here, I'm heading home to take a long hot shower and get the smell of rat poop off me. If I never see another rat in my lifetime, it'll be too soon. And that includes your rat, Dillon.”

Dillon shot me a look. I made a face at him.

I spent the next half hour helping Abby and Dillon clean up, so we'd be ready for the next day's customers.

“You smell!” Aunt Abby said. “Go on home and take a shower. Dillon and I will finish the rest.”

I took off my soiled apron and dropped it in the laundry bag. “Okay, See you at home,” I said as I headed down the School Bus steps.

“I'll be right behind you, dear,” Aunt Abby called to me.

“Lock up tight,” I called back to my aunt and Dillon. “Tripp may have figured out it was me snooping around his warehouse, so we need to be extra-careful.”