Bay of Deception Read online

  Oliver felt his gut turn hollow and in a practiced defense, downed the last of his now tepid coffee.

  "I thought Richardson said you’d had a good meeting with them,” Oliver said, putting the cup down. “Seems like they didn’t have anything new to tell us.”

  “They did," Collinson replied, sipping his water. "Just not in the way we expected. Turns out Carol had a real bad experience over at JenelCo and went from star employee to a total wreck in less than a month, wound up seeing a therapist over it according to her father.”

  “Did you get the name of the therapist?”

  “No,” Collinson shook his head. “Carol mentioned it only once and they were too embarrassed to ask."

  Oliver thought about this and nodded.

  “I heard the same from Carol’s boss, though with a different take on the counseling aspect. A friend of mine is trying to find out who was seeing her.”

  “Anything more about her work place, about Mrs. McKenny or where she might have gone?” Collinson asked.

  “Nothing significant." Oliver hesitated before answering. "But something tells me her husband or his associates don't need to know she's no longer under our protection.”

  Collinson nodded grimly, then looked at his watch and slid to the booth’s edge.

  “I’ve got an appointment with the coroner in ten minutes. I’ll bring you up to date either tonight or through email.”

  Oliver nodded, then rose and followed, dropping ten dollars on the table and twenty at the register. Carla, long used to such generosity barely managed a wave as they exited. She knew they would be back and despite the lackluster service, somehow it worked for all three.

  Outside, sunlight was breaking through as both went their separate ways, Collinson up toward Pacific Street and Oliver to his nearby cruiser. He took a minute to watch the ongoing hacky-sack game across the street; the small ball bouncing in and out of view as it passed around the circle of youths. As before, a wild kick sent the ball careening and was followed by loud laughter and good-natured razzing. He smiled and unlocked his door, picking up the microphone as he slid behind the wheel.

  “Tom, this is Ollie checking in.” A few seconds passed.

  “Roger, Ollie, how was the food?”

  “Same as always; undercooked and overpriced. Anything on that current address?”

  “Negative on that, Ollie. No known address listed, though we did have Mr. McKenny come in to raise hell about his former residence.” After another pause, “Anything else, Ollie?”

  “No, that’ll do it, Tom. See you at the end of shift.”

  “Ok, PG central out.”

  Oliver started the engine and pulled free of the coveted parking space, which was quickly taken by a bright yellow mustang waiting in the wings. At the end of Alvarado he turned left, then turned right on Pacific toward New Monterey: the hybrid community between Monterey and Pacific Grove.

  Traffic was how it almost always was on Lighthouse Avenue: stop and go as tourists slowly passed by enticing shops. It was not unusual to see license plates from ten different states in a single hour if you kept track and nearly just as common to see a fender-bender involving one of them. As he passed the main road leading down into famous Cannery Row, he turned left onto David Avenue and double-backed on Hawthorne to where the Carpenters Union Hall stood.

  He parked directly across from the structure, which was amazingly average for what it represented. Reaching the double glass doors, he pulled one wide and stepped through. As far as investigations went, the day had largely been a bust. As he climbed the half dozen steps toward the union office window, Oliver knew that this was his last hope of locating Jesse Beeler, sometime carpenter and former fiancé of Carol Montoya.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By mid afternoon, most of the pizza delivered to her room had been consumed, serving as late breakfast and even later lunch. She was, not surprisingly, sick of the stuff and had definitely decided on Japanese for dinner. She felt the faint itching of cabin fever and yet nothing was to be done about it. Television helped initially and she watched several soaps, but turned it off when it only enhanced her feelings of being trapped. The Bible supplied by the Gideons had no pull on her and the few outdated magazines tucked into a bottom dresser drawer were of no more interest. However, an hour of game shows sent her scrambling and she read them cover to cover.

  Around four-thirty, Jenny reluctantly decided it might be time to look at her situation and gathered up a pen and scratch pad provided by the motel, then returned to the bed. As an after-thought she moved Carol’s papers from the night stand to a disheveled heap beside her. Taking the pen, Jenny divided the small scratch pad into four equal columns, then titled them individually under Carol’s Murder, Attempt on my life, Papers, and finally, Detective Peidmont. After staring for a minute at the largely empty page, she scratched the fourth one out and replaced it with ‘Oliver.’

  For several minutes she considered the column headings, then began to write what seemed to be the main issue for each. Under Carol's Murder, she wrote Why? and the same for the heading on her own near demise. As for the column under Papers, the word What? seemed appropriate and the issue of Trust went under Oliver. Satisfied, Jenny turned her full attention to what was surely going to be the hardest and most heart rending of the four. Instead, her mind rebelled and try as she might her thoughts returned to the conversation she’d had with Oliver regarding Carol.

  She had in fact told him most everything, leaving out what only now appeared to be horribly prophetic and yet at the time, had sounded like pure craziness. It was the simplest thing to do and yet it was why she now sat in this motel, alone. But just as now, she hadn’t known whom to trust and revealing everything regarding Carol had seemed unwise at the time. If only...she thought. I'd listened beyond the news of Carol’s sudden engagement and heard what she had really been trying to say.

  The restaurant had been busy just as she’d told Oliver. Carol’s nervousness was apparent even to the waiter and she'd had little time for his attentions.

  “Jenny,” Carol had said after dismissing the waiter, her eyes wide and searching. “I...I’ve discovered something.” She’d swallowed a good portion of the scotch purchased at the bar, prior to being seated, then focused completely on Jenny.

  “Something...dangerous.” Carol fingered a spoon nervously. “I’m not sure what to do about it.” Carol had again dipped heavily into her scotch, surprising Jenny, since her friend had done a fair teetotaler imitation most of her life. It was at this point Jenny had noticed the ring and they were suddenly two girls going on about engagements, weddings and men. Now, in retrospect, Jenny remembered the lines of worry in Carol’s face. Worry and something else. Fear.

  But with the news of Carol’s sudden engagement, all such impressions had been lost in the excitement. Only in the restaurant parking lot did Carol again bring up what had been troubling her.

  “Jenny, please wait a moment,” Carol had touched her arm. Her face grew lined once again and took on a look Jenny had seen, she now realized, more and more of late. “If something were to ever happen to me, maybe if I disappeared even.” Jenny’s eyes must have gone wide, for Carol had stopped, smiling thinly.

  “Oh Jen, just humor me. If something were ever to happen, I've put some papers in my personal employee box. If something happens....they need to be put somewhere safe. I’ve keyed my box to your birth date but, but don't worry, you'll probably never need to do anything about them.”

  She’d promised, like any best friend would and promptly forgot about the conversation until yesterday. Only then had she made plans to fulfill her promise. Collin hadn’t bothered to change his entry code at JenelCo from several months ago and it was child’s play for her to visit JenelCo and pick up the papers during her visit, late last night. No doubt she’d been caught on video, but Collin would have to explain to his bosses why she had his code and was able to stroll into JenelCo at four in the morning.

  So now here she
was, hiding out in this motel with a pile of papers spread out around her that she was now sure had something to do with the murder of her best friend. Jenny scooped up the papers and leaning back against the stack of pillows, began to read the true history of JenelCo.

  “Hello, Randy,” Oliver called through the small box-like opening into the Carpenters Union office, his day’s luck already feeling like it had changed. The figure which turned toward him was of medium height, yet carried the impression of someone a good deal larger. Thick arms used to swinging a five pound hammer eight hours a day hung next to a chest worthy of any body building competition. Had it not been for the nose, noticeably broken several times over, the man could have been on a Nike commercial with his sandy blond hair and rugged good looks.

  “Ollie!” Randy stuck his hand through the window. “How’re ya doing? I haven’t seen ya since I did that work on your house, what...two summers ago?” They shook hands as he spoke. Then Randy pulled his muscular arm back through, reached around to the side door and pushed it open. Oliver stepped into the ramshackle office with its antique desk and noticeably missing, all things electronic.

  “How are Monica and the kids?” Oliver asked. “Heard you had another one a few months ago.” He took the chair offered, sitting opposite Randy. The old wooden desk before him, though a bit disheveled was still tidy somehow.

  “Yeah," the carpenter said, beaming. "Randolph Patrick Kelly, the second. After three girls, I was ready for a boy and supposedly Monica doesn’t want any more.” The carpenter smiled. “But I’ve heard that before.” Oliver laughed with him and when first photos of the newborn were shown on Randy's phone, Oliver enjoyed each one. He and Linda had never got around to having their own and now at his age, doubted he ever would. He was surprised at how he felt as he took in the tiny, decidedly pink face: proud, almost sentimental. Taking Randy's phone in hand, Oliver felt genuine admiration for what his friend had achieved, a far cry from his first meeting over two years ago with the rugged construction worker.

  Oliver and another detective had been working on a drug connection whose source had been located in the San Francisco Bay area, supplying high end cocaine to little ol’ Pacific Grove, otherwise billed as ‘The Last Hometown in America.’ Over a period of a several months, they’d trailed a small group of individuals and their illicit activities, building a solid case in the process. On a hunch, he looked at the personal backgrounds, in hopes of turning one into a potential witness. It hadn’t taken long to see Randy was their man.

  Pulled into the gang a year earlier by his sleazy boss, taped conversations had quickly shown Randy’s heart was not in the drug business. They also revealed he was due to be killed because a lack of enthusiasm was interpreted as untrustworthiness. Oliver had approached Chief Williams on his idea and got the go ahead as long as he didn’t promise anything more than an understanding judge.

  A few days later, Oliver had stepped into a local pub and eatery which Randy frequented, and an hour or two later, struck up a conversation. A couple hours more and they were best drinking buddies. From there it was all downhill and around 1:00am Oliver had offered to drop Randy off at his house. The two of them waved good-bye to the bartender, walking unsteadily out into the nearly empty parking lot. Only when he had seen the police radio had Randy realized his predicament and relief seemed to be his chief response.

  Shortly thereafter, he agreed to testify against his former cohorts and within months, all but the boss had been convicted. The sleazy boss had skipped town while on bail and his whereabouts remained unknown, two years later. Because of his cooperation in the case, Randy was placed on several years probation as well as having to do community service, but wasn’t required to serve any jail time. Though he couldn’t say they were friends, Oliver did sense an attachment on Randy’s part and if ever Oliver had a success story, Randy was it.

  “So what brings you to my neck of the woods, Ollie? Need some more work done over at your place?”

  Oliver grinned, but shook his head.

  “No, but thanks. I’m actually looking for somebody. Guy by the name of Jesse Beeler. Supposed to be a carpenter and I was hoping he was in the union and you’d have an address on him.”

  Randy leaned forward, the springs of his wooden chair sounding off as he sat upright and after a moment of thinking, stood.

  “Well, if he’s union, we should at least have a current phone number. Guys are real good about that if they want work.” Walking over to the wall of shelves, Randy reached to the second highest shelf and withdrew a binder twice the thickness of a phone book, his muscular arms showing little sign of strain.

  “A good address is doubtful since a lot of this work is seasonal.” Flipping the pages for several minutes, stopping occasionally and then moving on, Randy seemed lost in the search until he slapped one side of the large volume.

  “Ah hah! Here he is right here.” He pulled a pad of paper from the desk drawer and began scribbling. He ripped the sheet of paper free and passed it to Oliver. “You’ve got an address there as well but I can‘t say how up-to-date it is.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” Oliver stood and eyed the address before he slid it into his inside coat pocket. “I appreciate this.”

  “Anytime, Ollie, least I can do.”

  They chatted a minute more before they shook hands, then Oliver exited the cluttered and musty office. He checked his watch and decided to do a quick drive-by at the Monterey address given by Randy. Oliver couldn’t bring himself to believe Beeler lived there anymore, but he could see if perhaps a forwarding address had been left. That was if his luck continued to hold out.

  He took a shortcut through the Presidio, turned left down Franklin once he was through the military grounds, allowing his cruiser to coast down a good portion of the steep hill before turning left once again onto Pacific. He was a block from the Beeler address when his radio crackled to life.

  “PG base to Peidmont.”

  He slowed to a halt in front of 942 Larkin and picked up the microphone.

  “Yeah, Richardson, this is Peidmont, go ahead.”

  “Ollie, got a message for you and I thought you might want to hear it as soon as possible.”

  “Go ahead Tom, I’m listening.”

  “Your wife Linda called to say she wants to meet you at Mr. Sushi, at five-thirty.”

  Shocked, Oliver eyed his watch and saw for once, saw he had at least an hour to spare. His heart was beginning to beat irregularly as a hundred questions as to why Linda had suddenly reappeared, flashed through his mind.

  “Did she leave a number, Tom?”

  “Negative, Ollie. Just said to be on time.”

  He nearly crushed the microphone at the pointed remark.

  “Thanks...Tom. I copy that, Peidmont out.”

  Oliver turned off the idling engine and the sudden quiet of the side street rushed in.

  Though no divorce papers had ever appeared or a legal separation filed, all his overtures toward reconciliation had been rebuffed. Linda had merely stated in her two letters that he should feel free to see others, which meant she'd met someone during her stay at her parent’s house in Hickory. He hadn’t heard from Linda in over two months and hadn’t expected to for another six. Now here Linda was, wanting to have dinner and somehow he just wasn’t in the mood for Japanese.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock and saw plenty of time to scout the boxy apartment building which had been Mr. Beeler’s last known address. He stepped out of the cruiser and walked to where the row of aluminum mail slots sat encased in the building’s front, a few steps from the sidewalk. His heart skipped lightly when he saw “Beeler” on the fourth and final box. He debated calling for back-up, then decided more on the basis of time to take the straight forward approach.

  Like a vine which takes root and spreads unchecked, apartment buildings nearly identical to the one before him could be found dotting the Monterey landscape with only cosmetic differences. A ground level end unit with three or four second
level apartments, complete with carports below made this style the most prolific in Monterey. Built in the 1960’s, most had been the result of Fort Ord’s hey-day when 18,000 soldiers and their families overcrowded the base. A continual stream of soldiers and their housing allowance meant good money for any local who could push through the required building permits. Before long hundreds had been built and from what Oliver could tell, Beeler’s had been constructed early on.

  He huffed up the steep driveway, slightly winded as he noticed all three carports were empty. He back-tracked around the front until he encountered a flight of stairs and took his time on these. The first unit was empty, its curtain-less windows revealing some child’s handiwork on the far off white wall, a multicolored crayon dinosaur from what Oliver could see. The second unit appeared inhabited if the closed curtains indicated anything and the third wasn’t much more inviting. Not the most friendly neighbors, he decided.

  Oliver reached into his coat, flicked off the gun’s safety but kept his weapon holstered. He casually walked the last few steps toward Beeler’s apartment and found the door ajar, with a local radio station playing softly somewhere inside. Oliver placed his right shoulder against the door-jam’s edge and swung himself around until his left shoulder touched the opposite door jam. With his back solidly against the stucco area between the door and the apartment’s front window, Oliver paused before peering into Beeler’s window.

  It was all one would expect of a construction worker. Older, well-used mismatched furniture, a nice stereo with large black rectangular speakers along with a good sized big screen TV. Decorating several walls of the living room were prints of semi-clad lingerie models and throughout the apartment lay a minor layer of dust. Oliver again debated approaching Beeler alone but now that he knew where to find him, decided against it. As he retreated, he ignored the temptation to simply knock on the partially opened door and once passed it, made his way toward the stairs.