Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (9 page)

Arrested in Petaluma in 2000, in another sting operation—this one for Internet solicitation of sex with what he believed to be a sixteen-year-old male. Nabbed when he showed up for a prearranged date at a motel. Protested his innocence again, said it was all a misunderstanding, but this time he didn’t have any wiggle room. Convicted, fined, forced to register as a sex offender. That was when his first wife divorced him.

Accused by the California Franchise Tax Board in 2004 of failure to pay adequate state income tax over the previous five years. Found guilty and heavily fined.

Yeah, a scumbag.

Question was, what else was he? Just a bisexual member of the sports club? A scam victim of the phony Lucas? Or a scammer himself?

D
ecision time.

Doctor Easy was a solid lead, the only one she had, but she couldn’t risk bracing him herself. No way of knowing if the phony Lucas had told him about her, maybe even described her. Hawkins wouldn’t be likely to tell a woman anything anyway, especially not about the down-low club.

Like it or not, what she needed was a man—a good-looking male op who could pass for a successful, bisexual businessman.

And he had to be black.

That meant bringing in an outsider, a borrow from one of
the other agencies in S.F. or the Bay Area. Trouble was, full-time field ops were usually kept as busy as she kept Jake Runyon; finding one who looked the part and had a hole in his caseload might not be easy. A part-timer was the best bet.

Well, she knew one possible—and he fit the profile. Deron Stewart. Part-timer for several different agencies, mainly Matt Bannerman’s. Good record—seven years with the California Highway Patrol, eight years with a big national outfit in their S.F. office before the economic crunch squeezed him out—but no luck so far in landing a staff job anywhere since. But did she want to work with him? The man was a pussy hound; one meeting with him and she’d known that from the way he talked, swaggered a little in her presence, and roamed his eyes over her body. Egotistical cocksman types turned her off. Sniff, sniff, sniff around every woman they met from eight to eighty, black, white, or yellow, crippled, blind, or crazy.

All right, then. Make some calls, see if she could borrow somebody else.

The calls produced zip. Either nobody employed the kind of man she was after or if they did, he wasn’t available on short notice. So it would have to be Deron Stewart . . . if she could get him. She called Matt Bannerman, and he said Stewart wasn’t doing any work for him right now, or for any other agency that he knew about. He gave her two phone numbers, cell and home. She picked the cell first.

“Deron Stewart here.”

She ID’d herself and the agency. “You interviewed with us for a field op position a couple of years ago.”

“And didn’t get it. I remember.”

“Not because you weren’t qualified.”

“You hired a white man instead.”

“Race had nothing to do with our decision.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve heard that before. What can I do for you, Ms. Corbin?”

“A job, if you’re interested. Short-term, one or two days probably, but it pays top wages.”

“What kind of job?”

“Fraud case. Involving African Americans.”

“Which is why you need me.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Stewart?”

“What is it you want me to do? And how soon?”

“Right away,” Tamara said. “If you want the job, come on over and I’ll give you the details.”

“South Park offices now, right? Nice location. You must be doing pretty well.”

“Two ninety South Park. How soon can you be here?”

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “Less, if the traffic cooperates.”

D
eron Stewart may not have been working steadily, but he dressed as if he were. Charcoal pin-striped suit, pale blue shirt with gold cuff links, a yellow patterned tie. Big gold and onyx ring and a gold-banded wristwatch that looked expensive. Attractive enough, if you liked your men slick. Piercing eyes almost as black as his skin, with that hungry glint in them. One of those fat-toothed smiles that probably had some women reaching to unhook their bras when he turned it on them. Pure hound. Like Vonda had said once about a guy she knew, he’d screw a board fence if the knothole was in the right place.

He looked her over pretty good when he came in, not being obvious about it—cool and practiced, sizing up the goods and his chances of adding her to his scorecard. Tamara pretended
not to notice. If he hit on her, and sooner or later he probably would, straight out or sly, she could handle him. Wasn’t any man after the phony Lucas who’d mess her up again. The way she felt right now, she didn’t care if she spent the rest of her life celibate as a nun.

She sat Stewart down in the client’s chair in her office, with her desk between them. Nobody else there but the two of them; Bill and Jake and Alex were all out and not likely to come back until late, if at all. Otherwise she’d’ve arranged to meet Stewart somewhere else.

He sat relaxed and attentive, one leg crossed over the other and those glinty eyes fixed on her face, as she sketched out the case details and what she wanted him to do. Told him pretty much everything except the personal angle. Working the case for a client, she said. He may have been a hound, but he was no-nonsense when it came to business. Let her do the talking, except to put in a question now and then when something wasn’t clear to him. Quick study, too. Took it all in, processed it, read it back to her after she was done.

She said, “Think you can play the part?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Low-key. Don’t come on too strong.”

“Don’t worry; I can handle it. Long as you’re sure Hawkins and Zeller are on the down low and this sports fan club is for switch-hitters only.”

“Sure enough. One look at you in person, you’ll get an invitation. Guaranteed.”

Stewart’s smile bent downward a little. “Backhanded compliment. Do I look like a switch-hitter to you?”

“None of my business what you do in private.”

“One hundred percent hetero,” he said. “For the record.”

His horny eyes moved over her face like a caress. She ignored them. “Go ahead and make the call. I’ll listen in in my partner’s office. Get a take on Hawkins’s reaction.”

“Suppose he won’t talk to me.”

“Then you’ll have to get in to see him at his office. Or hang around and brace him when he leaves.”

Stewart made the call on her phone. Asked the woman who answered if he could speak to Dr. Hawkins on a personal matter. “My name’s Stewart, Deron Stewart. Tell him we met at the sports show at Moscone Center last month.”

Three minutes passed. Come on, Easy, Tamara thought, pick up, talk to the man. And there was a click and a reedy voice said, “This is Dr. Hawkins.”

“Deron Stewart, Doctor. You probably don’t remember me—”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. We met at the Moscone sports show, you said?”

“That’s right. I talked to a lot of people that day and I guess you did, too.”

“Yes. Very crowded event.”

“You said to call you Doctor Easy.”

“Did I? Well.”

“You were with a friend, a man named . . . Heller, was it?”

“Zeller. Yes.” Pause.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that club you mentioned.” Stewart cleared his throat. He was playing it just right. Softened his voice, put in a little nervousness but not too much. “The one you and Zeller belong to.”

Ten seconds of silence. Hawkins trying to remember. Then, “Yes?”

“Five members and there was room for another man. I said I didn’t think I’d be interested, but . . . I’ve changed my mind. If there’s still room.”

“There is. For the right man.”

“Compatible, you mean. The club . . . all brothers?”

“That’s right. Businessmen, professional people like myself. What business are you in, Mr. Stewart?”

“Computers. Bayside Computer Sales and Service. One of our sidelines is providing computers to schools, mainly those in impoverished sections of the Bay Area.”

“I see. Admirable.”

“Married, two kids. But my wife and I . . . well, I won’t go into that.” Stewart cleared his throat again. “Anyhow, I think I might fit in. I’ve been a sports nut all my life, all kinds, especially football and basketball, I like talking sports to other knowledgeable guys, and I . . . well, I’m married, as I said, but I like to get out once in a while, have a good time with guys who feel the same. You know what I mean?”

“Perhaps.”

“So do you think I might fit in?”

“Perhaps,” Hawkins said again.

“Well . . . maybe we could get together, get to know each other, talk it over. Zeller, too, if he wants to join us.”

Four-beat. Then, “I think that might be arranged. Suppose you let me have your phone number, Mr. Stewart.”

“Deron. Call me Deron.”

“Let me have your number and I’ll get back to you.”

“How soon?”

“Soon.”

“Before the club meets again?”

“Yes. Before then.”

Hawkins provided his cell number and they ended the conversation. Tamara reslotted Bill’s phone, went back through the connecting door. Stewart grinned up at her from the client’s chair.

“How was I?” he asked.

Probably the same question he asked his conquests as soon as they finished doing the nasty. Self-centered types like him always cared more about their performance than anything or anybody else. And if he got any rating less than a rave, he’d blame the woman for being a lousy lay.

Tamara said, “Believable.” Why give him any more satisfaction?

“Yeah, I thought he bought it. I’ll be hearing from him.”

“That company name you gave, Bayside Computer Sales and Service—”

“My brother-in-law’s company. I’ve used it before. He’ll know what to say if Hawkins checks up.”

Stewart’s attitude toward women was sexist lousy and his ego overinflated, but she had to admit he was good at his job. Some agency should’ve put him on full-time by now. Racism? She’d never come up against any of that crap in her dealings with other agencies, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there under the surface.

He said, “I think Hawkins will agree to the get-together. You?”

“No reason why he shouldn’t.” Unless the phony Lucas or somebody else talked him out of it. “But I’m not so sure about Zeller.”

“I figure he’ll want to scope me out, too. Only problem I
can see is that I’ll be a stranger to them. Might lead to questions, suspicions.”

“It’s been over a month since the sports show,” Tamara said, “and Moscone was packed that day. Not too likely they’ll remember everybody they talked to.”

“Not even a handsome guy like me?”

She let that pass. “You ought to be able to convince them.”

“Never been in a situation yet I couldn’t handle.”

“Okay. When you hear from Hawkins and you’ve got a time and place, let me know right away. My cell, day or night.”

“Will do,” Stewart said. “If Zeller does show up, you want me to follow him afterward, find out where he lives? Tail jobs are my specialty. He’ll never know I’m there.”

“Uh-uh. You leave Zeller to me. And take along a voice-activated recorder so there’s a record of everything that’s said.”

“Your client must really want this guy put away.”

“Oh yeah,” Tamara said. “Real bad.”

I
didn’t feel like going to work on Wednesday morning. Neither Kerry nor I had gotten much sleep, and I was tired, depressed, cranky. My curmudgeon’s mode, she calls it. But she wasn’t in much better shape. This thing with Emily had both of us down and reeling.

The kid had stayed in her room all last evening, lying on her bed with Shameless beside her and her iPod headphones plugged into her ears. Music was her passion—she wanted to be a singer and she had the voice to make it happen; when she was upset, she retreated into music as completely as she withdrew into herself. Even if we’d taken the iPod away from her, we wouldn’t have been able to reach her. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t communicate. Kerry went in once and asked her point-blank if she was experimenting with sex. Emily said no, of course not, and looked hurt again, and that was the end of that.

Breakfast this morning hadn’t been any more productive. She’d sat at the table with her eyes on her plate, picking at her food, speaking in polite monosyllables when she spoke at all. Kerry had brought up the cocaine again, quietly, but Emily’s nonanswers were the same as the night before. “I promised
I wouldn’t tell. I can’t break my promise. I’ve never tried drugs of any kind.”

I believed the last statement. She simply did not lie; it wasn’t in her nature. If there were such a thing as an Honest Teenager of the Year Award, she’d win it hands down. Reassuring, but there was still the box and that tube of coke. And her steadfast and misplaced loyalty to whoever they belonged to.

What do you do in a situation like this? How do you find the answers without stirring up a hornet’s nest?

What the hell do you do?

D
espite my lack of enthusiasm, I went to work anyway. That had always been my escape—Kerry’s, too—from unpleasant and difficult personal problems. Retreat into the job the way Emily retreated into music and other people buried themselves in books or films or booze.

Patterson Realty Company, Inc., was a storefront hole-in-the wall on Balboa near 46
^th
Avenue, within hailing distance of the Great Highway and Ocean Beach. Coming to this part of the city always gave me pangs of nostalgia, even on a day and in a mood like this one. It was where Playland-at-the-Beach used to be, and Playland—a ten-acre amusement park in the grand old style, once the largest on the West Coast—had been where I’d spent a good portion of my youth.

Playland. Some exciting place when you were young and full of piss and vinegar. Attractions galore. Laughing Sal, the gap-toothed, red-haired plaster icon at the entrance, whose cackling mechanical laugh scared the hell out of generations of little kids. Shooting galleries. Sideshow lures that included a two-headed duckling and a radiation-deformed carp. The
Fun House with its moveable sidewalk and “spinning wheel” and mirror maze. The creaky old Big Dipper roller coaster, the Whip, the Aeroplane Swing, the Dodg-’Em cars, and other rides. The penny arcade called Knotty Peek and the Tip-a-Troll and Ring-the-Bottle games.