Courage Begins: A Ray Courage Mystery Novella (Ray Courage Private Investigator Series Book 1), Page 3

  “I’m telling you those Arab motherfuckers are out to take over our way of life,” baseball cap guy said, loud enough that his words were clear even across the bar. “I saw one of them ragheads the other day at the store buying a Penthouse and a bottle of Jack Daniels. What the fuck? They say they’re all about religious purity—jihad and all that shit—and he’s out getting lit up and jacking off to an American chick. What’s up with that?”

  The bartender came over, and I ordered an Eel River IPA on draft. He set the beer glass in front of me. “Who’s that guy over there in the A’s hat?”

  “Tommy O.” He didn’t turn to look at whom I was referring. “Sorry if he’s bugging you. He gets a couple of drinks in him, and there’s no switching him off.”

  “No problem. Just curious.”

  Oberto continued to spout off about various topics ranging from the Internal Revenue Service, the NFL, anti-gun crusaders, and the Animal Liberation Front. He was a man with a remarkable ability to insult everybody, no matter their politics, race, or religion. His rants effectively cleared the barstools next to him, leaving him to share his opinions solely with himself. I picked up my beer and sauntered over to a barstool two seats away, nodding a hello at him as I sat down.

  “What do you think about that?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” I’d missed his latest topic during my journey across the bar.

  “Global warming. Crock of shit, right?”

  Despite my desire to argue the science with him, I demurred. “Right.” I held up my beer to him, prompting Oberto to do the same.

  “Name’s Tom Oberto. But you can call me Tommy, or Tommy O. That’s what everyone calls me.” Oberto was overweight with a big, red, drinker’s nose and a puffy face decorated with a scraggly gray beard.

  “Nice to meet you. My name’s Ray.”

  “You’re not from around here are you?”

  “No, just up for the day.”

  “Business?”

  “Yeah. In fact, you can probably help me out in that regard.”

  “Me? How?”

  I got up and moved to the barstool next to his, leaning in to him conspiratorially. “Do you know a guy named Garrett Bate?”

  “Yeah, I know the fucker. Stiffed me a couple of years ago on a job. I cleared nearly half an acre of underbrush and hauled it away. We agreed on four hundred for the job and he gave me two. Said the job took me half the time I said it would. Son of a bitch. He screws me for doing a kick-ass job.”

  I shook my head in sympathy. “I’m actually here looking into the accident at his house that killed his wife and Harley Cowan two years ago.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Investigator for an insurance company.”

  He looked at me, nodded, and picked up his shot glass, knocking back the remaining amber liquid. He chased that with several long pulls from a bottle of Bud Light.

  “You know, I told the cops back then it wasn’t no accident. That son of a bitch Garrett did it sure as day. I saw him that night, not fifty feet from the house. Dressed all in black. He tried to turn his face when I walked by, but I knew it as him. Even in the dark, there was enough moonlight for me to be sure it was him.”

  “But the cops didn’t believe you, did they?”

  “They don’t believe nothing I say. If they did, the drug problem up here would be fixed overnight. I could tell you each and every meth dealer who lives here. But the cops don’t listen to me.”

  “But you were sure it was Garrett Bate you saw that night?”

  “Absolutely. I’d swear to it.”

  “I mean no offense when I ask you this, but had you been drinking that night when you saw him?”

  “Yeah, so what? I drink every night. Doesn’t do squat to my eyesight or my memory. That’s why I was walking home, because I didn’t want to drive after having a few.”

  seven

  After leaving the Fat Cat, I drove to my hotel, a Howard Johnson’s in South Shore, where I planned to spend the night and then return early the next day to Sacramento.

  Detective Royle had been right. Tommy Oberto was a drunk and a crackpot. He seemed the kind of guy who wanted to be the center of attention, someone who’d appear at every crime scene, or car accident, claiming to have witnessed it or having intimate knowledge of what had transpired. I could see a defense lawyer completely discrediting him if he ever found his way to a witness stand. Yet, something made me believe him about seeing Garrett Bate. That by itself counted for nothing.

  Oberto’s claim did inject me with an ounce of promise. I’d been growing disillusioned over my assignment, believing it might be little more than busy work, to keep me from getting underfoot with the real investigators in the office.

  I flipped open my laptop and opened my e-mail. As promised, Royle sent me a link to a Tahoe Police video site along with a guest password for logging in. I clicked on the link, logged in, and watched a two-year-old video of Garrett Bate entering the Hyatt Regency lobby from the second floor of the covered parking deck. The date and time were stamped in the lower left corner of the frame and showed him entering the Hyatt at one thirteen in the morning. That shot cut away, and another camera picked him up as he walked through an upper lobby to a descending escalator. A third shot showed him registering at the front desk and proceeding to an elevator. The next shot in the sequence captured him getting out of the elevator, walking down a hallway, entering his room, and closing the door behind him at one twenty-one.

  Time-lapsed images of the hallway showed quick clips of other hotel guests and employees coming and going during the night and early the next morning. The time-lapse sequence turned to regular speed just after seven in the morning, when a room service attendant entered Bate’s room with a cart of food. The video fast-forwarded to eight eleven as Bate was leaving his room and entering the elevator.

  I watched it all again, and then a third time, looking for something incongruous with what Garrett Bate had told me that morning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except Bate said he’d been too drunk to drive. He didn’t appear to be noticeably drunk in the video. Then again, maybe he held his liquor well and was smart enough not to risk driving with even a modest amount of alcohol in his system. I wondered why he didn’t call a cab, or Uber, for a ride home rather than fork over two hundred dollars for a night alone in a hotel.

  Bate said his speech at the awards ceremony had been recorded and posted on YouTube. I went to the website and found the link. The video was probably from a cell phone camera, the image shaky and dark. Though I’d taken a quick dislike to Garrett Bate, I found his speech engaging. He delivered a hilarious fifteen-minute monologue about the perils of different types of real estate clients, ranging from bimbo trophy wife number two, to gay couples, to the demanding matrons who think every decorating touch is too tacky, and every listing too expensive. He skillfully covered the topic in a way that was edgy yet tasteful, a perfect balance for a professional audience lubricated with copious amounts of wine.

  As I watched the video a second time, I compared Bate’s YouTube appearance with that on the security feed. As far as I could tell, his hair, mustache, chin beard, and suit matched. When the YouTube video faded to black, a sidebar on the page showed a link to another video from that night entitled “Gracie Nixon Wins Top Agent Award.” I launched it.

  The camera pointed at a large round table, where Bate and nine others sat. Crystal goblets of wine, and plates of partially eaten dessert, sat atop a white linen tablecloth. White and purple tulips in a cut crystal vase comprised the simple, tasteful centerpiece.

  The men dressed in tuxedos or suits, while most of the women wore elegant evening dresses accented with ornate dangling earrings and sparkling necklaces. Bate sat next to a lady in a red dress who was in deep conversation with the man seated on her other side. I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. Her form-fitting dress and blonde hair, pulled into an up-do, accentuated her cheekbones and slender neck, a look at once beautiful and classy. She was w
hispering into her companion’s ear as an unseen emcee made his announcement.

  “And the winner is…” The emcee paused for dramatic effect. “From Bate Real Estate, Gracie Nixon!”

  Bate looked over his left shoulder as if searching for Gracie. To his right, the woman in the red dress looked stunned for a couple of seconds, both hands covering her mouth. Then came tears and a warm embrace from her male companion. By now, Bate had turned his attention to them. His face didn’t display elation, jealousy, or any other emotion. He did shake Gracie’s hand when she stood to receive her award. The clip ended just after she pumped her fist once and strode towards the dais wearing a smile of pure joy.

  eight

  Gracie Nixon, Amanda Bate, and Garrett Bate all worked for Bate Real Estate. How did Garrett not know Gracie Nixon sat next to him? They did work in different offices, he in Fair Oaks, and she, several miles away in Curtis Park. Could that explain Garrett’s glancing around after her name was called?

  I phoned Gracie upon returning to Sacramento after my night in Tahoe, telling her I was interested in one of her real estate listings. If I mentioned the real reason I wanted to talk with her, I feared she’d decline. Speaking to an investigator trying to pin a murder rap on the boss might not, in her mind, be the smartest career move.

  I stood on the sidewalk in front of a house facing the leafy and tranquil Curtis Park. The park was much smaller than Land Park, with its soccer, rugby, and baseball fields, golf course, zoo, two small theme parks, picnic areas, and multiple ponds and fountains. Curtis Park had none of that. Its smaller size, and less foot-and-vehicle traffic, made it something of an urban sanctuary, a place for runners, walkers, sleepers, and sunbathers.

  The house had a Bate Real Estate sign in the front yard, with Gracie Nixon’s name and phone number printed on it. Like many of the homes in the neighborhood, this one was made of old English brick with a steep roofline of Spanish tiles. From the web page, I knew it was a three bedroom, two bath, with just over eighteen hundred feet of space.

  Gracie pulled up in an ice-white Acura Legend. What was it with these real estate agents and their fancy cars?

  “Mr. Courage?”

  “Please, call me Ray.”

  “Gracie.” We shook hands, and she immediately started searching inside her purse for something, pulling out a key with a satisfied “Aha!”

  The YouTube video hadn’t done her justice. Though she looked beautiful in the red cocktail dress that night, she was even more gorgeous in person, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and an engaging smile. She looked in shape, a figure sculpted at the intersection of Pilates and Crossfit.

  She led me to the front door, where she used the key to open a lockbox on the door handle. A few moments later, we were inside.

  “As you can see, hardwood floors throughout. A recently updated kitchen, which we’ll see in a second.”

  The house was completely empty of furnishings or floor coverings; the only remaining touch from the previous owner appeared to be the drapes hanging in the picture window facing the park.

  “You said on the phone you were looking to downsize? Where do you live now?”

  “I’m over in Land Park in a four bedroom with three baths. It’s more house than I need, now that it’s just me.” It wasn’t an outright lie. I had been thinking about moving into something smaller ever since my daughter Sara had gone off to college four years ago. Now she was admitted into UCLA’s law school for the fall, making it doubtful she’d come home to roost anytime soon. I had no prospects for expanding my household other than my occasional urge to get a dog.

  We walked through the kitchen with its Wolf range, Sub-Zero refrigerator-freezer, and other appliances that were well beyond my minimal prep, storage and cooking requirements. She showed me the master bedroom and its remodeled bath, the other two bedrooms, dining room, living room, and the second bath—also remodeled.

  “What do you think?” she asked as we arrived back at the foyer.

  “It’s all very nice.” I made a show of sweeping my eyes from living room to dining room, rubbing my chin with one hand as I did so. Then I looked at her with mock surprise. “I’ve seen you before. Two years ago. I was at a real estate awards event at the Crocker. You were Realtor of the Year!”

  She blushed, smiling. “Actually, Agent of the Year. Realtor is a whole different category. What were you doing there that night?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Well, my, um, girlfriend at the time was a real estate agent, and I was there with her.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you for remembering that. It was a big night for me.”

  “I noticed you were sitting with Garrett Bate. Must have been nice, winning the award with one of the bosses sitting at the table.”

  She paused a moment, as if trying to bring up the memory. “Oh, yeah, I was. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Do you work closely with him?”

  “Garrett?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, not at all. At least not now. Back then, more, because I worked out of the Fair Oaks office. That’s the main office.”

  Our conversation shifted to the house again. The price. The neighborhood. Whether I’d been interested in having her list my house if I decided to make an offer on this place.

  “You know,” I said. “When I think back, I remember how excited you were. Understandably, that’s a big award. But Garrett seemed to be a little, I don’t know, surprised or unaware that you won.”

  She laughed. “That’s funny you say that. I remember talking about it with my husband later that night. Garrett had been so distant all evening. Not connecting with any of us at the table, and we were all Bate Real Estate employees. Then he gave that hilarious speech. It was a funny night. And I’ll never forget winning the award in front of all my peers.”

  “Real Estate Agent of the Year. And now, here you are showing me a house.”

  “Yes. Now how much are you willing to offer?”

  I told her I would think about it. She pushed a little bit, displaying the sales skill that enabled her to win Real Estate Agent of the Year, and drive an Acura Legend, but backed off when I told her I was late for work.

  My supervisor, Alex Melia, greeted me warmly when I knocked on his open office door at Cal Farm Insurance later that morning. He invited me inside and I sat, once again, in the chair across from his desk.

  “How’s the Bate investigation going?”

  “You were right about his alibi. That seems almost impossible to disprove.”

  “Yeah, that’s the deal breaker, isn’t it? Give it another day or two. It was unfair of me to give you one of our toughest cases your first day on the job. If you want, I can give you something else instead. I have a customer slip-and-fall at Big Bag Super Store that looks bogus. You could work with the lead investigator on that one, if you’d prefer.”

  Riding shotgun on a department store claim would be an easier way to rack up time and experience. I needed the hours to earn my license, and it didn’t matter how I got them, but I wasn’t a quitter. “No thanks. I have my teeth sunk into this one. And I don’t feel like letting go of it—at least not yet.”

  “Let’s give it a couple more days. If nothing shakes loose by then, I’ll give you a new assignment.”

  nine

  “Did you find out anything?” I asked when Rubia answered the phone at the Say Hey.

  “You need to work on your conversational management skills. A simple ‘hey’ or ‘hi’ is customary when I answer and say, ‘you’ve reached the Say Hey.’”

  “Conversational management. I can’t believe you remembered something from your communication studies days. Very impressive.”

  “It’s one of the four skills in constructivism theory.”

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “And all this time you thought I was sleeping in your classes.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “Want me to rattle off the other three skills?” />
  “No. Now what did you find about Candy?”

  “Candy Cane,” she said. “You gotta like that name. Sweet and curvy and melts in your mouth. Very creative.”

  “Don’t embarrass me.”

  “I think I already did.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Real name is Mandi Coupland. Twenty-five years old. Lives in midtown. She’s working on a PhD in astrophysics and nuclear engineering.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No, just messing with you. She’s pretty much a fulltime stripper, though she’s taking one class at City College in cosmetology.”

  “How’d you find this out?”

  “I know a guy who knows a bouncer at Showtime Starlets. Candy mainly works there but sometimes goes on the road for better paying gigs. San Francisco, Reno, sometimes Vegas.”

  “She’s honing her craft.”

  “Yeah, honing her craft. I’ll have to remember that one, professor.”

  “Did you get an address?”

  “Cost me twenty bucks, but yes.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Damn straight.” She gave me the midtown address.

  I headed to 28th Street, arriving at the Elms Apartments, a three-story complex built in a square with a swimming pool in the middle. It was nicely landscaped and well maintained. From the numbers on the apartments I passed on the ground floor, I guessed Mandi Coupland’s place was probably on the far side of the pool, on the third floor.

  A female voice floated through the door when I knocked. “Who is it?”

  I held up my Cal Farm business card to the peephole. “Ray Courage, ma’am, with Cal Farm Insurance. I was hoping you might have a couple of minutes to answer some questions.”

  A lock clicked and the door opened about four inches, the door chain drawn tight just below her chin. “What kind of questions? I didn’t file a claim or anything.”