by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 7

They don’t teach it to you at the Academy, but the old timers will tell you, nine out of ten, if the perp falls asleep when left by himself in interrogation, he’s guilty. Ray struggled to keep his eyes open. If only. Fucking useless mewling hairball puking three and a half legged piece of fur shedding bad tempered finicky retired rat catcher has to have special. Man, he could be sleeping now. Like a stupid ass, he had to go. Why did he even bother? At least she didn’t flip out into one of her “what I’ve done for you and what do I have to show for it” rants. “When we met you didn’t know the difference between a Picasso and a Pepsi!” Like he even cared that there was a difference. Besides, he knew who Picasso was. The guy who drew the moustache on the Mona Lisa. Like that hadn’t been done before. The throbbing from the swelling on his forehead was more annoying now than merely painful. Fucking Colin, wrapped up in one of his jams. Again. He owed. Well, he didn’t have to go there.

Kovacs had come close to losing his cool. “Ok, Ray let’s cut the crap. Sign the damn form!”  He’d leaned on the table with his knuckles and glowered down. “I asked around. Word is you’re a wannabe cop. Couldn’t cut it the right way and now you’re going wrong. If law enforcement flags your file with an arrest for accessory after the fact, do you think the State review board is going to issue you a license? I could add a note that you’re an Academy drop-out who flunked the psych evaluation.”

The door was pushed open and a voice spoke low to Carson. Carson repeated the message. “Briefing’s about to start. Leave this asshole to stew.”

Ray thought about it. If he asked for a lawyer, they’d arrest him and chain him to half a dozen spurious charges. That kind of paper he didn’t need. Sign the form. The wording above the signature line didn’t leave much wiggle room. I understand that by signing this document I acknowledge having been advised of my rights under the Miranda Act of 1966, and that a lawyer will be provided should the need arise. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be arrested anyway. There had to be an angle. But he wasn’t thinking angles. He could barely stay awake to think straight.

The next cop to come through the door walked like a man with a chapped asshole. He was wide in the hip, sleeves still buttoned to the wrists, freshly shaved judging by the neon nicks on one side of the jaw line, and he was left handed. The belt was cinched too tight on the high waist slacks begging for a pair of suspenders.

Ray recognized the face, but the name escaped him. Where? Pushing the mandatory retirement age, that was for sure. And he held the interrogator’s magic top hat, the manila file folder, which could be empty of anything but a blank sheet of paper or it could be full of incriminating rabbits. Lowering himself to the seat with great care, he set the folder at his elbow and gave Ray a slight pained smile when he finally settled.

Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“You’re Raymond Philips?” and without waiting for confirmation, “Can I call you Ray?”

The voice triggered the name just as he introduced himself. Bob Orthall.

“Ray, my name’s Bob Orthall, and I’m going to ask you some questions.”

Orthall, right, retired deputy chief of a department down on the peninsula, not San Jose, but somewhere down there. He’d given a talk on interrogation technique at the Academy. Top homicide cop once. Noted for getting confessions without breaking a sweat or using a glove. It had been a while. And the id tag clipped to the shirt pocket had Ray looked closely said he wasn’t one of the regular staff. Picking up a little on the side working as a retired annuitant on big operations.

“That’s a nasty bump on your forehead.”

“Yeah, thanks to Junior.”

The old cop’s eyes scanned him with expert appraisal. “One of our officers is responsible for that?”

Ray considered his response. Fuck it. “Junior. Carson. Ask the other guy, the city cop. He’ll tell you.”

The old man pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, that’s certainly bound to change your disposition. Do you want to file a formal complaint with the Sheriff’s Department? I can get you the forms to sign.”

Ray would have laughed if the situation weren’t so fucked up. Instead he gave a splayed you gotta be kidding stare and a twist of lip smirk.

“Sheriff Departments have a tendency to hire cowboys. That’s just the way it is. I’m not making excuses but there’s a major incident in progress and we have to develop as many leads as we can in a very short time. Bad attitudes get bad reactions, Ray. A major crime has been committed and you might have information that could help us piece the events together. All I’m looking for is a little cooperation.”

Ray stared at the mottled receding hairline, the predominance of gray or white, the sagging eye corners and the accompanying baggage beneath piercing steady blues that banished all nonsense. “Sure, I’ll cooperate. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The detectives didn’t inform you?”  Orthall shifted the folder on the table in front of him.

“I could have told the other cops what they wanted to know if they’d told me what was going on, but that punk deputy prematurely ejaculated.”  Orthall couldn’t restrain the small chuckle and Ray added. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you anyway I can.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Ray. And I will tell you exactly what is going on. But first I’d like you to answer a few questions. For instance, tell me what you did, where and when, on Friday the 23^rd. Yesterday. “

“You want me to tell you what I did yesterday?”

“That’s shouldn’t be too hard. What was the first thing you did yesterday? How many hours ago would you say?”

Ray blinked in recognition. It was the old math trick. Orthall wasn’t wasting any time. He wanted to see whether his eyes would move to the right or the left considering the answer. At least that class at the Academy wasn’t a total waste of time. He stared straight ahead not even focusing. “I dunno, twenty four?”

“Cooperate, Ray. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can get up and walk out of here. It’s as simple as that. I’m just an old cop they brought in to help with the work load. The hotshots are working the real bad guys. My job is to gather ancillary information to fill out the big picture. Right now the picture is far from complete. Something you tell me might seem meaningless to you but it could help the investigators gain some insight. It’s a long shot, I know, but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we overlooked anything.”  Orthall had rested his wrists on the edge of the table and looked down at the folder before bringing his head up to fix Ray with the unwavering blue stare. “What was the first thing you did yesterday morning? And skip the petty details like wiping your ass and what kind of syrup you put on your pancakes.”

What the fuck. Why not. The sooner, the sooner. “Ok. First thing. On Friday mornings I teach a martial arts class at the Runway Club.”

“Martial arts? Really? You must be pretty good. Just Fridays? What time does the class start?”

Ray shrugged. “Three times a week. Mondays and Wednesdays, too. Seven to eleven.”

“Are you an employee of the Runway Club? I’ll need the name of someone I can contact. . . ?”

“I contract with the manager, Karen. I’m offering a change from the usual pump and run aerobics. Uh, the number’s on my phone. But you guys have my phone.”

“Ok, what next.”

“I usually work out for about an hour. Till about noon.”

“Knock off for lunch? Where’d you go eat?”

If I tell you what I ate I’ll have to tell you what I shit. Ray held back. “At the Goll y Geez taco truck over by the airport. They make a mean chicken burrito.” Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“After lunch?”

“I stopped by the office where I intern to pick up my check.”

“Where do you intern, Ray?”

“Morgan Josephson.” He could tell by the absence of reaction it was information Orthall already knew.

“Paul Morgan was my sergeant when I first started out. He was a good cop. And I have a lot of respect for Ted Josephson. Are you pursuing a career as a private investigator?”  He knew that answer as well.

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase? Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you what I know!”

“Ray, you know as well as I do we have to play it by the rules. About what time was it you dropped by the office to pick up your check? And that’s the office over on College, right? He’s still in the same old place?”  More questions that didn’t require an answer.

“About one thirty or so.”

“You take a long lunch.”

“Uh, I went home for quick shower.”

“So noon lunch standing up or sitting in your car. Home for a shower? I get the feeling you’re leaving something out here, Ray.”

“I dunno, I was back at my place around twelve thirty.”

“And when you say my place, where is that?”

Ray was suddenly very tired, the sugar had worn off. Tired meant irritable. “Look it up in the fucking folder in front of you. You think I’m gonna lie to you about where I fucking live?”

“I’ll give Ted Josephson a call to confirm what you’re saying. He’ll be disappointed to hear how uncooperative you’re being. What did you do after you picked up your check?”

Ray kept from scoffing. He obviously didn’t know Ted very well. “I went by County animal control.”

“Do you work there, too?”

“Uh, no. I check there occasionally to see what strays have been picked up.”

“Looking for a canine companion?”

Ray shrugged. He knew the response he’d get. “When strays are picked up, the animal control officer has to log the location. I have a friend who works at the shelter. I get access to the information and drive out to those locations and look for lost pet posters. Sometimes rewards are offered. Sometimes I get a match. You’d be surprised how grateful people are to get their pet back.”

“Why don’t they just call the pound?”

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t think of that. They’re more likely to believe that someone kidnapped their dog.”

Orthall seemed amused. “That’s very enterprising. Do you do cats?”

“Naw, not cats, once they’re gone, they’re gone, and if they come back, they’ll come back on their own.”

“So you’re a pet detective.”

CHAPTER 8

Kovacs had called Orthall to the door of the interrogation room and they’d stepped into the hallway. The old cop’s wobbly step returning to the table indicated that he was in some degree of pain. “Ok, where were we? You spend the rest of the day looking for lost owners?”

Ray shook his head. It hurt to do that. His gut spasmed. What to say now. “There weren’t any new strays so I went back to Mojo and hit the books, public safety codes, criminal law. Like that. Ted has a good library. I have to bone up for the State exam.”

“And Ted will vouch for your being there, how long, all afternoon?”

“Uh, no, Ted usually takes Friday afternoons off for his golf date.”

Orthall smiled. “The Nineteenth Hole?”

Ray nodded. Ted liked to get stewed while talking up his golf game. And even if he’d been there he wouldn’t have noticed that around three Ray left unannounced. He had to tread carefully. He’d gone to the house on Ripley that Charlene shared with her roommate, another cocktail waitress from La Bête Noir. Afterwards they’d gone to a hip little Korean restaurant in a strip mall over on Yulupa. And then back to her place.

“Ok, Ray, we’ve established you taught martial arts until eleven, worked out, had lunch, picked up your check after you went home to shower, drove to the county shelter and then drove back to Josephson’s office on College. Till what time?”

“Four thirty, five.”

“I see, hitting the books pretty hard, that’s commendable. What then?”

Ray dropped his gaze to the table. The books were the gadget and gear catalogs Ted kept around the office. Gadget porn, Ted called it. Civil and criminal codes put him to sleep. “I went back to my place and got ready for my gig at La Bête Noir.”

“Your gig.”

“Yeah, I handle the door, check IDs, that kind of thing.”

“Well, so far nothing you’ve said has been useful except that I am getting a better picture of you, Ray. Martial arts intern pet detective bouncer. What time did you go to work at the night club?”

At least he knew what it was. “I start at nine. I sometimes go in a little earlier. I’m friends with some of the staff.”

“So from four thirty, five? How long is that?”  The eye thing again and when Ray didn’t react, “That’s almost four hours. A critical amount of time. What did you do?”

“Usual stuff. Had something to eat. Went for a run. Took another shower”

“A run? Where?”

“In the neighborhood. I try to get one in every evening. Even at this time of year.”  Cissy had come back late from an estate sale in Mill Valley just as he was getting ready for work. She was exhausted and in a mood so he didn’t say much except that he’d grabbed a bite out.

“Can you verify where you were during that time? Girlfriend, domestic partner, mom?”

Ray grimaced more at the mention of his mother. Since when did she care where he’d been? “Girlfriend. She was on business down in Marin and didn’t get back till I was about to leave.”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“Ray, I have a problem here. There’s no one to verify you were where you say you were for that period of time. That happens to be the time frame investigators are focusing on.”

Ray shook his head without moving his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to take my word that I was where I said I was.”

“That’s not good enough, Ray.”  Orthall had leaned forward to emphasize the unacceptability of his answer. “But we’ll come back to that. I’m going to assume that if someone asked the staff at the night club they would confirm that you worked the door till about when? Closing time? What time is that?”

“I’m usually out of there a little after two. Depends if I socialize after hours.”

“Did you socialize after hours this morning?”

Ray was reminded. Was it still morning? “No.”

“Alright, went home to the girlfriend. Was she waiting up? You wake her getting in bed? These are things I’m going to ask her. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Cissy. Celia Marleau.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Common spelling.”

“Ok, so M-a-r-l-o-w. With an e?” Orthall scrawled the name on the outside of the folder. “And which was it, waiting or waking?”

“She usually waits up for me.”

The old cop shook his head. “No, Ray, straight answers. Clear cut. Yes or no.”

Ray looked up at the ceiling and stretched pressing against the back of the chair. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover the yawn. “I can’t remember.”

“Cut the crap, Ray.” Orthall had opened the file and found what he was looking for. “At 2:39 AM Sebastopol Police dispatch ran a ten twenty eight on California plate GMTI00. That came back on a tan ‘94 Honda hatchback registered to a Raymond Allen Phillips. That request came in from a patrolman conducting a traffic stop on Bodega Highway just inside the Sebastopol city limits. The officer confirmed that he did make a tail light stop and that the driver was identified as Ray Phillips, someone he knew from the Academy.”  Orthall looked up from the page. “Stop me if any of this is inaccurate, Ray.”

“Yeah, so I went for a drive. What of it?”

“The officer also states that there was a second occupant in the vehicle who appeared to be sleeping or passed out. Not something unusual for early Saturday morning. Incidentally, according to the officer, Warren Kroener, you appeared sober. Who was in the car with you, Ray?”

Ok, this is where silence is golden or at least not incriminating. He stared at a spot on the table between them.

“Let me fill in the blanks for you, Ray. A resident in one of the trailers at Bottle Point Marina reported a suspicious vehicle parked near the slip when she was awakened early this morning by one of the boats starting out into the bay. There was a car with misted windows parked by the empty slip like someone was inside sleeping. There’d been break-ins at the marina so she jotted down the license. Guess what she copied down, Ray? GMTIOO! Whatever the fuck that means?”  He shot Ray a look like that might have been the worst offense. And waited. “Well, what’s it stand for? Some kind of secret society?”

“Gumshoe. It stands for gumshoe.”

Orthall stared down at the page. And then back up at Ray. “Ok, I get it. Like that weird way you can spell fish.”  He managed a taut smile. “Cute. Perfect for a pet detective.”  He closed the folder after removing a sheet and holding it up showing only the blank backside. “I’m gonna show you something, Ray, but first let me fill in more of the blanks. That party boat leaving while you were taking your nap was The Black Manta owned by Seagoing Sports Fishing. Know who is a partner in that venture, Ray? Colin Knox. Name ring a bell, Ray?”

“Yeah. So?”  This had to be a drug thing. But why a retired homicide cop?

“Just so we make sure we’re talking about the same guy. Colin Knox, the war hero. Kicked ass in Iraq, saved his patrol from ambush. Killed a bunch of people. That Colin Knox. Killer Colin, they called him.”

“I never heard him called that.”

“So you know the guy. Son of former city councilman Howard Knox. Decorated war vet.”

“Yeah, I was friends with him in school.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that Colin Knox was the passenger in the car when Sebastopol PD made that traffic stop. Am I right?”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“I’m gonna assume by your unresponsiveness that I’m right. You went to Bottle Point Marina in the early hours of the morning with Colin Knox as a passenger. I want to know what you talked about. Everything you talked about.”

“Listen, I don’t have anything to do with his drug stuff. That’s why I don’t hang with him anymore. And since he’s been back from Iraq he’s had this swelled head. All that hero bullshit. Hard to take.”

“This isn’t about drugs, Ray.” Orthall placed the sheet on the table between them. It was a color photo enlargement.

Ray stared at it and in recognition pulled his head up sharply.

“That’s not pizza.” Orthall poked an arthritic finger at the picture

Ray returned his gaze to the photo. In the middle of the tomato sauce was an eyeball.

“It’s Mandy Goll. Or what’s left of her face.”