Looking for Yesterday (13 page)

“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “I know you and Alison needed to talk things out, but you’ve taken the whole day off. You have a job here, not a hobby, you know—”

“Stop!”

“It’s inconsiderate. It’s against agency policy. It’s—”

“Just stop already! I’ve got a serious situation on my hands. Can you meet me at Jake Green’s place in Atherton?”

“What’re you doing there?”

“Please. Just come. I…need you.”

The gravity in his voice damped my anger. “Sure.”

“To get here you take 280 South till you hit—”

“I have the address and I’ll use my GPS to find it.”

“Okay. The house is set back and flanked by palms. Spanish-style, looks small, considering the price tag.”

“I take it Green’s not there.”

“Just get down here—fast!”

5:17 p.m.

The afternoon light was fading when I located Green’s house. It
did
look small, considering the size of the other properties I’d passed along the winding, tree-shaded street. I drove up a blacktop driveway into a circular parking area with a fountain in its center—water spraying from what looked like a trumpet vine flower into a simple marble basin. Mick’s Harley was nowhere in sight.

Frowning, I got out of the car and followed a flagstone walk to the front door. Rang twice, but received no answer. There was another path along the left side of the house; when I started along it, Mick popped out from behind a yew tree, his finger to his lips.

“What the hell…?” I whispered.

He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to where the path opened into an enormous backyard with a sweeping green lawn, a detached four-car garage, flower beds alive with winter blooms, an Olympic-size pool, and what I assumed must be a pool house.

“There,” he said, pointing to the pool.

I stepped forward, my breath catching as I saw a man floating facedown in a spot of pinkish-hued water. I recognized Jake Green by the perfectly round bald spot on the crown of his head. There was a raggedy, stained hole in his once-white shirt.

“Jesus,” I said. Looked away, took a couple of breaths, then looked back. The shirt was not only bloodstained but had a dark smear around the bullet hole that looked as if it might be gunpowder residue. It would have washed away, if trapped air had not pushed the shirt above the water’s surface.

“You call the police?” I asked Mick.

“No. I wanted you to see this first.”

“Mick, somebody might’ve seen you come in here—”

“I parked my bike around the corner; there are a couple of others there that’re probably snooting mine because it’s not as classy. In case you didn’t notice, these houses are set far apart and three of them are vacant and for sale: no prying eyes.”

I studied Green’s body again. “Shot in the back. Can’t tell from here if it was point-blank or not. But judging from the dark stains on his shirt, the killer stood close.”

“Somebody he knew?”

“Maybe.”

“Pro hit?”

“Could be.” I turned and surveyed the house. The French doors to the pool area were open.

Mick looked alarmed. “Shar, you’re not—”

“Yes, I am. I want you to remove my car from the driveway. Take it down to the turnout near the freeway and walk back.”

“This is not a good move.”

“I’m sick of good moves. I’m sick of being the good kid on the block. I’m tired of rules.”

“What the hell is the
matter
with you?”

“Maybe when you’re my age and have my experience you’ll understand. Maybe not. I’m not sure I really understand it myself yet.”

“Give me a clue.”

“Not now—just go!”

“I will, but don’t you take a step inside until I get back.”

5:40 p.m.

After the sound of my Z4 faded down the winding road, I stood next to the pool where Jake Green’s body floated, the water occasionally stirred by the filtration mechanism. I knew speed was necessary here, but I felt sluggish, an aftereffect of the revelation of being sick and tired of being the good kid who followed the rules that I’d—clumsily—shared with Mick minutes before.

Something in me had snapped at the sight of Green’s body, something that couldn’t be pasted—or even Gorilla Glued—back together.

Hy had spoken to me of breaking points like this. When a violent event brought about a change in your emotional reactions and you were never again the person you had been before.

I was angry—but it was a cold anger. I didn’t care that Jake Green was dead in his pool. If I’d had my .357 with me, I wouldn’t have minded shooting him again—a symbolic remove-you-from-the-rest-of-humanity gesture. A gesture that once I would have considered barbaric.

Not any more.

Since I didn’t have the gun, I went on to the more logical thing: a search of his house. Disobeying Mick’s orders, I took out my flashlight and went inside.

The French doors led into a rec room: fireplace, pool table, old-fashioned jukebox, comfortable-looking furnishings. I scanned the walls beside the door for an alarm keypad, found one to the right that had been disarmed. There could be separate alarm systems on the other doors, but I’d deal with them later.

The room was a mess. Dirty glasses and plates sat on dust-covered surfaces. Newspapers, including last Sunday’s
San Jose Mercury News
, from which the
Chron
had picked up the “Where Are They Now” story, were scattered about on the coffee table and the floor. One section was opened to a retrospective on Amelia Bettencourt’s murder and Caro Warrick’s acquittal that was similar to the one that had led me to Dave Walden.

I didn’t subscribe to the
Mercury
, but I knew it to be a good paper. I scanned the piece, found it accurate, and also found a reference to Jake Green. He was described as an “entrepreneur dealing in international commodities exchanges.”

Not a struggling travel agent?

What commodities? Corn? Wheat? Pork bellies?

And dealing with whom? China? African countries? South America?

Whatever the answer, Jake Green hadn’t been pleased with the publicity: the page from the
Mercury
was crumpled and torn.

I checked the reporter’s byline: Rebecca Regan. I didn’t know her, but I hoped to shortly make her acquaintance.

6:20 p.m.

“Shar, come on out of there!” Mick, calling from outside by the pool again. “I told you to wait for me.”

I went to the French doors and said, “A few more minutes.”

He was standing a few feet away, his hands fisted. I couldn’t see his expression in the shadows, but I imagined it was angry.

“How many more?” he asked.

“Ten, maybe fifteen.”

“Look, we’ve got a dead guy in the pool and God knows who might show up—”

“Nobody’s going to show up.”

“How d’you know that?”

I didn’t, exactly, but I sensed Jake Green was the kind of man who would invite few people into his home—and none who would drop in spontaneously.

When I didn’t respond, Mick asked, “What about his security system?”

“I’ve spotted one keypad—for the French doors that’re open. Now that you’re here, you might as well look for junction boxes and wiring. Do what you can to disarm them.”

“Right. But Shar—”

“Fifteen minutes, tops.”

6:24 p.m.

What I’d seen in the rec room didn’t reflect the rest of the house. The kitchen was equally messy, but the rooms behind it were strangely tidy, full of African tribal artifacts, some of them over eight feet tall. Rugs whose origin I couldn’t begin to guess at hung on wires from the ceilings, creating a maze that was difficult to navigate. In one room was a shrine with a studio portrait of Amelia flanked with light bulbs that flickered to emulate candles.

So maybe he
had
​ really loved her, and not just for her money.

No telling what kind of man Jake Green had been. Complicated, I supposed, like so many people.

“Shar! I’ve done all I can with the alarm system. It’s time to come out of there!”

“I haven’t even gone upstairs yet.”

The staircase was curved, without a landing, carpeted in blue. I climbed it to a short hallway. Bathroom: spacious, with a large shower that could be entered from either of the rooms that flanked it. Bedroom: neatly made up, no sign of recent occupancy. Another bedroom: rumpled bedclothes, clothing tossed around indiscriminately, but no signs of violence.

Mindful of Mick’s anxiety, I swiftly but carefully went through the closets and drawers. Jake Green had possessed an uncommon number of shoes and suits, dress and casual shirts. Coins and a thick wad of bills secured by a money clip lay on the dresser. The clip was inscribed with Green’s initials. There was a wallet: driver’s license, ATM card, an unusual number of credit cards—two or three each from Visa, MasterCard, American Express, Discover, Capital One.

A lacquered red-and-black box sat beside the wallet; it was crammed with costly-looking chains and rings. In the bathroom I found no prescription medicines and no over-the-counter drugs except aspirin. I also learned that he used Crest toothpaste, Dial soap, and Rogaine—apparently he hadn’t been one of the people for whom the hair loss remedy worked.

I hurried back downstairs in time to hear Mick’s muted voice say, “Shar—come here!”

“Where?”

“Stairway off this little telephone nook by the kitchen.”

I’d noted the nook before.

“You won’t believe this!” he added.

“I’m coming!”

The stairs were old and worn, the passage of many feet having gouged deep but smooth depressions. I put my hand on the railing, then removed it, afraid it would give. Mick had turned the lights on in the basement, and at first I saw only an old-fashioned laundry room with a wringer washing machine and an ironing mangle in one corner; then he gestured through a door to his left.

Crates. Open crates full of guns. And not just any kind of guns: these were weapons of war.

Enough of them to supply a small army.

Some I recognized because RI possessed them in its not-inconsiderable arsenal: AK-47s, AR-15s, Heckler & Koch 416s.

Others were unfamiliar, but all were black and ugly, nesting in their soft pink packing material that incongruously reminded me of cotton candy.

The damage these could do, the lives that could be lost.

Up to now I’d considered my .38 and .357 dangerous weapons, but their capacity paled in comparison to the crated firepower.

Mick was inspecting rows of stacked boxes. “Lots of ammo here too.”

I said, “So Green wasn’t just laundering money for other people; he was earning a lot of it by trading in arms.”

“Nice little cottage industry.”

“Seems to me he was careless, leaving all this in an unlocked room.”

“There’s an alarm on this door, but I got past it.”

“How?”

He held up something that looked like a flash drive for a computer. “Decoding device. Something I whipped up in my spare time.”

Sometimes he purely amazed me.

“So what now?” he asked.

“This case has gotten entirely too big for us. It’s time to bring in the police—the FBI and ATF, too.”

I started for the stairs, taking out my cell; Mick was close behind. But just as I put my foot on the first step, sounds from above froze me in place.

Somebody else was in the house.

Mick heard them too. “What do we do now?” he whispered.

“Nothing yet. Until we know who they are, we don’t want to reveal ourselves.”

The footsteps were louder overhead now—more than one person coming through the front door.

I grabbed Mick’s arm, pulled him back into the laundry room. “Over here!”

The mangle was a huge contraption left over from the days when proper housewives—or more likely their servants—wouldn’t dream of making up a bed with sheets that hadn’t been ironed. Supported on thick legs at either end, it was pulled away from the wall just far enough that Mick and I could slip behind either leg. I scraped my back on the rough wall, glanced at Mick and saw him grimace as he did the same.

Somebody yelled, “Jesus Christ, look out there!” and I knew they’d sighted Green’s body.

I whispered to Mick, “Did you disarm the front door?”

“No. It’s not linked with the others.”

“So whoever it is has a key and the code.”

Now the intruders were on the stairs. Two of them, I thought, but I didn’t dare look to be sure. A man’s voice said, “This is where he stores the stuff,” and they went into the adjoining room.

Mick moved his head, indicating we should try to escape while they were inside.

I shook mine firmly, rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Someone was still walking around upstairs.

Voices came from the room where the arms were stored, but I couldn’t make out the words. After a short while they became clearer.

A hoarse-sounding man said, “But why was that alarm off and the door open? And if it’s not in there, where did he put it?”

“Maybe whoever shot him got the code out of him first,” his companion suggested.

“Maybe. Better hope not.”

A third man’s steps came down the stairs. “Doesn’t look like anybody’s gone through the rest of the house. Whoever blew Green away either got what he wanted down here or took off when we arrived.”

“It’s not in there with the guns.”

“Did you look for it?
Really
look?”

“Whaddaya think we are, imbeciles?”

Long silence. Then all three laughed with varying degrees of nervousness.

“Ah, shit,” the hoarse-voiced man said, “let’s get outta here before somebody else shows up.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

7:43 p.m.

Mick and I waited fifteen minutes after they were gone before we wormed our way out of our hiding place and stretched the kinks from our cramped bodies.

“I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” I said.

“Me too, or at least I’d like to,” he replied. “What now? Search the house for whatever they wanted?”

“They knew what it was and didn’t find it. What chance does that give us?”

“Virtually none.”

“Okay, now we’ll turn this over to the cops and the feds.”

9:58 p.m.

I leaned my forehead against my left hand, eyes burning from the light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs of an interview room at the Atherton Police Department. So far I’d spoken with officials of the FBI, the ATF, and other interested agencies; been given four cups of bad coffee and a turkey sandwich with a suspiciously rancid smell; and phoned my criminal defense attorney, Glenn Solomon, who was now on his way down the Peninsula. I’d asked about Mick, but had been told nothing; I’d volunteered to have my case files messengered down from my office and been told that wasn’t necessary; and I’d been subjected to various scathing comments—from both men and women—about my professional life and style.