Eleven

“ARNOLD CLAUDE COLLINS,” ANGIE WALTERS SAID when I picked up the phone late the next morning.

“Known to all and sundry as Acey?” I knew from Tiffany’s comment about her brother’s parole officer that Acey must have a record, but I’d been waiting for Angie to get back to me with details. I’d figured it could take a while since Angie wasn’t supposed to be feeding me information. She did it anyway, for reasons of her own.

“Thirty-six years old,” Angie continued in her trademark raspy voice. “He’s got a sheet going back fifteen years. He used to ride with a motorcycle gang but he’s been out of circulation for a while, owing to a recent stretch at Folsom.”

“What was he in for?”

“Receiving stolen property. Plea-bargained, sentenced to three years. Got out in two. He’s on parole.”

“Who’s his parole officer? Do you have an address for Collins?” Angie gave me the name and two addresses.

Acey worked as a mechanic—that much I’d guessed from the condition of his hands. Both addresses were in North Oakland. The garage was located on Telegraph Avenue near the MacArthur BART station, and Acey’s residence was in the Temescal neighborhood, on Miles Avenue near Forty-ninth Street. It was just after noon when I visited the garage. I didn’t see the car Acey said he was selling for his sister, but I supposed that now that the Mercedes had been stolen, Tiffany would need her Subaru.

A man in oil-stained coveralls told me Acey was on his lunch break. Had Acey gone home? It was a possibility, since he lived nearby. I headed for Miles Avenue, expecting an apartment building. Instead I found a small Victorian house, painted blue with gray trim, its window boxes full of geraniums, and a bird feeder hanging from the eaves of the porch.

I parked at the curb, got out of my Toyota and looked at the house, one story built high off the ground, with a garage tucked underneath. I didn’t see the Harley, but an old bronze Plymouth with California plates sat in the driveway. The lawn had been replaced by drought-resistant foliage surrounded by redwood chips.

If the flowers and the bird feeder weren’t enough to intrigue me, the sound effects certainly were. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto poured through the open screen door, the volume turned up to an ear-splitting level. I climbed the steps leading to the front porch and spotted a bell to the right of the door. I pushed it, but the music was so loud it drowned out the buzzer, if that worked at all. I peered through the screen door and saw shelves on the right-hand wall, holding a stereo system and a television set.

I pounded on the door and shouted a greeting. “Hello? Anybody home?”

A woman appeared from the back of the house and saw me at the door. She picked up a small rectangle, aimed it at the shelves, and the music stopped abruptly. Compact disc remote, I realized.

“You like Rachmaninoff,” I said.

“I like piano music.”

She spoke in a crisp no-nonsense voice, hands on her hips as she walked up to the screen door. She was a slender woman, her long hair a straight shiny curtain down her back and shoulders, its dark brown strands touched here and there with silver. She wore black jeans, black espadrilles, and a white eyelet cotton blouse, its tail tucked into the waistband of the jeans. Gold hoops glinted in her ears. I looked at her left hand and didn’t see a wedding band.

“If you’re selling something, I’m not buying,” she said.

“I’m looking for Acey Collins.”

A pair of sharp brown eyes bored directly into mine. “Why? Who’re you?”

“Jeri Howard. I need to talk with him about his sister Tiffany.”

“The private investigator,” she said. “He told me about you. He’s not here.”

“Are you Mrs. Collins?” I asked. She nodded. “May I talk with you, then?”

She thought about it for a moment, then unlocked the screen door. “My name’s Genevieve. People call me Gen. We can talk for a little while. Then I’ve got errands to run.”

The first thing I saw when I stepped into the Collins’s living room was an old upright piano, its wood scarred and its ivory keys yellowed and chipped. A stack of sheet music was piled on top, and a backless stool was tucked under the keyboard. The piano stood against the wall opposite the front door, to the left of an open doorway leading to the back of the house. I walked over and played a scale. As far as I could tell, the piano was in tune.

“Do you play?” I asked.

“A little. Blues and boogie-woogie.”

“And Mozart.” I glanced at the sheet music on the top of the stack and saw the composer’s name.

“Blues I can handle.” She smiled. “Mozart’s a challenge. Look, you didn’t come here to talk about piano music. What’s on your mind?”

I turned and looked around the room. Genevieve Collins was a casual housekeeper, but so was I. The place wasn’t dirty, it was just cluttered, the kind of clutter that accumulates with day-to-day life and busy schedules, too many things and not enough places to put them. Some children’s toys, a stuffed bear and a doll, had been discarded on the seat of the rocking recliner chair that stood near the front window. Books were stacked haphazardly on a low bookcase under the window, as well as here and there on the shelves that held record albums, CDs, and audiotapes. The VCR rested on top of the TV set, and I saw a couple of videotapes as well.

Genevieve took the CD out of the player and replaced it in its case, then turned off the unit. She crossed the room to the old sofa. It was long with a high back, upholstered in a harvest print of squash, pumpkin, and ears of com spilling from a cornucopia, its rust and brown and yellow fabric worn and scratched at the bottom, as though a cat had been sharpening its claws there. A crocheted afghan in the same fall colors was folded lengthwise and lay across the top of the sofa. Genevieve sat down on the sofa and began straightening the magazines strewn atop the rattan chest that served as a coffee table. I pulled out the piano stool, its leg catching on the edge of the brown-and-gold-patterned rug that covered the hardwood floor. I righted the stool and sat down.

“How long have you and Acey been together?”

“Fifteen years. Married twelve. We’ve had our ups and downs and two kids.” She looked up from the magazines. “I thought you came to talk about Tiffany.”

“So tell me about Tiffany.”

Genevieve didn’t say anything for a moment, then she sighed. “She’s the baby sister, Acey’s the oldest. There’s two other boys in between. One’s in the Army, the other’s in jail.”

“Acey did some time too.”

“He was set up,” she snapped, the glare from her eyes hard and narrow. She didn’t ask me how I knew about Acey’s prison record. “Look, he stays out of trouble. We’re doing all right. He’s got a good job as a mechanic. He comes home every night and stays with the kids while I work nights, waiting tables. He hands me his paycheck every week and I pay the bills. We even manage to put a little money away. On weekends he gets together with his buddies and raises a little hell. But he stays out of trouble, because he doesn’t want to go back to the joint. So don’t hold that against him.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Well, a lot of people do. It grinds my gears. What has this got to do with Tiffany anyway?”

“When I talked with Acey a few days ago, he made some threats against Sam Raynor.”

“So Acey doesn’t like Tiffany’s boyfriend. I met the guy. Believe me, he’s no prize.”

“Raynor got roughed up a couple of weeks ago over in Alameda. Two bikers grabbed him in a parking lot outside a club on Webster Street and slapped him around. Raynor wound up with a black eye, but they could have hurt him worse. I think the whole incident was designed to get his attention.”

Genevieve’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. She sat back on the sofa, crossed her legs, and folded her arms over her chest, her head tilted to one side as she challenged me. “And you figure Acey had something to do with it. Just because he’s a biker and rides a Harley.”

“I think it’s a logical assumption. It’s not because Acey’s a biker. When I talked with him the other day, he seemed genuinely concerned about his sister. When it comes to protecting his family, who knows?”

Now she frowned and shook her head, the fingers of her right hand toying with one gold earring. “Acey’s got a blind spot where Tiffany’s concerned,” she admitted. “Ever since they were kids, he gets into this big brother number. He thinks he’s got to protect her all the time. I keep telling him she’s a grown woman. She’s twenty-five, been out on her own since she was eighteen. Tiff does all right. She’s just independent.”

Headstrong was the word I would have used to describe Tiffany Collins. I tempered my words, appealing to Genevieve to look at another side. “Sometimes the wrong kind of guy can turn a woman’s head. Even a sensible woman who can take care of herself. Did Acey tell you why I’m investigating Raynor?”

Genevieve nodded. “He said Sam’s in the middle of a divorce and he’s hiding some money from the wife. He also said Sam beat up on his wife. Tiffany wouldn’t put up with that. She’s got too much self-respect.”

“Are you sure? You said Acey has a blind spot where his sister is concerned. What if Tiffany has a blind spot and can’t see Sam Raynor for what he is? I’m sure his wife didn’t, at first I’ll bet if I dig deep enough, I’ll find some past girlfriends with bruises. Guys who beat up the women in their lives have a pattern. It’s easy to get fooled. Acey said himself he’s afraid Raynor has Tiffany mesmerized. Raynor’s smooth, he talks a good line. He buys Tiffany presents, takes her out to dinner. He’s free with the money that he’s not supposed to have. I’ll bet he even had something to do with buying that Mercedes.”

“That’s what Acey thinks.” Genevieve’s frown had deepened while I talked. “Tiffany said it was her money, but she was really vague about whether it was her own savings or if she’d taken out a loan. I guess Sam actually found the car and negotiated the deal. According to Tiff, Sam picked up the car for a song, because it was several years old and needed some work. Acey checked it out, though. He said it was in good shape.”

“A used Mercedes is still worth a lot of money. I’d like to know where Sam Raynor found this bargain. Did he or Tiffany happen to mention that?” She shook her head. “Is she the type to save for a rainy day?”

“She’s the type to hit Nordstrom and blow a week’s salary on clothes. And bunnies.” Genevieve smiled as she spoke of Tiffany’s penchant for rabbits. Then her face grew serious again. She shifted on the sofa, recrossing her legs.

“When Acey and the other kids were growing up, they were dirt-poor, didn’t have much. I think that’s why Tiff spends money on herself. She’s gotta have all those pretty things she didn’t have when she was little.”

“Does she just have her civil service salary?” I asked. “Where would she come up with the kind of money it takes to buy a Mercedes, even a used one?”

Genevieve leaned forward and tapped one finger against her knee. “When Acey’s mom died last year, there was some insurance money. All four of the kids got a share. It was a good chunk of cash. Acey and I locked his share up in an IRA. I don’t know what Tiff did with hers. I kept talking IRAs, but you can’t preach to someone that age about retirement. They think they’re gonna live forever. Tiff talked about buying a condo. Then she turned up with this flashy car that cost a bundle. I think that’s why Acey was upset with her. Why put all that money into a car when she could have used it for a down payment and closing costs?”

“You know the Mercedes was stolen night before last?”

“Yeah.” Genevieve shook her head. “Tiff called here yesterday. She was pissed, at the cops, the insurance company—and you. You were there in the afternoon, asking questions. She had to take BART up here to Oakland last night to get the Subaru, so she’d have something to drive. Good thing Acey hadn’t sold it yet.”

“Tiffany barely had the Mercedes long enough to register it,” I said. “Now the insurance company is going to have to pay off a fairly large sum of money. It doesn’t set right.”

Genevieve stared at me, brown eyebrows raised over her dark eyes. “You think Sam had something to do with stealing the car,” she said. “How do you figure?”

“I haven’t yet. But this whole situation with the missing Mercedes is a little too ripe for my nose. I’ve done some work for insurance adjusters over the years. That means I’ve seen a scam or two. This reminds me of one I encountered a couple of years ago. Let me speculate for a moment.”

I paused, gathered my thoughts. “Raynor has money he wants to hide from his wife, so he doesn’t have to share it as community property. He claims he has nothing except his Navy salary. That’s where I come in, to find the money. I look at Raynor’s friends and see he’s spending a lot on Tiffany. I think he gave her the money to buy that car.”

“I can’t believe she’d go along with it.”

“She would if he’s got her convinced she’s doing him a favor. Sam goes to Tiffany with some song and dance about his horrible wife trying to take everything he’s got. Can he stash some money with Tiffany, in her name, in her bank account? But that might be too obvious, considering everyone knows he’s dating her. So he says, let’s buy this expensive car and put it in your name. That makes it more difficult to trace. Sam buys the car, Tiffany registers and insures it, and lo and behold, the car gets stolen. When Tiffany gets that insurance check, she banks it, holds it until Sam’s divorce is final, then gives the money back. It’s no longer community property. There’s a kicker to this particular scenario. Suppose Sam stole the car himself, or arranged to have it stolen? He sells it back to whoever he bought it from, and gets paid off twice.”

Genevieve looked alarmed. “You think Tiffany’s involved in this?”

“I hope not. If she is, it’s more than just bad judgment. It’s fraud.” Genevieve frowned. She hadn’t considered that possibility. “Look, when I talked to Tiffany, she appeared to be genuinely upset about the car. I don’t think she knows anything about how it was stolen. But it’s just too convenient for that Mercedes to disappear a month after she supposedly bought it. It makes me very suspicious.”

We were both silent for a moment. My fingers stroked a couple of piano keys, the notes sounding in the room. Then I heard children’s voices and the thump of feet on the front steps. The screen door opened and two children entered, both with Acey’s dark blond hair and Genevieve’s brown eyes. The younger was a little girl, about eight, scuffed knees showing under her denim shorts and pink shirt. The boy was ten or eleven, dressed in faded dusty jeans and a T-shirt decorated with dinosaurs in neon greens and yellows. School hadn’t started yet, and the kids had a tousled, grubby look that indicated they were wringing the last few days of freedom and pleasure out of the summer.

When they saw me sitting on the piano stool, the children stopped their chatter and looked me over with curious eyes. “Are we gonna go shopping for school clothes?” the boy asked his mother.

“Yes, we are.” Genevieve uncrossed her legs and rose from the sofa in one quick movement. “Find those library books. They’re due today.” As the children headed for the rear of the house, she turned to me. “I can’t talk anymore. I’ve got errands to run and I have to be at work at six.”

“If you have anything to add, call me.” I gave her one of my business cards.

Outside, I sidestepped two bicycles, both with shiny red paint scuffed and scratched with use, which lay against the front steps. “Put those bikes away before we leave,” I heard Genevieve say as I walked to my car.