Courage Begins: A Ray Courage Mystery Novella Page 5
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.”
7
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 whispering 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.
8
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 colle
ge 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