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On Sunday they went to a pet store to get grit for Joh
Just inside the store they were ambushed by the puppy display. There was a litter of black Labs, two cairn terriers and two beagles. Signs encouraged you to touch.
McMichael watched his son lean over and give his hand to a chunky Labrador that took a finger and wagged his tail, growling. Joh
"Can we get him?"
Joh
"When I buy my own place, John."
"Oh."
When he could buy again. Rentals were tough in San Diego, rentals that allowed dogs even tougher. McMichael ignored the fact that he was gone so much, that a puppy can't be left alone for long. And the food and the housebreaking and the expensive shots. He'd cross those bridges later. He watched his boy and the black Lab and another little bit of his heart crumbled away.
Then something else started to bother him.
"When's that going to be, Dad?"
"End of the year, I hope."
"That's forever."
"No. It's eleven months."
The brain thorn from the Cabrillo Star, he thought: Patricia's story about the missing twenty grand. What was it?
Missing cash. But Pete said it wasn't the gardener because he'd have split to Mexico with it.
And it wasn't Sally because he was giving her things.
And it wasn't the rats because they were busy with the dog food.
The dog food.
Dog food but no dog. A dog at Pete's six months ago but no dog there the night he died.
He used his cell, pleased to know the number by heart. Sally picked up on the third ring. She told him that Pete had had a dog until a couple of weeks ago. It was a Jack Russell terrier, a feisty little thing, strong and playful and much loved by Pete.
"His name was Zeke."
"Well, what happened to him?"
"He died. Pete woke up New Year's morning and the dog was dead in its bed."
"What did Pete do with him?"
"Well, uh, he broke the law probably, is what he did."
Exactly what Pete would do, McMichael thought. A captain, ru
"In his yard. In the sand, just inside the wall. What's going on?"
"Someone plans a robbery or a murder, they have to deal with the dog. Can you show me where the grave is?"
"There's a headstone and everything. Do you really think someone would think that far ahead?"
"It's just something you look into. That's all. It's probably nothing."
Joh
They asked the clerk about owl parrots, but she had never heard of such a thing. She recommended cockatiels as a logical upgrade from the parakeet.
Joh
THIRTEEN
The Holy Trinity, thought McMichael: a man's wallet, his calendar and his address book. You want to know the man, believe in these.
He sat with his back to the window in Pete Braga's office, second floor, Monday morning, nine o'clock.
Downstairs, Hector and Barbara were deconstructing the garage in search of cigar boxes that might or might not contain twenty thousand in cash. McMichael could hear Harley and Erik outside, yakking away while they dug for the dog.
Braga 's office was a large room, with six oak file cabinets, an old desk and chair, a typewriter and a banker's lamp. No computer. There was a shortwave radio setup, a Grundig weather radio, fax and answering machines- no messages other than the two that Barbara Givens had heard on the night of the murder.
Framed photographs of Pete's tuna boats graced one wall: Cabrillo Star, Princess A
Other photographs showed two men with two poles working a single line and a single fish. In others, three and even four fishermen pulled together to haul aboard their enormous and valuable treasures. That was before Franklin 's time, McMichael thought, back when they broke their backs on the fish rather than on the nets.
Another wall was dedicated to Pete the car man and Pete the politician. There were photos of him standing next to outlandish Ford concept cars, gleaming Mustangs, Ford formula racers and fu
Well, McMichael thought, looking at the Ke
Pete's address book was an old leather-bound spiral volume with his name embossed in gold on the cover.
Using Henry Grothke Jr.'s list of heirs and the disinherited, McMichael found that they were all listed here, except for the estranged son, Carl. He looked to see if Raegan's Libertad was listed, but it wasn't. He wrote down Victor's address and room number at the Horton Grand Hotel. Grothke, Steiner & Grothke, of course. Sally Rainwater. He put a last name to deep-voice Dom from Libertad- da Rocha. He noted numbers for the mayor, the city councilmen and women, the county supervisors, the Democratic Party chairman, the chief of police and three of the assistant chiefs- Almanza, Bland and Dodge. The port commissioners. And the San Diego diocese, the bishop. Pete had come a long way, McMichael thought, from fisherman to friend of the bishop.
The calendar was a plastic-clad book, very similar to McMichael's own.
He turned to Wednesday, January 8, the day Pete had died: Dom 8 breakf/plumber 10
Dom, of the Tunaboat Foundation? McMichael made a note to call him.
And Tuesday, January 7: call Camlin 9:30/MRI 12
Monday, January 6: Grothke noon
Sunday, January 5: Grothke noon
McMichael wondered why you'd meet your lawyer at noon on a Sunday. Golf? Something social? Old Grothke or Junior?
He found a number for Myron Camlin in Pete's address book and dialed. A receptionist told him he'd reached the law office of Myron D. Camlin. McMichael told her who he was and she put him through. He asked the lawyer why Pete Braga had called.
"He was unhappy with Grothke, Steiner and Grothke," said Camlin. "He wanted to talk to me about managing his estate and probate matters. Keep that between us if you will."
"Unhappy why?"
"Apparently they'd lost some documents," said the lawyer. "Pete didn't say what. He was very angry. We set up an appointment for this Friday, so he could tell me exactly what was going on."
McMichael wondered if Pete's Sunday visit to Grothke was to give him one last chance to come up with what was missing. He found the date and time of the Camlin appointment on the calendar. "He didn't say anything more specific about what was lost?"