Strange Bedfellows

13

Taft’s Tip

Joel Garza, the Oakland police sergeant in charge of the ranger station, was surprised by my request to use their office but took it in stride, especially after he saw the handcuffed Muhammad sitting in the middle of the parking lot and Taft’s Crown Vic receding down the road, trailing an angry cloud of dust. After listening to what went down and checking my ID, he asked: “Did the agent say why he wanted to interview your guy up here?”

“I think he wanted somewhere secluded.”

Garza exchanged a puzzled look with one of his officers, a beefy-armed white guy with the name RAMSTACK stenciled on his green uniform. “Park’s closed from dusk to dawn,” Ramstack said, “so there’s not much vehicular or pedestrian traffic up here right now.”

“Overall,” Garza added, “it’s pretty self-containing. Trail bikers getting into altercations with the joggers, that’s about it. Nobody wants to be down in the flats. It’s a three-ring circus-murder, drug dealing, prostitution.”

And one crazy FBI agent. “Well, whatever Taft’s reasons,” I replied, “I’m not letting this situation go sideways on my watch.”

Garza still looked suspicious. “I’d better call this in to my C.O., let him know what’s up.”

“Call Sergeant Word, if you want a character reference on me,” I added quickly. “Richard Word. He and I were on a panel at the National Black Police convention a couple of years ago.”

“I’ll do that,” Garza replied, making a note. “Anything else you need from us?”

“A phone.”

Garza went to his car to radio in the report, and Ramstack kept an eye on Muhammad while I stepped into another room to notify Thor and Stobaugh of what had happened. Stobaugh had already left for the day, but Thor was still in the office with Detective Perkins, sorting through their notes from the interview they and Wunderlich had conducted with Shuttleworth and Bezney’s audit manager.

“Before you start,” I said, “I need to fill you in on what’s going on up here.”

“From the sound of your voice, I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

“You won’t.” I explained my misadventures with Special Agent Taft and Rashaan Muhammad, and where Malik’s half brother and I were now. “Took you to some park in the hills and left you? What the hell kind of game is that asshole playing?”

“You tell me. Taft made some vague threats about how I should talk to my people and how I don’t want to fuck with him, so I was thinking maybe I should ask you was there a reason you were so gung-ho about that tip he gave us.”

“Not gung-ho, interested. You know as well as I do that the Black Muslims have a checkered history in this country. Do I have to remind you of the Malcolm X shooting?”

“Come on, Thor, that was damn near thirty years ago, and some people think the FBI set Malcolm up!”

“What about the hate Farrakhan and his henchmen have been spewing lately? Some of the things Wunderlich has been telling me would curl your hair!”

“If the FBI is so tough on their case, do you really think the Nation of Islam would risk killing Shareef for doing business with a white man? Don’t fall for this mind game these Feds are playing with us!”

“Don’t get me wrong. Regardless of what’s going on within the so-called Nation, there’s no way anyone in the department would go along with the kind of cowboy stunt Taft pulled up there!”

“Good, because something’s very wrong with that man. On top of what he did to Muhammad, he seemed to know some stuff about me that was disturbing.”

“Like what?”

“Personal information and professional, too.”

There was a long pause on the line, then: “He mention Chinatown?”

I felt as if I’d been stabbed in the gut by a hot blade. “How would Taft know about that?”

I heard Thor tell Perkins to give him a moment. I heard a chair scrape, then: “I… uh… Big Mac and Stobaugh thought I needed to know about BSS, Charlotte. But it’s not gone any further than me, I swear! And, I assure you, nobody here would have said anything to an outsider.”

Was that what Taft meant by my pedigree and history? Was there anyone I could trust?

Go along to get along, my little voice reminded me.

How on earth was I going to do that?

Before the silence stretched on forever, I said: “Now that I think back on it, Taft never said anything specific.” I reached for the marble in my pocket and tried to slow my breathing. “Just a bunch of vague innuendos. He was probably fishing, trying to get over on me.”

“Don’t let him,” Thor said, a note of dismissal in his voice. “The Feds are notorious for trying to trip people up. I’m more concerned about how we get straight with Mr. Muhammad.”

As much as I hated to admit it, so was I.

“Where is he now?” Thor asked.

“Under the watchful eye of the Oakland PD. I’ll interview him, see what he can tell us about Eddie Aycox. Then I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“I wouldn’t waste a lot of time with him. What we learned from Deinhart might be much more relevant.”

“How so?”

“Deinhart copped to a slew of accounting irregularities in effect at CZ Toys since he started on the audit three years ago.”

“Like what?”

“That retreat in Montecito Alma Zuccari mentioned to Lippincott-it’s really an eight-thousand-square-foot house the ex is living in. And that European jet you picked up on-eighty percent of the miles logged last year were for what the pilot’s log indicates was Gabriella’s personal use, not to mention hundreds of thousands in designer clothing bills she racked up that were expensed as research.”

“How much are we talking here?”

“About a million a year, which the auditors were told by management would be reimbursed before they issued their report, and it always was. But last year, they found consulting fees to an overseas company with no contract, no paperwork filed with the IRS. So now the figure is up to six million.”

“From one to six million over the course of a year sounds serious. Did Deinhart discuss it with anyone at the company?”

“Mario Zuccari, last February, who promised everything would be cleaned up before the auditors wrote their opinion letter. But when Zuccari’s staff didn’t produce the contract or issue the appropriate tax forms to the consultants, the audit partner at Shuttleworth and Bezney told Deinhart it wasn’t material and deleted the comment from the letter. Deinhart thinks it’s because they were afraid they’d lose the audit and consulting fees they’ve been pulling out of the company if they pressed too hard.”

“What kind of fees are we talking about?”

“Three million a year,” Thor replied, “which Perkins and Wunderlich tell me is way out of line for audit and consulting services, given the company’s revenues.”

“And if the auditors were getting that much, there’s probably more hanky-panky going on than Deinhart was able to confirm. Now I understand why he was flipping out on drugs. Did Renata Lippincott say anything about this when you talked to her yesterday?”

“Nope, but remember how Mario was trying to convince his sister that Internal Auditing should look into the cash Engalla might have embezzled instead of some other matter the audit committee had asked about? Perkins is thinking this might have been what he was talking about.”

“If Mario’s diverting funds, it figures he wouldn’t want the board to find out. Did Deinhart by any chance talk to Chuck Zuccari about this?”

“He says no, but Perkins and I are wondering if Zuccari found out some other way.”

“If he did and took it to the board before he was shot, it would explain why they named Gabriella interim president and CEO instead of her brother.”

“But not why the board would want to keep this from us,” Thor countered. “This provides Mario with a motive.”

“Think about it-if Mario shot his father, it means the company loses not only its CEO but its CFO as well. And if they were the brains behind the operations…”

“The company would take a big hit in the stock market if they were both gone.” It all fit, but we had no evidence to tie Mario to the crime. “When are he and his sister due back from New York?”

A phone started ringing in the background, and Thor called out to Perkins to pick it up. “I’ve got a call in to Mrs. McIntyre to find out. In the meantime, I’m getting started on a search warrant for Mario’s personal financial and business records. Maybe we’ll find some paperwork that ties to the overseas company or deposits in his accounts that correspond to payments CZ Toys made.”

“What about the Feds? You gonna bring them into it?”

“I’d rather not, but Stobaugh and Big Mac are telling me I have to.”

I could hear Perkins saying something in the background and Thor tell her he’d call them right back. “That was our contact at the CHP up in Modesto. The hospital says Engalla’s beginning to come around. They think we’ll be able to talk to him in the morning.”

“Modesto’s only a couple of hours from here. I can interview him in the morning and be back by the afternoon, if you want.”

“You sure? After your run-in with Taft…”

“It’s no problem.” It was true that I would much rather have gone directly back to L.A., but I knew the importance of learning what Engalla knew about CZ Toys’ finances. After taking down the name of our contact at the CHP and Engalla’s hospital, I asked Thor what he thought we should do about Paul Taft.

“I’ll call the lieutenant and Big Mac, let them know what went down. I’ll also run this by Wunderlich when I talk to him about the search warrant, see what he makes of it.”

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation! He’s gonna be pissed you’re going after the company’s files.”

“He’ll get over it. In the meantime, try not to antagonize Mr. Muhammad any further.”

“I wasn’t the problem.”

“I know. I’m just saying Wunderlich’s not going to be as amenable to dealing with Taft if the department ends up being accused of violating another suspect’s civil rights.”

My mind was racing so fast, trying to figure out all the ways I had to protect myself, that my head hurt. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do fine,” he assured me. “And, Charlotte?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to think that… what I mean is, I haven’t said anything to anyone here at the office about Chinatown…”

Go along to get along, my voice reminded me. “Of course not.”

“I mean it, that’s your personal business. But remember this-you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. At least you’ve got enough gumption to get some help. Not everyone’s that strong.”

To hell with going along. I had to speak my mind. “If you’re referring to your boy Firestone, God knows he needs some kind of help, the way he’s been harassing females in the department.”

“Steve, me, whoever. Just don’t let the games people play mess with your head, you hear me?”

I was fascinated by how Thor could identify interpersonal mind games, but not the one Taft and the FBI were running on him about the Nation. But I thanked him for the vote of confidence even as I wondered how genuine his little speech was.

I emerged from the conference room to find Garza and Ramstack had set me up in the lobby of the ranger station, moving aside some paperwork on the glass-topped table and laying out a couple of sodas and some candy bars. I grabbed a soda, wishing it were a Scotch, and sat at the table where Muhammad was busy taping his glasses. Outside I could see where Garza and Ramstack had taken up positions at the front door, shooting the breeze but watchful for signs of Taft’s return, leaving me alone to interview Muhammad.

Apologize is more like it, but he stopped me right after the first “I’m sorry.” “My beef ain’t with you, Detective Justice,” he said quietly. “I ’on’t think I’d be alive if you didn’t pull that FBI agent offa me.” He fingered the card I’d given him. “You bein’ from the LAPD and all, I assume this has somethin’ to do with my brother Malik, right?”

Relieved to be off the hook, I nodded and pulled out my notebook. “We have some new leads, Mr. Muhammad, but we’re still trying to fill in a couple of blanks.”

“Tell me what you need to know,” he said, leaning forward urgently. “I’d do anything to help find who killed my brother. His murder’s ’bout near killed our mother. She been closed up in her house ever since it happened.”

I felt a shiver of empathy for a life thrown into limbo by grief. “What can you tell me about your brother’s business dealings?”

“Malik wudn’t a businessman. That’s what’s so sad about it. He was a researcher. But all that research changed how black folks see ourselves, y’know what’m sayin’?”

I thought of my sister-in-law, quoting Shareef’s book like the Bible. “Yes, I do.”

“‘Dr. Kinsey of the ghetto,’ me and Aisha used to call him.”

“Aisha is…?”

“My wife. Habiba was the business head in Malik’s household, always pushin’ him. Habiba thought they could parlay Malik’s research into a business manufacturin’ dolls. Malik, he would have been just as happy teachin’ his classes and writin’ his textbooks.”

I made a show of flipping back several pages in my notebook. “I understand you tried to help them.”

Muhammad leaned over, trying to read my handwriting. “I’m surprised Habiba told you that, way they ripped us off!”

I flipped the notebook closed, not wanting to reveal that my source wasn’t his sister-in-law. “Who’s ‘us’?”

Muhammad’s eyes flashed behind his taped-together glasses. “Me and Brother Aycox-Eddie-a business associate of mine. What they did to us wudn’t right, and Malik knew it! Our mother didn’t raise us that way. It’s that wife of his. She pushed him into it; I know she did.”

“Sometimes marriage pushes people into things that they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

I let him ramble a bit about how his bookish brother came to question the teaching of the Nation of Islam’s leader, The Honorable Elijah Muhammad, eventually splitting from the sect and his family to attend Harvard and become a Sunni. But, ideological differences aside, the brothers had stayed in touch through the years, prompting me to ask when Malik had approached Rashaan for money.

“It was right after he finished the book, maybe seven years ago. I’d moved back to Oakland by then, and he was teachin’ at some college down in L.A.”

I checked my notes. At least that much of what Taft and Shabazz said was tracking with Muhammad’s story.

“Malik’d heard me talk about Brother Aycox supportin’ black businesses and asked me to set up a meetin’. Although Habiba did most of the talkin,’ goin’ on and on about needing venture capital to fulfill their dream of offering ethnically diverse dolls so children of color would change the way they see themselves.” Muhammad’s voice went up an octave, and he waved his hand in an unconscious imitation of his proper-talking sister-in-law. “They even named their Muslim doll after Aisha. All Habiba’s high-flyin’ talk sold Eddie. He decided to invest, but only if I was involved, to kind of keep everybody honest. But I had to step up with some cash, prove I wudn’t in cahoots with Malik and Habiba to rook him out of his money. So, I invested seventy-five thousand altogether, every dime I could get my hands on, in SMA Enterprises.”

“Which stands for…?”

“Shareef Muhammad Aycox,” he said, unmistakable pride in his voice. “Me and Eddie had a twenty percent share each, and Malik and Habiba split the rest.”

Muhammad watched while I wrote. “But why you askin’ me all these questions about Malik’s business? Has that got somethin’ to do with why he got shot?”

“I’m just filling in the blanks for now. Where did Mr. Aycox get the money for his share of the investment?”

“Eddie’s family used to own a bunch of vendin’ machines. His cousin loaned him the money.”

Or accessed the funds he’d been stashing away for Aycox’s use after he got out of prison. I flipped through my notebook as if searching for notes from a conversation with Habiba Shareef. “You know, your brother’s wife never mentioned an SMA Enterprises in our interviews.”

“That ’on’t surprise me in the least bit.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because SMA never really got off the ground. Oh, we had articles of incorporation and all that, but when the money ran out, our forty percent of nothin’ was nothin’! All we were doin’ was tidin’ Malik and Habiba over until they could cut a deal with the white man!”

“You’re referring to Chuck Zuccari?”

“It coulda been him, or somebody else. Long as they had deep pockets, Habiba didn’t care. She told us they was lookin’ for what she called ‘another round of financing,’ but what she was really doin’ was tryin’ to sell their research and designs for the dolls to the highest bidder. But Mattel didn’t need them, and Hasbro wouldn’t return their phone calls. They ended up with CZ Toys, and the plan suddenly went from mass-produced dolls for the average kid to a rollout campaign for high-end dolls for collectors first.” Muhammad snorted and rolled his eyes. “Like that many black folks collect dolls!”

I had a fleeting thought about my doll collection and my mother’s and uncle’s, but I held my tongue.

“Me and Eddie ended up out in the cold,” Muhammad went on, “with this slick lawyer for CZ Toys tellin’ us ’bout some clause in our agreement that said our equity position could be converted to a loan if a major investor wanted us bought out.”

I knew just which slick lawyer Muhammad had in mind. “You’re talking about Robert Merritt?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Not that we’ve seen a dime of our money back! I ended up losing my house, my credit rating, everything!” Muhammad wiped his face and shook his head. “I couldn’t believe my own blood would mess me over like that, you know?”

“I do,” I murmured, thinking for a moment of my own traitorous brother. If Rashaan Muhammad were as angry with his brother as I was at Perris, we would have to consider him as a suspect as well.

Muhammad must have been reading my mind, because he said: “Hey, don’t get me wrong! I wudn’t even in L.A. when Malik got shot. ’Cause if you’re thinking that-”

I quickly shook my head. “I can’t imagine you doing anything that could result in your mother losing both of her sons.”

At the mention of his mother, Muhammad’s eyes glittered behind his glasses. “No, ma’am, I would never hurt my mother that way.”

“But can you imagine Mr. Aycox doing something like that?”

Muhammad’s eyes started blinking. “Eddie? Hurtin’ Malik?”

“In the course of our investigation, we’ve learned Mr. Aycox has been saying some things that make us believe he may have harbored a grudge against your brother. Since you know him so well, we thought you might be able to shed some light on his comments.”

“Eddie?” he repeated. “No way!”

“Our source of information is quite reliable. And, by your own admission, Mr. Aycox was very sensitive about getting rooked.”

“But-”

“You’re aware Mr. Aycox has a criminal record?”

“Yeah, but that was different. He didn’t kill nobody!”

“Believe me, Mr. Muhammad, I wouldn’t have come all the way up here without feeling confident that your friend is a legitimate suspect.”

Muhammad stared out the window, shaking his head in disbelief. “What exactly did Eddie say?”

“Something about how your brother’s preference for getting in bed with the blue-eyed devil cost him his life.”

Muhammad snorted. “That’s not a threat-that’s the truth!”

“What do you mean?”

Muhammad laughed bitterly, the sound causing Officer Ramstack to peer into the lobby. “You cops are a trip! Eddie wudn’t talkin’ about Malik gettin’ in bed with CZ Toys. He was talkin’ about Malik gettin’ in bed with Mrs. CZ Toys.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. They had a thing goin’ on.”

“How do you know that?”

“From the minute Malik and Habiba started talkin’ to that company, she was all up in it. Readin’ Malik’s book, meetin’ with him at their offices, watchin’ videotapes of the interviews they’d done with the kids about the dolls-I mean everything. Then she started meetin’ Malik over at the house when Habiba wudn’t home, supposedly to talk about the names for the different dolls in the line. Hell, she even offered to write the biographies that would go into some of the packages with the dolls!”

That sounded like Renata Lippincott, back in her role of new product developer, but I was surprised she would have been that interested in the black cultural aspects of the Shareefs’ line. “How did your brother react?”

“Malik just said she was havin’ a black attack, but Habiba was gettin’ tired of it, I know that much. And after Mrs. Zuccari got pregnant-”

“Wait a minute. You’re talking about Alma, Chuck Zuccari’s current wife?”

“Yeah, that’s her name. Anyway, Habiba said to Malik: ‘If that baby comes out black, you die!’ Now, I ’on’t really think Habiba meant it. She was just tired of seein’ her husband commandeered by some rich white girl tryin’ to be down with the people.”

I tried to remember what Alma and Chuck’s infant girl looked like, but all I recalled was the equipment surrounding her, not the kink of the baby’s hair or the tint of her skin. “Why didn’t Habiba tell us this when we interviewed her?”

“Once Malik got shot, he became a saint in her eyes. No way was she goin’ to tell the cops, or even admit to herself, that he coulda been creepin’ on her.”

I sat there for a moment, trying to get my bearings. A murder investigation can turn in an instant, and it’s up to the detectives working it to roll with it, even if it means careening off in new directions. But the events of this evening had me feeling totally out of synch, as if the pieces in a puzzle that was beginning to make sense had been suddenly rearranged when I wasn’t looking. “Did Eddie Aycox know about Mrs. Zuccari and your brother?”

Muhammad looked embarrassed. “I might’ve told Eddie, you know, just in the course of lettin’ him know what was happenin’ with gettin’ our money back.”

But would that have been enough to set Aycox off? Maybe not, but it might have motivated Habiba if she was the type of woman who needed people to think she and Malik were the perfect Ebony cover couple. The possibilities were mind-boggling, but through the dark cloud of the headache I could feel coming on, one question overrode the others: had Paul Taft known this all along? Had he been using Eddie Aycox’s slip of the lip as an excuse to dig around, see if he could find those assets he suspected Aycox was hiding? And if that was the case, I had to admit that Taft, with all his flattery and hints about jobs in the Bureau, had played me to do it, putting my career in jeopardy and casting more aspersions on the LAPD in the process. What on God’s green earth would make a highly educated and trained law enforcement professional take those kinds of risks?

Recovering my voice, I rummaged through the paperwork on the table until I found a yellow notepad. “I’m going to need you to write out a statement of what you know about your brother and Mrs. Zuccari.”

He pulled the pad toward him. “Sure. And if you ’on’t believe me, you can call Eddie. He’ll back me up.”

At the mention of Aycox’s name, I felt a sudden surge of dread. “Where is Mr. Aycox now?”

“Up in Sacramento, but he’ll be back on Monday.”

“Good,” I said, relieved that for the moment Taft couldn’t get to him. “Can you get in touch with him?”

“Sure. You want to talk to him now?”

“Just put his address and phone number down in your statement. And don’t leave anything out.”