Janet Dawson - Water Signs

M adison Brady had the same intense blue eyes as her father, piercing me now with her gaze as she leaned forward and put her hands on my desk.

I was surprised to learn that Calvin Brady had a daughter in her twenties, and even more surprised when she showed up in my office on Tuesday morning. Cal was an acquaintance, a former colleague, back in the day when I worked for Errol.

Cal had told his daughter something different.

He said you were a friend. Madison tugged at the collar of her shirt, a black-and-red checked flannel worn over a pair of tight black jeans. Thats why Im here. I dont know who else to turn to. The cops dont seem to be interested in the truth. Dad was murdered. I just know it. I want you to find out who killed him.

I was still processing the news that Cal had died. Truth be told, I didnt know much about his personal life. We had worked together for less than a year. As coworkers, wed kept our private lives separate from our work lives.

Saying Cal Brady and I were friends was a stretch.

I didnt correct Madisons assumption. Instead I leaned back in my office chair. I didnt know Cal was dead. I saw him last week, at Errol Sevilles memorial service in Carmel. Tell me what happened. And why the police arent interested.

She frowned and fingered one of the gold hoops she wore in her earlobes. Dads body was found in the Estuary on Sunday morning. People are saying Dad was drinking on the job and he must have fallen into the water and drowned. Thats total nonsense. But Im afraid the police might believe it. She stopped and took a deep breath, then let it out with a frustrated sigh. It cant be true. Dad wasnt drinking anymore. He was sober. He hadnt had a drink in over three years. Believe me when I say that.

I didnt say anything. I considered what she was telling me now, and what Cal had told me the week before. I spoke with him after the memorial service, when those of us who had attended gathered at the Sunset Center in Carmel, raising glasses and sharing anecdotes about Errol. I was drinking Chardonnay. Cal sipped from a bottle of sparkling water. He made a point of telling me he was sober now. That was a good thing. Because Cals alcoholism was the reason he had been fired from the Seville Agency.

Where was your father working? I asked.

Dad was a security guard. He worked for a company here in Oakland, called Manville Security. Hed been with them three years or more. Since last spring he had been working at a construction site for a development thats being built on the waterfront. His schedule varied between days and nights. Saturday he was on the night shift, eleven at night till seven in the morning.

Which development? Brooklyn Basin?

Madison shook her head. Brooklyns the big one. Dad was working on a smaller site nearby. Its called the Cardoza project.

I nodded. Both projects were in the process of transforming stretches of the Oakland waterfront south of Jack London Square.

A security guard. Cal hadnt mentioned any details about his employment when Id seen him at Errols funeral. All he said was that he was living and working in Oakland. We hadnt actually talked that much. The focus of what conversation we did have was Errol, our late boss.