The Art of Eavesdropping

by Christy Barritt

  The thing was . . . it was written by someone who was right-handed. That seemed clear based on the direction of the scrawl.

  That meant that there were two people who’d been trying to scare us off this investigation: Sarah’s killer and the person who’d been working with Sarah.

  I closed my eyes. I needed to replay last night, detail by detail. My entire body tensed, and my breath came faster at the thought of it. I didn’t want to recall the terror I’d felt.

  But I had to.

  Doing this was vital if I wanted to find answers.

  The knife-wielding man’s voice was somewhat familiar, I realized. I had a feeling he was trying to disguise it. That might mean that I’d heard it before and he would’ve realized that.

  I remembered the words I’d read in my dad’s journal last night. Always keep your eyes wide open. Opportunities are everywhere. You just need to seek them out.

  That meant I would need to examine everybody I’d talked to since the start of this investigation, especially those who may not be obvious.

  There was also a certain smell that the man had. But what was it? I wasn’t sure I knew how to place it, but I’d definitely smelled the scent before. It was a mix of vanilla . . . and oak.

  What sense did that make?

  I felt like the answers were right on the edge of my consciousness, but I just couldn’t quite reach them.

  I sighed and leaned back in bed. Then I grabbed my laptop.

  I had a couple things I wanted to research, including any connection between Bernard and Sarah.

  When I finished, I knew I needed to go into the office to discuss everything that happened with Oscar and Michael. Maybe between the three of us, we could figure out something.

  I was going to have to tell Oscar about Flash’s hit-and-run. I’d also need to admit that I’d told the police that information.

  No one should be above the law.

  Finally, I got out of bed and got dressed.

  When I walked into the kitchen, my mom and sister were already at the table. It was Saturday, so my mom didn’t work today. But Ruth was already dressed like she might go somewhere.

  “Something about you looks different today.” My sister shifted at the table, her elbows resting in front of her, and her gaze curious.

  I touched my face, wondering if I had forgotten to take off some of my makeup. I was pretty sure I hadn’t, though. I remembered scrubbing it off at the office. Anything I missed should have come off in the shower.

  “Maybe I just got a good night’s sleep.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No, it’s a bounce in your step. I knew I’d seen it before, but it’s even more prominent today.”

  “Maybe she just likes her new job with Driscoll and Associates.” My mom put a plate in front of me with desayuno peruano. It was a traditional Yerbian breakfast consisting of French bread, pork chicharron, blood sausage, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit.

  The look my sister gave me made me a little nervous, but I quickly looked away and stabbed a piece of sausage instead.

  “Thanks for cooking this, Mama.” I lifted my fork. “It looks delicious.”

  “Don’t forget to say your prayers,” she reminded.

  “I will.” I closed my eyes and thanked God for His provisions. I also asked for His protection.

  When I opened my eyes, my mom said, “I splurged and got some mango down at the market. It always makes me feel like home.”

  Even though my mom had spent twenty-two years of her life in the States, she considered Yerba her home country. And I couldn’t blame her. I knew she’d had some wonderful years there with my dad.

  She’d invested in that community. She’d helped take care of the children, offering food and soap and clothes, all while telling them about Jesus.

  I wondered how much she really knew about my dad. I wanted to know if he’d told her about his career. But there was no way to find out that information without asking specifically. And if she didn’t know . . . then I would be revealing a secret I didn’t want to reveal.

  “Are we still on for playing Sapo tonight?” my sister asked.

  “Absolutely. I put it on my calendar.” I winked at her, and she smiled. “What are you guys up to today?”

  “I was offered an extra shift at the drugstore,” Mama said.

  “My friends and I are going to go hang out down at the beach. They’re going to play some volleyball. I’m going to be their cheerleader.”

  “That sounds like fun.” But something about the way my sister said it made me wonder. Was one of these friends a boy? I was going to have to find that out later when my mom wasn’t listening.

  So many secrets. I didn’t like it.

  I wanted the old times. The simple times. The moments with my dad while I was growing up. When my family was whole and complete.

  But there was no need to wish for things I’d never experience again. I had no choice but to move forward.

  I finished eating and glanced at my watch. “I’m going into work for a couple of hours this morning.”

  “They’re making you work on Saturdays too?” My mom gawked. “What kind of people are they?”

  “You know Americans. Workaholics.”

  “I hope you won’t become a workaholic too.” My mom pressed her lips together, her gaze clearly full of concern about the influences of this culture on me.

  She often reminded me about the Bible verse that spoke of the camel going through the eye of the needle more easily than a rich man getting into heaven. When all our needs were met, people rarely turned to God. Americans didn’t realize how rich they were compared to the rest of the world.

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” I reassured her. “I still like my quiet time. I just need to learn all the ropes at the job first. Then things will settle down.”

  My mom’s narrowed gaze was still filled with worry. “Hold onto what’s important to you. People can take a lot of things away from you, but they can never take away your character.”

  That’s what I had told myself last night also. How did I reconcile who I wanted to be with how I’d been raised? Was it even possible?

  “I will.” I rose, put my plate in the sink, and kissed her cheek before stepping away. “I promise you, Mama. I will.”

  I grabbed my purse and started to step outside when my sister appeared beside me. After I closed the front door, Ruth turned to me.

  “I know Driscoll and Associates isn’t a law firm,” she announced.

  Some of the blood drained from my face.

  “How do you know that?” I deflected my answer.

  “I did some research. I got bored.” She crossed her arms.

  My sister was the one obsessed with American culture. I caught her on more than one occasion watching YouTube videos. Her style of dress was trendy. She looked at the world like a dog looking at a bone—she practically salivated to make it her own.

  I lowered my voice. “I don’t want Mama to worry.”

  She shrugged. “I know. It makes sense. And now I know why you’re acting so weird. But you really do have a new look about you. It’s almost like you’re . . . living your destiny or something.”

  “Maybe I am. I never thought I would like doing something like this, but I’m glad I gave it a shot.” I glanced around, looking for trouble as I remembered all the events of this week. The last thing I wanted was to put my family in danger. I’d never forgive myself if I did.

  My sister squeezed my arm, sincere concern filling her wide-eyed gaze. “Just stay safe, okay?”

  I reached down and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. I will.”

  With that, I set off for work.

  “Good job last night,” Oscar told me as I sat across from him in his office. Michael also joined us. Our boss had called us in for an impromptu meeting as soon as we’d arrived, and I’d filled them in on the evening’s events.

  “I did my best.” I shrugged, as I remembered what had transpired at the fundraiser. “It
was kind of fun, to be honest. It stretched me. I felt like an anaconda who just realized it could eat a crocodile.”

  Both of the men stared at me, and I felt certain Oscar wanted to make another Dora comment. Maybe I should tamp down on my jungle references, as Michael had suggested.

  “Almost dying can do that.” Michael gave me a brotherly look.

  Oscar continued. “Now we have to figure out who put the knife to your throat. Do you still think it was Bernard?”

  I’d been thinking about that a lot. I shook my head. “I do feel like Bernard had the opportunity and means. The only thing is, if he framed his client for this murder, I’m not sure exactly what he would achieve.”

  “Me neither,” Michael said.

  “Besides, wouldn’t Flash remember something if there had been an argument first?” I asked. “Before I came in this morning, I did a little more research online. I can’t find any connection between Bernard and Sarah.”

  “Yesterday, I double-checked cell phone records and financial transactions for both Bernard and Sarah,” Michael added. “I didn’t find any connection between the two of them. I also talked to a few of Sarah’s friends, and none of them seemed to think that Sarah and Flash had ever talked before that evening.”

  It looked like another dead end.

  “I did see Flash at the fundraiser last night,” I told them. “Not at the party. He was actually sitting in his car outside when I left. It was a little strange.”

  Oscar narrowed his eyes. “He told me he almost went but changed his mind. Not everyone treats him the same since all this happened. He probably just got cold feet.”

  That was a possible explanation. Or had Flash been there to keep an eye on me?

  I cleared my throat, wanting to put everything on the table. “I should also tell you that there was a police detective there last night who ended up helping me.”

  Oscar’s gaze narrowed. “Who was it?”

  “Detective Hunter—”

  “Detective Hunter?” Oscar’s cheeks reddened. “You do not share anything with Detective Hunter. Do you understand me?”

  My eyes widened at the harsh tone of his voice. “I don’t know what you have against him, but he seems like a perfectly nice—”

  “He’s not. He’s incompetent. And he’s the last person I want you talking to. Do you understand?” His nostrils flared as he stared at me, his voice still seeming to echo through the room.

  I knew better than to argue with him now. He was heated and probably illogical.

  I nodded before pointing to the door. I didn’t want to be in the room with the man anymore.

  “I’m going to get back to work then,” I said.

  “But do you understand? Answer my question!”

  I froze, my throat tightening. I didn’t like being talked to like this. I turned slowly and nodded. “I understand.”

  I exited Oscar’s office and went to my desk. A moment later, Michael sat down in the chair at his desk. Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Michael started, making no move to start working. Still, he stared at his computer, almost like he didn’t want to give any hints that he was on my side to anyone watching.

  Or was he? I wasn’t really sure.

  I swallowed hard, trying to remain composed despite the verbal lashing I’d just received. “Why does Oscar hate Detective Hunter so much?”

  “I’m not sure of all of the details, but it goes back to when Oscar worked for the police department.”

  “You mean, before Oscar got fired?”

  Michael nodded, still not making eye contact. “I’m not sure what happened. He doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask. But whatever it was, it had to be ugly. It turned Oscar’s whole life upside down, and I think Hunter was somehow involved.”

  “It doesn’t give Oscar the right to be so nasty.” I frowned, remembering all those Sunday school lessons my mama had taught me about how I should treat others.

  “I agree. Don’t let this get you down. Oscar will get over it. So will you.”

  I turned toward Michael and lowered my voice. “Did I do the wrong thing by telling the detective the information?”

  I wasn’t sure why I asked the question. I’d already made my mind up that I’d do it all over again if in the same situation. It would be nice to know what kind of people I was working with here. Did we share the same viewpoints? I had my doubts—and those doubts made me uncomfortable.

  “In most cases, police and private detectives do not work hand in hand. They do not get along. If you think the police are going to be your friend, you’re wrong. You’d be wise to keep that in mind.”

  It was a good neutral answer. That was going to have to do for now, I supposed.

  “Good to know.” I turned back to my desk. “So, what do I do now?”

  Michael glanced at his watch. “I promised Oscar I would give him three hours today, and no more. This is my day with my daughter, and I don’t want to waste it.”

  “That’s understandable. So how can we use this time for the best?”

  He leaned back in his chair and observed me. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  I had a feeling this was a test. “Well, since you asked . . . something has been bothering me about the man who put the knife to my throat last night. There’s something familiar about him, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since it happened.”

  “What seemed familiar?”

  “Something about the way he spoke, the way he smelled. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  Michael straightened. “Sit down and do this: write a list of everybody we’ve met since we started this investigation. Nobody is too small. It could be the guy at the country club’s guard house to the men golfing with Art. I want to see all of their names. You’ve got thirty minutes, and then we’ll dig deeper.”

  I had been challenged. But Michael’s idea seemed like a good one.

  As Velma and Oscar left for breakfast, I picked up my pen and paper and got busy.

  Chapter Thirty

  I did what I did best, and I made my lists. Yes, lists. I’d done the one Michael suggested and one that I came up with on my own. I even created them in Excel, which excited me entirely more than it should.

  In the first column, I listed what I knew about the killer:

  He was near Flash’s condo on the night of the murder.

  He was left-handed.

  He knew Flash used sleeping pills and probably drugged him.

  He’s a big fan of Flash.

  He smelled somewhat familiar.

  He wore black loafers.

  Has a cut on his arm.

  Then I made my list of suspects.

  Bernard Sutherland: He was left-handed, had the opportunity to make it back to Storm River in time for the murder. If he knew Sarah was trying to blackmail Flash, he could have stepped in, and things could have gone south.

  Art Smith: Best motive. If Flash went to jail, the endorsement deal was off. He’d save his company thousands, and he might even financially gain from that.

  Flash Slivinski: He’d been watching me at the fundraiser. Sarah may have threatened to blackmail him. In a fit of rage, he could have killed her and then pretended to black out.

  A competitor: Could someone we hadn’t even considered be guilty?

  Emily Riviera: Jealous? Lied about seeing him that morning?

  Sarah connection: What if this had nothing to do with Flash and everything to do with Sarah?

  Damien:

  I wrote his name down last, just in case. I mean, it was weird that he’d popped up twice during this investigation. But he’d been right-handed, and, as far as I knew, he had no connection to Flash. Right?

  I deleted him from my list.

  As I stared at my notes, I still didn’t feel settled. What if the killer wasn’t one of these people? What if we’d been looking in the wrong direction this whole time?

  Out of curiosity,
I did a couple quick searches, and I made one phone call.

  My mind went back to the scent I’d smelled on the man. Why was it familiar?

  My head jerked up as realization washed over me. Suddenly, all the clues that had been nagging at me flooded to the surface.

  “I think I know who did it,” I announced, disbelief emerging in my breathless voice.

  Michael turned from his computer and faced me, his eyebrows forced together in doubt. “Just like that?”

  I nodded, my thoughts still racing and sorting out my mental discovery. “If the man who assaulted me last night is the same one who killed Sarah, then I might have a name.”

  Michael still stared at me, as if humoring me. “Is there a way to prove your theory is correct?”

  I nodded slowly. “I think there is. How do you feel about going for a ride in ten minutes?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Can we be back in two hours?”

  “Let’s hope. I just need to make a few phone calls first. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  After my calls—which had been fruitful—we went to Michael’s car. Actually, his minivan hadn’t been fixed yet, and he was driving a decked-out Jeep Wrangler instead.

  Michael opened the door for me, and I climbed inside. “It’s my dad’s. He bought it when he had a midlife crisis.”

  “It looks nice.” There were very few material possessions I dreamed about owning. But I had a fond spot for Jeeps.

  “It is nice. I’m borrowing it until my minivan is fixed.” He closed my door and then hurried around to climb in himself.

  I pulled on my seatbelt, my pulse pounding with anticipation. “Is the minivan even fixable?”

  “I should hear back sometime soon. You know how it goes when insurance is involved.”

  “Yes, I do. Insurance is a blessing and a curse.” Unfortunately, I knew that all too well because of my sister’s illness.

  “You can say that again.”

  I needed to figure out how this was going to play out. Michael and I had no authority to arrest this person. If we managed to get this guy to confess . . . how long would it take for the police to arrive? What if things turned ugly? Did Michael conceal carry? Should I think about getting my license to do so?