“Why do you need it? This isn’t about what happened today, is it?”
“I wanted to check something out. Hey, you didn’t mention my little adventure to Eddie, did you?”
“No. Sarah, listen. You shouldn’t…encourage this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, there are things out there that are better left alone. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Hey, this has been great,” Sarah said. “We should do lunch.”
“You are so lame.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
Who breaks into a real estate office? Sarah wondered as she made her way home through the wet streets. She was certain someone had been there and escaped out the rear. The rain was starting up again, and she had to turn on the defroster to de-fog her rear window. Though she loved her car, sometimes when she drove in bad weather, she wished she had anti-lock brakes. As the view from her rear-view mirror cleared, she noticed the same car—a black BMW 328i—had been following her for several blocks. Am I imagining this?
She made a right at the next corner, which would take her to the 154. Predictably, the other car turned also. Seeing a parked Dos Santos police cruiser, she slowed and pulled up behind it. The Bimmer sped up and continued on toward Santa Barbara. As it passed, Sarah noticed what looked like a splash of red paint on the front passenger side wheel. She thought she saw a woman driving but couldn’t be sure. Ahead of her, a police officer was giving someone a ticket. He motioned to the other driver to take off and trudged back toward Sarah as she lowered her window.
“Problem?” he said. He was young—maybe mid-twenties.
“Sorry. I thought someone was following me.”
“Oh.” He took a closer look at her. “Hey, you’re Sarah Greene.”
“Yeah…?”
“I saw you come into the station one time last year. You were, um, helping the chief.”
“‘Helping’ might be an exaggeration.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Tim Whatley.”
“Like the Seinfeld character?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Lou speaks very highly of you.”
“I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything.”
“Did you want me to escort you home, or…?”
“No, the whole thing was probably my imagination. Thanks anyway. Bye, Tim.”
“See you.”
At home, Sarah sat in the living room with a whiskey in her hand, Miles Davis playing softly on her phone. She had lit the fireplace and was petting Gary, who was purring contentedly on her lap.
“Someone was following me—I didn’t imagine it.” The cat maowed. “Probably the same person who broke into our office. It makes no sense, Gary.”
She fell into a dreamless sleep in the chair. It was after one when she awoke and got ready for bed. She would talk to Joe in the morning about the file. He would put up a fuss about another paranormal investigation, but in the end she would win. After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she fell into bed.
“Tim Whatley,” she said. “What a hoot.”
Then, she was out.
Six
Police Chief Lou Fiore knocked back his triple espresso and made a few notes in a small black book as Sarah described the events of the previous night. He was wearing a suit with no tie, and his open white shirt collar revealed a generous tuft of curly black hair that complemented the wavy locks on his head.
Joe had introduced Sarah to Lou when she moved to Dos Santos, and she’d gotten to know him when they worked together. She liked him as a friend but sensed the forty-year-old like-liked her, though he’d never tried making a move. She had heard he was divorced, with an ex-wife and son living somewhere in the Bay Area.
Lou was seated in the Greene Realty conference room with Sarah, Joe, and Rachel. There was plenty of coffee. A plate of fresh pastries sat in the middle of the table, untouched.
“I don’t see how they could’ve gotten in,” Sarah said.
Joe nodded. “Yeah, no doors or windows were busted.”
“I checked everything,” Lou said. “I think they came in through the rear door after picking the lock.”
“And somehow they turned off the alarm?”
“That’s easy. They did it before entering. Probably used a laptop with a program that intercepts signals from the alarm system. This happens a lot, unfortunately. The Wi-Fi traffic is unencrypted—”
“What does that mean?” Rachel said.
“It means with the right software, anyone can read the information going to and from the system, including the password.”
Joe shook his head. “So, they disabled it without touching it.”
“If I were you, Joe, I’d call your alarm company and see if they can upgrade your equipment.”
Rachel raised an index finger. “That’s my department. I’ll get on it today.”
“And what about the locks?” Sarah said.
Lou closed his book and folded his hands on the table. “There’s no such thing as an unpickable lock. That said, you could look into investing in smart locks.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Joe said. Then, to Sarah and Rachel, “You can unlock them using your phone.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Lou laughed. “Well, there are other low-tech options. And as long as you’re talking to the alarm company, you might as well have them install security cameras.”
“No one told me this was a high-crime neighborhood,” Joe said.
“Things change, Joe.”
“And I don’t get what they were looking for. Sarah and Rachel checked everything. Nothing was taken.”
Lou stood, drained the last of his coffee, and shook Joe’s hand. “Hard to say. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime. Thanks for stopping by, Lou.”
The police chief shook Rachel’s hand politely and turned to Sarah, who was digging through her purse.
“Take care, Sarah.”
“What?”
“I was just saying, take care.”
“Okeydokey.”
He extended both hands and took hers between them. They were warm. She glanced at Rachel, who averted her eyes and tried mightily not to smile.
“I heard about what happened yesterday,” he said.
“It was nothing.”
“Well, be careful, okay?”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“Later.”
After Lou had left, Sarah turned to her sister, who she could see was covering her mouth and giggling.
“Okay, what in hell was that?” Sarah said.
“What? He’s worried about you.”
“Rachel, seriously. I do not have time for this.”
“Come on, he’s a nice guy.”
“If you like former homicide detectives,” Joe said.
Sarah turned to her ex-husband, who was grinning. She noticed he was holding the Casa Abrigo file and snatched it from him. Then, she reached over the table, grabbed the biggest sticky bun on the plate, and stormed out.
“I hate my life,” she said.
Sarah sat in her office going through the Casa Abrigo file when she saw Joe walk past her door. It was after twelve, and she was starving.
“Joe?”
He stopped in the doorway mid-stride. “Absolutely not. I am not double-dating with you and a cop.”
“Can you be serious for one minute? And sit down. You’re too…tall.”
Sighing, he took a seat across from her desk as she flipped through the thick stack of papers, found what she was looking for, and handed it to Joe.
“Okay, so I think I know why the bank was so anxious to unload Casa Abrigo. There was a murder. Two, in fact.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you have that file. I’m hungry. Can we do this after lunch? What am I looking at anyway?”
“The property was originally purchased in 1970 by a Gerald Moody. He paid cash.” She handed him another document. “He
obtains a loan from Wells Fargo.” She tried handing him a third paper, but he waved her off.
“Then, he contracts with a company called Santee Construction to build a custom home. I tried looking them up; they’re out of business. In 1971, Gerald moves in with his wife, Vivian.”
“Everything sounds kosher to me so far.”
“I’m not finished. Before coming to California, the wife had been staying at a psychiatric hospital outside Lawrence, Kansas, where they lived.”
“Depression?”
“Who knows? Long story short, ol’ Gerald sells his insurance business, buys the property in California, builds a home, and moves his wife into it. In 1973, she gives birth to their first child, Peter. Two years later, they have a girl, Hannah. Then in 1990, everything goes—”
“Tits up?”
“Exactly.”
Joe shifted in his chair. “Don’t tell me. The wife flips out and shotguns the two kids.”
“No. The parents were found brutally murdered on a fire road in the forest. Peter, who was seventeen at the time, is the chief suspect. But he has an alibi. He was home at the time, along with his fifteen-year-old sister.”
“Come on, she’s lying to protect him.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But the cops have no motive. Supposedly, the kids adored their parents. And neither had ever been in trouble. Peter tells the cops that a day earlier, there was a road rage incident between his father and a couple of ‘rednecks’ in a truck.
“He’d been in the car at the time and is able to describe the men and the truck, but doesn’t give them a license plate. The cops follow up but find nothing. The case goes unsolved.”
“Great, let’s eat,” Joe said, getting up.
“That’s not the most interesting part. A few weeks later, Peter and Hannah go missing.”
Sarah walked over to her printer, pulled off the top sheet, and handed it to Joe. He stared at the large, grainy newspaper photo of a family standing in front of Casa Abrigo—father, mother, son, and daughter, looking like they were dressed for church on Easter Sunday. Everyone looked grim, except Hannah. Glancing sideways at her brother, she was beaming. Sarah stood, came around her desk, and pointed at the photo.
“Joe, that girl is the one I saw in the mirror. I think Hannah may have died in 1990.”
The Cracked Pot was packed with the usual lunch crowd and a few faces Sarah didn’t recognize.
“Want to make the order to go?” Joe said as they scanned the dining room for a table.
“No, let’s try to eat here. Look, civilians.”
“Maybe they heard about the coffee.”
“Good thing we left business cards at the cash register. Hey, over there.” She pushed Joe forward. “Hurry!”
Four people were leaving a booth. Joe trotted over and grabbed the table before the busboy had had a chance to clear the dishes and wipe everything down. He signaled for Sarah to join him. Seeing Lou Fiore at the counter eating alone, she scooted across and slid in. The busboy tidied everything up and got them fresh menus. Both Sarah and Joe laid them aside without looking as the kid left two glasses of ice water.
“So, you’ve been busy,” Joe said.
She was about to respond when Carter, the server with the anime tattoo, walked up to them. Sarah could see the outlines of other tattoos all up and down the girl’s arms, faintly visible through the sleeves of her long-sleeved white shirt.
“Hey. What can I get you guys to drink?”
“Carter, right?” Sarah said.
“Yeah. Sarah?”
“Uh-huh. And this is Joe.”
Carter smiled. “We’ve met. So, ready to order?”
As they gave their orders, Sarah noticed that the girl never wrote anything down. After she left, Sarah looked at Joe and quirked her eyebrows.
“What?” he said.
“Isn’t she a little young for you?”
“I rent them rehearsal space. That girl? Carter Wittgenstein. She’s their lead singer. Come on, stop looking at me like that. You never asked.”
“Hmm. Well, are they any good?”
“No idea.”
She and Joe amused themselves with their phones until the food arrived. As they ate, they spoke quietly.
“So, you think whoever murdered the parents killed the daughter?” Joe said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And now her ghost is trying to talk to you?”
“Pretty much.”
“So, why aren’t the parents haunting you?”
“That’s all I need.” She took a bite of her club sandwich, which had been prepared exactly the way she liked it—half mustard and half mayo.
“And what about the son? Is he dead, too?”
“No. Joe, I think he killed his parents, then his sister.” She helped herself to some of Joe’s fries. “He’s out there somewhere. That must be what Hannah was trying to tell me.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
“I can’t explain. But I have this feeling.”
“So, if he was seventeen in 1990, that would make him—”
“Forty-four.”
He watched as she reached for more of his fries. “You could’ve ordered your own, you know.”
“They always taste better coming from your plate.”
Joe took a bite of his hamburger. “So, what happened to the property?”
“That’s the weird part. It was purchased by someone, but there don’t seem to be any records. Somehow, the bank ends up owning it.”
“How did you find out all this stuff?”
“Because I’m smart and I’m pretty. I started with Gerald Moody. Next, I looked up newspaper accounts of the murders. It’s amazing what you can dig up on the internet. For example, did you ever hear about the Lindley Street poltergeist incident?”
“No. Can we focus here? And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t poke your nose into my past.”
“I’m pretty sure you have no past.”
She took a sip of sparkling water and didn’t notice when Joe looked away uncomfortably.
“So, what did you find out about Peter?” he said.
Making a face, she set her water down. “This needs more lime. I didn’t find anything. He evaporated into thin air—they both did. It’s as if Peter Moody and his sister didn’t exist after 1990.”
“He could’ve changed his name. Hey, what about the police? Maybe you could go through the old case file.”
“Would they let me do that?”
“Lou might,” he said, tilting his head toward the cash register.
Sarah turned and saw the police chief paying his check. On his way out, he grabbed a toothpick and stuck it between his lips.
“What is he, a tough guy?” she said.
“He used to smoke. You could ask him about the file.”
She scrunched her nose, and her voice became whiny. “Nooo, can’t you ask?”
“Hey, I’m not the ghost hunter. Man up.”
“But what if he asks me out on a date or something awkward like that?”
“Tell him you’re busy.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“You’ll be fine.”
Sunlight fell through the open blinds of Lou Fiore’s office. It was small, dusty, and cluttered and, Sarah had to admit, was in desperate need of a makeover. The desk was messy, and the floor was littered with piles of manila folders jammed with papers and stacks of books with, what Sarah assumed, were mug shots.
Lou was smiling as he sat behind his desk, looking at Sarah in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a leer, exactly. It was more of a hopeful will-you-go-to-the-prom-with-me expression. Sarah tried hard to think what she could have possibly done to encourage him. When they worked together on the missing persons case, she had maintained a pleasant and professional demeanor. And she certainly didn’t recall ever flirting with Lou. Oh, crap—the dress.
One time, Sarah had been on her way to meet Rachel to attend a fundraising d
inner for Notre Dame School. She’d purchased a black sequin bodycon dress for the occasion. Though the neckline wasn’t particularly low, the push-up bra she was wearing made her stand out. In every way. That and the three-inch black heels spelled trouble.
Lou had called her last-minute, asking if she could review a new piece of evidence. He insisted it was urgent, so she stopped by the police station on her way to the function. Now that she thought about it, he’d been acting more attentive to her ever since that day. Why couldn’t she have worn a pantsuit and flats?
“I’m glad you stopped by, Sarah. How can I help?”
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Joe and I are renovating a property up on San Marcos Pass Road.”
“Oh? Which one.”
“Casa Abrigo.”
“I know the place. Is that where you…?”
“Yes. Of course, when you buy something from the bank, you don’t get much information about a house’s past, right? I mean, anything might have happened there—even murder.”
“That’s true,” he said, scratching his cheek. “What does this have to do with Casa Abrigo?”
“I’ve been doing some research, and I learned the man who built the house was killed, along with his wife.”
She reached into her new Kate Spade black leather laptop bag and removed a printout of one of the newspaper articles she’d found on the murders. Then, she handed it to Lou.
“It all happened in 1990. Also, shortly after, the son and daughter disappeared without a trace. At the time, the police believed the son had killed his parents.”
He scanned the article. “But there was no motive or evidence, right?”
“Exactly.”
“And you want to see the case file.”
“Yes,” she said, relieved that the hard part was over.
He straightened up, turning his head from side to side as if experiencing a sharp pain in his neck. Sarah thought she heard a crack. This didn’t look promising. She tried a smile.
“Okay, normally, we don’t share that kind of information with the public.”
“Oh.”
“But. It’s a cold case from, what, 1990? I guess it wouldn’t do any harm for you to take a look. Who knows? You might uncover something.”
The Girl in the Mirror Page 6
