by Lisa Jackson
She, too, had a view of the front door and the big windows, but also of the walkway to the back hallway. “When will we get the tox screen?”
“Autopsy’s today. Pushed up,” he told her. “Because of public interest.”
“Fast.”
“Uh-huh.” He was eating a breakfast sandwich—egg, ham, and gooey cheese tucked into a croissant. He washed it all down with coffee doctored with cream and sugar while she worked on a skinny latte, the foam artistically formed to look like the Golden Gate Bridge.
She asked, “Can we get a tox screen ASAP?”
He sent her a look with a quick shake of his head. “Takes time.”
“I know, but I sure would like to know what was in her bloodstream.” She tapped the table, wishing she could push the investigation faster.
“We will. And we’ll get a prelim, at least for alcohol.”
Not good enough, but she had to curb her impatience, which was always a challenge. “Anything from King County?”
“Not yet. They’re sending pictures and reports, have got a laptop, are checking her social media platforms, Facebook and Snapchat or whatever, but they haven’t found her phone yet. Probably had it on her.
“They did locate a cell phone bill—she had no landline—and so they’ve contacted the phone company. We should have records within the week. Maybe sooner. Find out who she’s been in communication with.” He was talking to Settler, but his gaze was still taking in the restaurant, especially the door as it opened and shut, letting in customers who rubbed their hands from the cold and surveyed the glass case of pastries as they inched their way across the tiled floor to the barista.
Martinez had been shot once, while a beat cop. On the scene of a convenience store robbery, he’d taken a bullet to the gut and spent a week in the hospital, along with several weeks’ recovery. Luckily, he’d only lost part of his spleen, along with a lot of blood. He, along with almost everyone on the force, was always on the lookout for danger.
“I hope they put a rush on everything,” she said as she sipped from her cup, hot milky coffee warming her from the inside out. “I’ll push them.”
“Every case is a rush.”
“I know. But . . . I have a friend who transferred up there. I’ll see what she can do. I’d like to find out if Upgarde bought the clothes and wigs online. Maybe there’s a credit or debit card receipt that will lead us in the right direction.”
“Anyone can pick up that junk—celebrity paraphernalia—online. Craigslist, eBay, whatever.”
“Yeah, but they don’t usually put the ‘junk’ on and leap from nineteen floors up.”
“Okay. See what your friend can dig up ASAP,” Martinez said, but it was just an automatic response. Martinez believed that the more you pushed people, the more they pushed back, and in some cases, she supposed, that was true. But not in this one. Her friend and ex-partner, Rosamie Ugali, would do what she could.
She let it drop and said, “I talked to Detective Davis from the Las Vegas P.D. She worked the Didi Storm missing person case with a partner who has long since retired.”
“You still think Storm’s connected?”
“The daughter nearly convinced me yesterday. And come on, she registered under D. Storm.”
“Well, there is that.”
“Yeah, there is that.” She was certain there was a connection. “Obviously, she was using Didi Storm as her alter ego, at least for the time she was in the hotel. She was pretty meticulous about keeping up the Didi image by dressing in her things, down to the signature fingernail, so she knew this woman inside and out. And here’s the thing. Not a lot of people did. Not twenty years ago, and certainly not now. But the daughter’s right. There’s a new book and a Didi Storm fan club online. I checked the Facebook thing and Twitter feed last night. Her ‘fans’ are all talking about the fact that Karen Upgarde was dressed like her. Why would anyone care? The woman was a second-rate impersonator at best, and it’s been twenty years.”
“But there was the mystery of her disappearance.”
“Again, a generation ago. So, yeah, I definitely think the suicide has something to do with Didi Storm. I just don’t know what. When we get into Upgarde’s computer and phone, maybe we’ll get some answers.” She told Martinez about her conversation with Davis, about the explosion, the unidentified man in the burnt car, and the twin babies. He nodded, finishing his breakfast and wiping his mouth, brushing off a few crumbs that had stuck in his dark goatee.
“So why here? Why would Upgarde choose San Francisco and not Las Vegas to make her splash? Because the daughter’s here?” Martinez asked.
Settler finished her latte. “I’ll ask Remmi what she thinks. Come on, let’s go.” She pushed her chair back, bussed the table, and Martinez followed suit.
They planned to interview the hotel employees again and walk through the room Upgarde, as D. Storm, had rented, figure out who had occupied the rooms on the same floor, check on the security tapes from the cameras, and make certain they had been sent to the department.
Already they’d asked the public for anyone with film, digital images, or video of the leap. The request had been made through the Public Information Officer. Settler believed there would be dozens, if not hundreds, of images submitted. She only hoped that the public would send the police the pictures rather than try to sell them to the tabloids or whatever questionable online news source would pay, but she’d learned not to underestimate a person’s greed.
* * *
ln the kitchen of Greta’s big house, Remmi heated a bagel in the toaster oven, while Greta sipped coffee. “Remember, the Christmas lights are supposed to go up today.”
Greta nodded. “Big job. Usually takes two.”
“I know, but call me if he doesn’t show, okay? I’ll get on them. Kris Kringle’s Christmas Lights is kind of flaky. Last year, they didn’t come until mid-December.”
“No one wants to climb up to the roof.”
“Do you blame them?”
“No, but Santa and his reindeer have been mounted by the chimney for fifty years, and as long as I’m alive, the children in this neighborhood will see them. Duncan always insisted upon it, and I’m carrying on the tradition.”
“I know.” Remmi had heard this same story every year since she’d moved in. “But if they don’t come, text me or call me. Okay?”
Before she could answer, Beverly, a little breathless, poked her head through the archway from the back corridor and said, “I’ll get the paper! I think it’s here.” Before anyone could answer, she hurried outside to the front stoop. Remmi heard the door open and close just as the toaster oven dinged. Careful not to burn her fingers, she slid the hot bagel halves onto a plate as Beverly returned.
“Here ya go!” Beverly dropped the folded paper onto the table next to Greta just as the sound of the dryer buzzer emanated from the basement again. “Duty calls,” she said, then turned to Greta. “Have you ever thought of fixing the dumbwaiter? I’d be less likely to trip carrying up the laundry.”
“Nothing wrong with it,” the older woman stated.
“What? Why don’t we use it, then?” Beverly asked.
“Well, I don’t really remember.” Greta thought for a second. “It’s creaky, and I’m not sure the ropes are still strong, but it has to be filthy and filled with cobwebs, dust and spiders, mice . . . maybe even rats.” She gave a little shudder and, as Beverly was still staring at her, added, “I suppose it could handle something not too heavy. But you might want to clean it before you give it a try.”
“I will,” Beverly said, just as the dryer squawked again. “I’ll be right back. With the laundry. Poached egg day, si?”
“Si. And a muffin, er, mollete,” Greta said. “Or is it magdalena? I get them confused. But yes, please.” She kept to a strict morning schedule and wouldn’t eat until she’d had two cups of coffee and finished the puzzle. Three days a week, she ate a poached egg and a muffin, on the other days oatmeal with fruit. It never changed
, not even for holidays.
“Bueno!” Beverly was off again, nearly tripping over Turtles, who trotted across the tile floor to duck under the table and rub her mottled, furry back against Greta’s leg.
“She hasn’t improved much, you know,” Greta remarked.
Remmi was slathering peanut butter on one half of the bagel when Greta snapped the paper open. “Who?”
“Beverly. Her Spanish, such as it is, wouldn’t get her as far as Tijuana. And she’s been at it for months. If she’s really serious, she should take a class at . . .” Her voice faded away for a second and then, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I think you’d better take a look at this.”
Remmi dropped the bagel onto a small plate and turned to see the front page lying open on the table. The first headline that caught her attention was:
Suicide Victim Identified
Leaper Said to Be Dressed as 1950s Icon
Heart in her throat, she skimmed the article about the identity of the dead woman. “Who’s Karen Upgarde?” she asked, rereading the few paragraphs more carefully.
“I”m sure I don’t know.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“We are bound to find out a lot more about her,” Greta said. “It’ll be all over the news, at least for a couple of days, until something more dreadful or sensational or scandalous or whatever comes along.”
Remmi tried to read between the lines, but the article was short, straightforward, and didn’t give a lot of details. “The police didn’t call me.”
“Why would they?”
“Because I’m involved. Didi is my mother. This woman was dressed like her, not some ‘1950s icon,’ meaning Marilyn Monroe, for God’s sake.”
“You already told them the victim wasn’t your mother, but I do suppose they will call to see if you know of any connection.” She thought for a second. “I’m surprised you didn’t already see this online this morning.”
“I didn’t check my computer, and my phone is charging upstairs. I was just about to do that.” Remmi read the article for the third time and frowned. “All this gives is her age, and that she’s from the Seattle area. Divorced. No children. Mother is next of kin. Mind if I take this?” She was already scooping up the paper and heading for the stairs.
“Just save me the puzzle,” she said. “Oh, Remmi, your breakfast—”
But Remmi ignored her rumbling stomach and raced up the back staircase so quickly that her heart was pounding as she reached her apartment. Unhooking her phone from its charger, she caught her breath, then dialed Detective Settler’s number, one she’d memorized, only to hear it ring on the other end, then go to voice mail.
She hung up, wanting to throw the phone across the room. What good were the police if you couldn’t reach them when you needed them?
Stop. Slow down. You know about the cops. You’ve dealt with them before.
A little calmer, she punched in the numbers again, and when the phone again went to voice mail, she left a message. “This is Remmi Storm. Please call me back.” Then she left her number and clicked off.
She’d wait. For now. First, she’d do some checking on Karen Upgarde, then she’d visit Jennifer Reliant, that damned agent for Maryanne Osgoode, and find out who the hell the author really was.
* * *
So far, Settler’s phone calls to the agent for Maryanne Osgoode had gone unanswered, and she’d gotten the runaround at the small press that had published I’m Not Me. Currently, still in a suite where she’d conducted interviews at the Montmort, she was waiting for the editor of Stumptown Press, a small publisher located in Portland, Oregon, to return her call. Said editor was conveniently “out for a few days,” which seemed more than a little suspicious, given the fact that the book on Didi Storm was getting a lot of attention and was certainly Stumptown’s biggest seller.
As for the interviews with the hotel staff? Most had been a bust.
But not all.
After spending nearly three hours with employees and guests, Settler and Martinez hadn’t learned much more than she had the day before. The detectives had again examined the room occupied by Upgarde as D. Storm, noting that there were doorways on both sides to connecting rooms; both, it had been reported, had been locked. They’d reviewed the security tapes of the outer hallways, elevators, and common areas with the hotel security manager and spoken to room service, maid service, and the front desk staff, but no one had experienced much interaction with Karen Upgarde aka D. Storm.
The only point of interest came when they’d been able to speak to one of the janitors who worked the night shift.
Al Benson, a portly man with a thin moustache, told them: “Saw a guy I didn’t recognize using the service elevator. About three in the mornin’, maybe three-fifteen or so, you know, on the mornin’ of the day that woman jumped? Anyway, I got on at the tenth floor and said, ‘Hey,’ and he said it back then real quick-like punched the button for fourteen and got off. I rode up to twenty-one. But the strange thing about it was, the car stopped on the nineteenth floor. Doors opened. No one got on, so he probably was headin’ that way, but then decided to get out on fourteen. Or else someone on nineteen decided not to wait and took the stairs, y’know.”
Settler had felt that little buzz at the back of her neck that warned her she was onto something. “And you didn’t know him?”
“Never seen him before, I don’t think, but he was wearin’ tinted glasses and a baseball cap, had a bit of a beard going, three days’ growth or so, I’d guess. Which probably should have made me sit up and take notice.” He’d shrugged. “I guess I was payin’ more attention to my cell phone. Had a call from the parking garage attendant, who was havin’ trouble with the electronic gate.” Al frowned and scratched his chin. “But the more I think about it, I don’t think he was wearing a badge, y’know, like this one.” He’d wiggled his name tag, pinned to his shirt pocket. “But sometimes people forget. They’re s’pose to wear them, but they don’t always. And once in a while, guests, they hop on the service elevator; it’s not locked or nothing, so it’s really not that big of a deal.” But his eyes had clouded. “You don’t think he had anything to do with that poor gal on nineteen’s death, do you? I mean it was a suicide, right? She jumped.”
“We’re just investigating all possibilities,” Settler had said, but the sensation that she’d just found a fissure, a crack in what had, at first, seemed like an open and shut case of suicide, stayed with her. Now the door leading to homicide was definitely ajar.
“Anything else you can tell us about this guy?”
“Wish I could,” he’d said, but despite more questions and prodding, Al had told them all he remembered. They had double-checked the security tape for the time listed but didn’t find anyone on the nineteenth floor between three and four in the morning, though when they viewed the film of the service elevator, they saw that Al’s memory had been spot-on, and now there was a black-and-white image of a man who appeared to have pushed a button on the panel of the elevator car when he’d gotten on in the parking garage. When Al Benson had stepped onto the car, he’d immediately pressed another button. In the footage, she couldn’t read the floor numbers, but he’d made a quick exit on floor fourteen.
They reviewed the videotape of the stairs, and sometime later saw the same man in the stairwell, his face hidden by the baseball cap, hurrying down to finally exit into the parking garage.
From that point, they’d lost him.
And they hadn’t seen him in any of the footage of the nineteenth floor, though, unfortunately, the camera on the floor had been working only sporadically for the week before the tragedy, so it was possible someone could have slipped into D. Storm’s room without there being any footage of his or her entrance.
Coincidence? Bad luck?
Or had someone purposely fiddled with the camera?
But how? An inside job? Was someone on the hotel staff compromised?
Or was all of that
conjecture just too damned far-fetched?
Maybe Karen Upgarde, who was known to be a flamboyant dresser, got a wild hair to leap off the building as a celebrity, possibly Marilyn Monroe.
But there was the fingernail—the damned signature of Didi Storm.
Dani had stared at the image of the man who had fled the elevator on the fourteenth floor.
Who are you? she’d wondered. And how are you involved in all of this? One way or another, she intended to find out.
CHAPTER 19
The Reliant Agency didn’t exist. At least, it didn’t exist in the context of an office within a building with a front door and four walls. The “suite” in the building was actually a post office box within a mail annex, and Remmi suspected the telephone number she’d found online and left messages on was never answered. The whole agency was a scam. “Someone must pick up the mail here,” she said to the twentysomething worker behind the counter.
“I can’t give out information about our customers,” the clerk said primly, with a certain amount of relish. He was a string bean of a man, with thin shoulders and hips and a feeble, sparse attempt at a Lincolnesque beard.
“Someone pays for that space,” she said, pointing to the box in question. “Or else you mail it somewhere else. But someone pays the bill.”
“The box is registered to the Reliant Agency,” he told her. “That’s all I can tell you. Next.” He looked over her shoulder to a woman in a pink coat and gloves who was balancing three packages in one hand while dealing with a toy poodle on a leash with the other. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said pointedly to Remmi as the woman pushed past her and let her packages tumble onto the counter with a scale. She declared, “I need these to be insured, and they have to get there by the end of the week!”
Sensing she wasn’t going to get any more information from the guy, Remmi left the building and walked onto the street. Nearby, rising higher than its neighbors, the Montmort Tower knifed into the gray sky. She counted up to the nineteenth floor and studied the window and ledge from which Karen Upgarde had leaped to her death.
