by Lisa Jackson
“So no connection?”
“Not that we’ve found so far. We also talked to the people at the karaoke bar, and the bartender—his name is Chuck—said she was better than most. Could sing, and really got into it but usually came in alone.”
“No friends?”
“None that he could name. He called her a ‘loner’ and remarked that she seemed to come out of her shell onstage, but that was it. She drank diet soda or sometimes sparkling water, usually a Diet Coke or something like that. No alcohol.”
“Did she attend AA meetings?”
“We think so, but you know that’s hard to say. They take both the alcoholism and the anonymity pretty seriously. Tight-lipped organization. That’s the whole point.”
“But people talk. Even people who go to meetings.” Settler retook her chair as Martinez stood up. She held up a finger, indicating she needed to talk to him, and he rested a hip against the edge of her desk and eavesdropped on her end of the conversation.
“The only thing of interest was that there was a guy who came in about two weeks ago,” Rosamie added. “Someone the bartender didn’t recognize, not a regular. According to Chuck, the guy ordered a beer and nursed it while he watched the show. At that time, Upgarde was on stage belting out a Madonna number that was her favorite—‘Papa Don’t Preach’—along with some others, which he didn’t remember. She always sang songs with a moving beat, not much for ballads like some of the more serious karaoke-ers. Anyway, Chuck noticed because a guy walked over to her table after she’d been onstage a couple of times and struck up a conversation with her. Karen kind of brushed him off—at least that’s the way it seemed to Chuck. But soon after she left, the stranger did, too. Didn’t wait for his tab, just left enough money to cover the drinks and took off.”
“In a hurry to go after her?”
“Maybe. The guy didn’t use a debit or credit card, just cash, and Chuck is pretty certain he’d never seen him before or since. He couldn’t give that great of a description of him except that he was probably in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and dressed like we all do up here, in a dark sweatshirt and jeans, jacket with a hood. The only odd thing about him was that the dude was wearing tinted glasses and the bar is pretty dark, which is the reason Chuck noticed him. Oh, and even though he had a hood on his jacket, he wore a baseball cap instead. Mariners. Which eliminates no one in this town.”
“Any footage of the bar that night?”
“They have cameras, but they’re on a forty-eight-hour loop, and this was several weeks ago.”
Damn. What was it with the cameras on this case? Settler thought as she glanced at the computer monitor with the poor-quality image. Either they weren’t working, the film had been erased, or the pictures weren’t clear.
“E-mail me Chuck’s full name and contact info,” she said to Ugali.
“You got it.”
They talked for another ten minutes, and Settler asked about Rosamie’s twin daughters who were six now—“going on thirteen; let me tell you they sure grow up fast.” Then, with Rosamie’s promise to let her know if she found out anything else about the victim, she ended the call and turned to Martinez.
“Any chance there’s a Mariners baseball cap in that photo?”
He snorted a laugh. “I can’t even tell if there’s a person in the shot, let alone determine what’s on his head.”
“I know, but . . .” She was squinting at the image, and he was right, she couldn’t tell if she was looking at a man, a woman, a shadow, a ghost, or nothing at all. “Ten to one, that’s a person. We need to double-check anyone on that floor.”
“Got a junior on it already.”
“Who?”
“Mina Camp.”
“Okay.” Camp was new to the department, fresh out of college, but eager and efficient, as well as a tech wizard.
“What did your friend up in Seattle say?”
“That we don’t know enough about Upgarde. Yet. And there’s an unidentified male we need to find.”
“One wearing a Mariners baseball cap?”
“Yep.” Settler filled Martinez in on the conversation as an e-mail from Ugali arrived. It included the bartender’s name, cell phone, and place of business: Buford’s Bar and Grill, Chuck Buford, proprietor.
* * *
The Marksman loaded up, stowing his equipment in his vehicle. He’d cleaned and oiled his weapons, a rifle for long distance and, if needed, a pistol for close up, then made certain he had an adequate supply of ammo. Now he placed the guns and extra clips in their respective cases in the back of his SUV.
He had another job to do, so he’d stay another day or two, but it would feel good to leave the crappy fleabag of a motel in Oakland and get to work again. As he climbed behind the wheel, he rolled his shoulders to release some tension, then fired up the Ford. The engine caught almost instantly, a good sign.
He had to be careful, he thought, as he backed out of his parking slot and eyed the brightly lit reception area where that kid, barely twenty, was working the counter and chatting up a woman with a roller bag who was registering.
No one else was loitering on the porch in the rainy dusk, not even someone out for a smoke. No one would be able to tell when he’d come and gone, and he knew that this particular “no-tell/motel” had only one surveillance camera, and it worked only part of the time, due largely to his own efforts whenever he stayed here. He knew his way around technology, had kept abreast of the latest security devices as well. It all came in handy. But this was his last night at the Baysider, which wasn’t anywhere near the bay. He never stayed anywhere too long, didn’t want anyone to get a good look at him, needed no one remembering him, or pointing to him, or even wondering about him. He had to be a ghost, nothing more substantial. At least when he was working. He would return back here after the job to clean up, then wait to come down from the high that followed a killing, maybe grab a little shut-eye, if possible, then handle the next job and check out of the Baysider for good. He would never return. There were enough cheap motels that he never had to occupy the same space twice.
As he drove out of the lot, he whistled under his breath, and the songs of his youth, ingrained in him from dear old granny, played through his brain again. The “little light song,” as he thought of it, was one of his favorites, and it rolled easily through his gray matter. He tingled a little inside. It felt good to be working again, and he felt more than a little elation at the thought of taking care of some old loose ends.
He crossed the bridge and turned on the GPS tracker he’d placed under the bumper of Remmi Storm’s Subaru. Seconds later, on the screen, a blinking dot told him exactly where she was. Not only did he know where she was, but someone else did as well. This particular bug could be accessed by an app where more than one user was able to view the location.
He smiled to himself. Wasn’t technology great?
CHAPTER 21
Just to be certain she wasn’t being followed on her way home, Remmi made a quick turn off the main artery of traffic, then cut through a neighborhood with narrow streets and cars parked tightly on either side. As she did, she watched for a tail but saw no dark vehicle keeping her Subaru in its sights while hanging back and maintaining its distance.
“You’ve seen one too many horror flicks,” she told herself. She was in the city, her city, not some lonesome private dirt road winding deep in the woods leading to a haunted house or cemetery or whatever. She passed the UC San Francisco Medical School before reconnecting with the main street and driving her Subaru up the hill to the house. She parked in her usual spot in the driveway and, with a last look over her shoulder, swept her gaze over the wet street but again noticed nothing out of place, nothing suspicious, no lurking dark vehicle. Good.
Get a hold of yourself.
She locked the car. Laden with grocery bags, she dashed up the front steps.
The porch light flipped on just as she reached the front door.
“Saw you coming.” Jad
e, Greta’s caretaker for the evening, shut the door behind Remmi as she slipped inside. “Thought maybe you could use a hand.”
“At least one.”
“Got two.” Jade, a woman in her late forties, was tiny and lithe. Part Asian, Jade boasted often enough that she had earned a black belt in karate and tae kwon do. And she looked the part: Tough. Compact. Supple. Her black hair was twisted into a neat bun, and she wore yoga pants and a tunic as well as a woman half her age. Remmi believed Jade’s accomplishments, though she’d never witnessed any martial arts display. “Let me take those,” Jade insisted and, before Remmi could protest, removed the soggy bags from her, allowing Remmi to hang her coat on the front hall tree.
Ever vigilant, Turtles noticed she was home and trotted out to greet her.
“There you are,” Remmi said, feeling a little better now that she was inside the warm house, with its mingled scents of Greta’s lavender potpourri and something Jade was simmering in the kitchen, something tangy with onions and garlic, she guessed.
“Mongolian beef,” Jade said as if she could read Remmi’s mind. Her stomach rumbled as she bent down and Turtles lifted her front legs off the floor to receive the proffered petting a little more quickly. “Greta’s in her room”—Jade was already hurrying around the staircase toward the kitchen—“and I think she wants to talk to you.”
“Got it.”
Remmi found Greta dressed as she was this morning, but with a fresh sheen of lipstick. Seated in her favorite reading chair, her feet propped on an aging ottoman, she looked up at the sound of Remmi’s footsteps. “I thought I heard you come in,” she said, shifting slightly and wincing a bit as she set the book, her copy of I’m Not Me, next to a box of tissues on a side table. “Damn this arthritis.” With a sigh, she adjusted a pillow propping her back, then added, “It’s hell getting old,” something she confided to Remmi at least once a month. “There we go. Now,” she said, her attention back on Remmi again, “tell me. What did you learn today?” She was always eager for news, and this evening was no exception.
“We’ve got some work to do.” Remmi started explaining about the repairs needed to both the buildings she’d visited today in Sausalito and Berkeley, but Greta swatted the air impatiently.
“Not that! For God’s sake, I know you’ll take care of whatever needs to be done. What I want to know is what you learned about that Upgarde woman. Sit down, sit down.” She pointed to the corner of her antique four-poster bed, but Remmi settled on the window seat instead.
“I don’t think Mom knew Karen Upgarde. At least not that I remember, and I spent hours trying to research her before I left this morning. I searched the Internet as best I could. Unfortunately, I came up empty.”
“Huh.” Greta scowled in disappointment as Turtles finally waltzed into the room and hopped onto the ottoman, curling into a ball at Greta’s feet.
Remmi explained about the Reliant Agency being nothing more than a post office box with an answering service, and Greta let out a snort.
“What about the police? They must know something.”
“If they’ve found out more, they haven’t told me. I’m not exactly on their ‘need to- know’ list. I think they’re going to try to find Aunt Vera, check on the validity of the book, see if she was interviewed.”
“Or, if she’s behind the whole thing, including the book,” Greta suggested. Over the years, Remmi had confided in the older woman, whose view of Aunt Vera had been colored by Remmi’s stories. Though Remmi had originally been reticent to say anything about her family, she’d let the story out bit by bit, due, in part, to Greta’s intense curiosity and constant, if gentle, prodding.
“I’ve thought of that,” Remmi admitted. She wouldn’t put it past her aunt to try to find a way to make some money off her missing sister.
“Well, who else?”
“I don’t know. Someone from Anderstown, Missouri? One of Didi’s—or Edie’s, I should say—friends? Or, maybe someone who didn’t like her? A relative I don’t know about? Or someone else she confided in?” She thought of Seneca or Leo Kasparian or Ned Crenshaw, or several of the other men who had come in and out of Didi’s life, men Didi had dated but hadn’t married. And then there was the mystery man, the twins’ father. Or maybe a random person. Someone unknown.
“Frustrating,” Greta said.
“Agreed.”
Remmi’s phone rang, and she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans and glanced at the number. She didn’t recognize it and almost hung up, but then decided it could be important. “Hello?” she answered.
“Is this Remmi Storm?” a gravelly male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He sounded satisfied. The voice was starting to sound familiar, and it struck a chord, not a good one.
“Who is this?”
“Harold,” he said. “Remember me?”
Harold Rimes. Her mother’s boss. She tensed. “How did you get my number?”
“Like that’s hard.” He didn’t reply, and she wondered if he could be the person in the dark SUV she’d sensed was following her. “You got any idea where that mother of yours is?” he asked. “Didi?”
“Nope.”
She’d never liked Rimes, and the feeling hadn’t changed over the years. “She still owes me money. Over twenty grand, and I figure with interest it’s more than double that.”
“Why are you calling me now?”
“With all this stuff that’s going on? That book? I’m startin’ to see it everywhere, and now with the new publicity, y’know, with that woman killing herself all dressed up like Didi or Marilyn? There’s all kinds of chatting about it online, did ya know that? Somebody’s cashing in big time, and I bet it’s Didi.”
“So . . . you think my mother’s alive?” she asked.
“’Course she is!”
From the corner of her eye, Remmi saw Greta’s head snap up. “Have you heard from her?”
“No . . . but she’s too ornery to die . . .” When Remmi didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” Remmi admitted. “I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left Las Vegas.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re bullshittin’ me.”
“Have you seen her? Heard from her?” Remmi asked again.
He let out a derisive snort. “If I had, would I be wasting time with you? No, Remmi,” he said, and the way he said her name made her skin crawl. “But she wouldn’t be lookin’ me up, if ya know what I mean. Remember: twenty grand. But, believe you me, it would take more than a fireball in the frickin’ desert to kill that woman. She’s like a cat. Just one difference, though. Instead of nine lives, she has ninety-nine.”
“Look, if you have any information—”
“No, listen, if you have any. If you’re just shinin’ me on and you know where she is, tell her that I want my money back, and I’m going to come lookin’ for her.”
She expected him to threaten her as well, but he hung up then, and Remmi, more angry than scared, thrust the cell into her pocket.
“Who was that?” Greta asked.
“Didi’s old boss. A real bottom feeder. He wanted to know if I knew where she was or if I’d heard from her.”
“I gathered that much.”
Remmi told her about the rest of the conversation and how she felt about Harold Rimes.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Greta asked.
Remmi made a face. “I’ve always had the idea that he was more bark than bite, one of those guys who likes to throw his weight around and threaten but is really a coward inside.” She remembered the incident at his club when she’d been caught “borrowing” the Stephen King novel, and she felt that same old slimy feeling she had had when his gaze had traveled up and down her body. “He’s a pig, but I don’t think he would do anything.”
“If you say so.” Greta didn’t sound convinced, but Remmi managed to turn the conversation a
way from Didi’s lech of a boss.
“What’s been going on around here?”
“Nothing earth-shattering or even interesting.” Greta explained that the company she’d hired to string the Christmas lights would finish the task either tomorrow or, more probably, the next day. “Yeah, real exciting around here.” She frowned and asked Remmi if she wanted to have dinner with her. “It’s Mongolian beef.”
“I heard, and it smells great, but not tonight.” She was beat and didn’t want to answer any more of Greta’s endless questions. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Retracing her steps, she retrieved her battered sandwich from her coat pocket, then headed upstairs, nearly tripping on Ghost, who’d been hiding on one of the risers. “Oh—geez.”
The cat hissed, displaying his needle-sharp teeth, his ears pinned to his head, before he scurried down the steps to slink into the hallway and out of sight.
“Nice,” she muttered, then, more loudly, “Back at ya, Ghost,” before climbing the remaining stairs to the third floor and unwrapping her dinner, such as it was. Her stomach rumbled again, as it had been hours since the PowerBar. She took a bite of the sandwich before actually putting it onto a plate and uncorking a bottle of Chardonnay she found in her fridge. Romeo appeared and hopped up on the counter as if he owned the place. “You leave this alone,” she said as he looked with interest at the sandwich. She wasn’t about to share tonight. “Hear me?”
The big cat sat on the edge of the counter, his long tail draping over the cupboards and twitching slightly as he eyed her dinner.
She didn’t trust him. Not for one second.
She carried her plate and glass into the living area, plopped down in her favorite chair, then found her remote, clicked on the TV to turn on the news, and hoped for more information about Karen Upgarde, but she was disappointed as the anchors were already talking about the weather; a storm was predicted, and they were leading into sports. The Seahawks were favored in Sunday’s game against the 49ers here in the city at Levi’s Stadium.
