by Lisa Jackson
“Did you kill her?” Noah asked.
Her hand flew to her throat. “Goodness, no. Of course not. She was out of my life. I already told you, I have no idea what happened to her. Now, please. Leave. I’ve told you everything I know. That’s all there is.”
* * *
The kid looked scared out of his mind. Barely nineteen, in the crisp uniform of the bell staff for the Montmort Tower, he was seated at a table in an empty conference room and drinking from a plastic water glass. Sweat had beaded on his forehead, and he licked his lips constantly as he answered Settler’s questions.
His name was Robb Quade. He was a skinny nineteen-year-old, going to college part-time, and was pale as a ghost, his hands shaking on the glass, his already large eyes wide, the pupils dilated in fear.
Yes, he’d taken money to let a guy into the room next to Karen Upgarde’s on the day of her death.
No, he didn’t know the guy. Didn’t know that he was going to open the connecting door or that the woman in the next suite would do the same. He just couldn’t even believe it now.
Yes, he’d lied to the police the first time around because he was scared about losing his job, scared the police might arrest him for abetting a crime, even though, he swore over and over again, he had no idea what was about to go down, and now, oh, God, that woman had jumped. He’d witnessed the fall.
Why had he decided to come forward now?
Because several people knew about it, and he figured it was best to come clean himself.
“Do I need a lawyer?” he asked, looking as if he might break down and cry.
“That depends; do you think you need one?” Settler asked.
“No! I’m telling you everything I know,” he insisted, blinking. “I was stupid and should never have done it. I’m going to lose my job over it, won’t even get a decent reference, but, I swear, I had no idea the guy would do . . . well, whatever he was gonna do.” His face crumpled, and he had to strain not to cry.
“Is this the man?” Dani asked, and they showed him still shots from the security footage of the elevator that they’d gotten after the statement by Al Benson, the Montmort custodian.
Quade stared down at the photographs and swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Same guy, but he was dressed a little different. Sunglasses, yeah, okay, they look the same, but his hair was longer, and I thought it looked fake at the time. Don’t ask me how I knew; I just thought so. Too blond or something. And he was wearing a Mariners baseball cap. I remember because I come from Seattle. I’m a fan.” He swallowed again. “I’m so fucked.”
“What do you think he wanted to use the room for?”
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I figured maybe a hooker might come up, or he wanted to get high privately, or”—he shrugged, lifting his thin shoulders—“whatever.”
“Did you give him a time limit?”
“Yeah, oh, yeah. Two hours. That was it.”
“Fifty bucks an hour?” Martinez said.
Quade looked miserable. “Yeah. I did it for a cool hundred. Jesus, I’m a moron.”
She didn’t argue. He was. They asked more questions but got no new information. “If you think of anything else, let us know,” she reminded him at the close of the interview.
They were heading to the car, just stepping through the glass doors of the Montmort, when her cell phone buzzed. She picked it up, didn’t recognize the number, but answered, “Detective Settler,” just as a gust of cold wind blew along the street. Quickly, she tugged her collar closer.
“Hey, yeah. This is Leo Kasparian.”
The elusive Kaspar the Great. She pressed the phone to her ear with one hand, found the keys in her coat pocket with the other, and tossed the ring to Martinez. He caught them deftly on the fly.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said.
“Yeah, I got your message and figured it must have somethin’ to do with Didi. She’s everywhere now these days; it’s kinda like she rose from the dead, if you know what I mean.”
“Is she dead? Do you know that?” She and Martinez were skirting other pedestrians, heads bent against the wind. She had to hold one hand over her opposite ear to hear Kasparian.
“Just a figure of speech, since no one’s seen her for years. It isn’t like Didi to hide under a rock. Not her style. So, if she’s not struttin’ her stuff, I figure she must be dead. But a shame about that Upgarde girl. What do you figure happened there?”
She ignored the question and, as they reached the car, slid into the passenger side as Martinez adjusted the driver’s seat. “You didn’t know her?”
“Never heard of her before. Didi and I, well, it wasn’t all that friendly when we split up, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“I married someone else. That didn’t work out so well either. Now, I’ve got me a nice little act in a casino in Reno. You should catch it sometime.”
“You heard about Trudie Crenshaw?”
“Aw, yeah. A shame there. But Ned, he’s gonna be okay? He’s an all right guy. Just got mixed up with Didi, like me. Can’t hold it against him.”
“We hope he recovers. Your cell number came up several times on Trudie’s call list, about a year ago, when Trudie was probably doing research for the book.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure, I talked to her. Even met with her a couple of times. She was writing the book and needed some information on the year me and Didi were together, y’know. We did parts of our acts together and . . . well, it was a good time until it wasn’t.”
She asked him more questions about Trudie and Ned, but she seemed to have drained him of information about them. And he swore again that he’d never met Karen Upgarde, never even heard of her, and he had solid alibis for the day she jumped. He started growing distracted, talking to people around him, and when Settler tried to get his attention, he admitted he was trying to rehearse. The club owner, a couple of waitresses, and an audio tech were in the building.
“Just a couple more questions,” Dani assured him.
Martinez had driven down the hill, and they were skirting the waterfront on the Embarcadero, the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge stretching across the churning waters of the bay. White caps formed and the surface of the water rippled with the storm that was brewing. Quickly, Dani asked, “So what do you know about Didi’s disappearance?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you know she had twins?”
“No. I mean that hasn’t been proven, has it? There were rumors she had a baby, but she wouldn’t tell anyone who the father was. Kind of her MO, y’know. She never revealed who her older daughter’s dad was, either. That always bugged me, and I’m sure it bothered Remmi. It had to. But as flamboyant and out-there as she was, Didi could zip her lips when she wanted to.”
“So you don’t know who she was dating about the time the babies were conceived.”
“Nah . . .” Then a pause. “Well, there was one guy. I heard about it from Rimes—Harold, y’know. We both used to work for him. What was his name? . . . She bragged about him. Like he was this big high roller. Let me see, I remember because his name was like some TV personality, like . . . no . . . oh, maybe a game show personality that had been around for a while, kind of an icon, if you know what I mean. Not Downs . . . or Trebek or . . . you know, I think his last name was Hall. Yeah, that was it. Brandon Hall. Shit, where did that come from?”
Settler slid a glance at Martinez. “Hall. You’re sure.”
“Pretty damned sure,” Kasparian said. “Yeah.”
Brandon Hall. The guy who had rented the Mustang that burned in the desert. The unidentified body. She asked Kasparian a few more questions, then told him he would have to make an official statement to a cop from Reno. Groaning about Didi still invading his damned life, he reluctantly agreed. “I’ll go down to the station today,” he promised before disconnecting, but the guy had a reputation for being as slippery as an eel, so Settler called the Reno P.D. and gave them a heads-up.
If he didn’t show up, they promised to track him down.
She filled Martinez in as he found a spot to park near Fisherman’s Wharf. It was noon, so they grabbed fish and chips at a restaurant with a view of Pier 39, where they watched the seagulls land and sea lions bask on the floating docks.
Through bites of fried halibut and thick salty fries, they were discussing the case when Settler’s phone went off again. She read the screen—Las Vegas Police Department—and answered. “This is Detective Settler.”
“Lucretia Davis. I’m going to cut to the chase, okay? This morning at a construction site, an old white Cadillac was uncovered, buried in the desert. License plate indicates it belonged to Didi Storm.” Davis’s voice was grim, and Settler waited for the next bit of information, but she still felt a bit of a shock when she heard, “Looks like Didi was at the wheel.”
“In the car?”
“Yep. The body was reduced to a skeleton, but there was a sizable hole in the back of her skull and what looks to be a bullet where her brain used to be. So, I guess one mystery is solved: Didi Storm was definitely murdered.”
CHAPTER 29
“You did what?” Remmi demanded as they drove away from the cottage in Walnut Creek where she’d grown up. She was at the wheel, heading toward the freeway, when Noah had dropped the bomb that he’d bugged Aunt Vera’s house.
“It’s a very small camera, complete with audio.”
“In Aunt Vera’s house?”
“Yep, on the mantel of the fireplace when you, Vera, and Jensen went in to look at the baby. A tiny spot between a picture of Monty and Jesus, right in the center of the room, panoramic view.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Shrugging, he said, “Whatever we get wouldn’t be of any use in a court of law, but I’m a private citizen, and so are you. We’re not the police, so any information we collect can’t be used as evidence. But we could use it to steer the police in the right direction.”
“What if she finds it?”
“She might, but it’s hidden in a pair of sunglasses, no wires. I’m talking small, but effective.”
“What if she finds them?”
“Hopefully she’ll just think we or someone else left them there. Several people live in the house, and presumably they have visitors, so why not?”
“It’s sneaky.”
“Very. But necessary.”
“You’re right,” she agreed as she’d felt Aunt Vera was holding back, that she knew more than she was saying. The cell phone call from Jensen’s phone to Karen Upgarde was damning enough.
“Then let’s head to a coffee shop, someplace that has Wi-Fi, and see what we find out. The images and audio will show up on my phone as well as being recorded.”
“You’ve got an app for this?”
“At least one. We’ll be able to see and hear whatever happens in the living room and part of the dining area leading to the kitchen, even down the hallway.”
She didn’t care about the legality any longer. It was a means to an end. “Find an all-day diner or coffee shop that has Wi-Fi, and we’ll head there.”
“Already on it.” He clicked on the keys. “Okay, here’s a good one. The Bellwether Café. They advertise ‘cutting-edge coffee,’ whatever than means, and ‘wine and beer starting at four PM.’ Better yet, ‘free, fast Wi-Fi.’”
He gave her the address, and realizing she was heading in the wrong direction, Remmi found a place for a quick U-turn, one tire skimming the curb, then drove south till they found the café, an A-frame building that she remembered from high school. At that time, it had been a burger and ice cream takeout spot with limited seating. Now, it had been redone in an industrial motif, with black and silver vinyl, vaguely space-age, chrome light fixtures, a stainless-steel counter, exposed pipes, and the smell of freshly ground coffee mingling with the sweet scent of baked goods.
Tables were scattered over a cement floor, and only a few were occupied. Two women were chatting loudly at a table near the counter, while a twenty-year-old with a beard and close-cropped black hair stared at his open laptop, watching some kind of video, his coffee forgotten while he stared at the screen and chewed on an already flattened stir stick.
Instrumental versions of classic rock songs played but could barely be heard over the buzz of conversation, the clatter of cups, and the hiss of an espresso machine.
They found a corner booth in the back of the eating area, and while Noah set up shop, connecting his phone and laptop to the Internet, she ordered them each a cup of coffee. “Want anything else?” she asked when she returned with the cups, and he looked up.
“Maybe,” he said, and when his gaze touched hers, she felt an unbidden rush warm her blood. “Let me think about it.” She handed him his cup, then ordered two scones. The barista placed them on a plate, which she set on the table before sliding into the booth next to him.
“I figured if we’re going to hang out here a while, we’d better order,” she said.
“Good idea.” His phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Emma,” he mouthed and then listened, his expression growing grim.
“When?” he asked tersely. “No, I hadn’t heard . . . when? . . . no foul play . . . well, yeah, other than that. But I meant at the hospital . . .”
Hospital? Oh, no. Ned!
“. . . Okay. Yeah, thanks.” He clicked off, and Remmi slumped on the bench.
“Ned died,” she said, and he nodded.
“Just a while ago.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d told herself she’d been expecting to hear this, that no one could survive the attack he’d been subjected to, but deep down she’d hoped for a miracle, had felt that if anyone could make it, Ned, the rough-and-tumble cowboy, could. He would be able to beat the odds . . . but no. She felt Noah’s arm reach across the back of the booth and pull her close.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath ruffling the hair at her crown. “Really.” He kissed her softly above her temple, and she nearly broke into a million pieces.
“I haven’t seen or heard from him in years,” she whispered. “But still . . .”
“He was the one guy you looked up to back then, I know.” He squeezed her, and she melted into him, let go for just a second.
A kaleidoscope of memories assailed her—short, colorful pictures flashing through her mind of happy years with the gentle cowboy. For a second, she remembered the scents of horses and dust, the feel of his hands helping her into the saddle, the way he showed her how to aim a .22 and how to quiet a frightened mare in the throes of foaling.
“He was a good guy,” she said. “He deserved better than this. And I know that, somehow, he was involved in all of this, that he was compromised, I guess, but he didn’t deserve to be gunned down, Noah.” She wiped her eyes and swallowed back her tears.
“You’re right.”
“So let’s get this guy, okay?” She felt her jaw harden and pulled herself upright, away from his embrace.
“That’s the plan.”
“Good.” She took a swallow of her coffee just as his laptop gave off a soft ding, and he glanced at the screen.
“Bingo,” he said, his gaze touching hers. “We’re in.”
She leaned in to view the interior of Aunt Vera’s small living room. “Now what?” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed on the screen. “Now, we wait.”
* * *
Just outside of Las Vegas, Settler viewed the construction site, where the huge car was being winched out of a pit. Sand and dirt and litter fell away as it slowly rose from the earth.
To cut down on red tape and delays, Settler had called a friend with a private plane and a pilot’s license. Always interested in being a part of an investigation, Stinson had flown both her and Martinez to Las Vegas and had agreed to fly them back, all for the price of fuel and dinner.
The only hiccup had been the interview with Jennifer Reliant, which had been pushed back until tomorrow after Settler found out about the extract
ion of what was believed to be Didi Storm’s Cadillac.
She and Martinez had arrived mid-afternoon, rented a car, and met Detective Davis at the construction site as the big Caddy was being hauled onto a tow truck that would take it to the garage, where crime-scene techs would go over every inch of it and take it apart.
“It’s Didi Storm’s, for sure,” Davis said, “Not only licensed and titled to her, but also the cargo space that the daughter described? Yep. It’s there.”
“Body’s already been taken to the morgue?”
“Yeah. It was in the clothes the daughter described in the missing person report, the last thing she’d seen her mother wearing, a black, low-cut dress that had seen better days, matching gloves, and a Marilyn Monroe-type wig. Platinum blond, or it had been. Didi’s name scrawled across the inside. We’re checking dental records, for official ID, but it’s a done deal, I’m thinking. And the cause of death is pretty evident, what with the big hole in her skull.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Her purse and ID, cosmetics from that era, and a small gun. Looks like she came prepared, but it didn’t help.”
“No other body?”
“None. And no baby, either. There was an empty infant car seat, but no baby.”
Settler felt a little bit of relief at that.
Davis assured her, “The lab is all over this, checking for fingerprints and DNA, if there’s any to collect. Time will tell.”
“I want to see the body. Didi.”
A dark eyebrow lifted over the edge of Davis’s mirrored glasses. “Not much to see, but okay. You got it.” She hitched her chin in the direction of Settler’s rented Toyota. “Got a GPS in that thing?”
“No,” Martinez said, “but I’ll use my phone.”
“Okay. If I lose you, the phone’s directions should get you there.” Davis rattled off the address of the morgue and told them to follow her, which they did, though Davis turned out to have more of a lead foot than Settler, and Martinez held onto the safety bar for dear life.
