As I drove I thought of what Officer Robinson had told me when I asked for the address of the rental house where James Sparks had been staying at the time of the accident.
The house is out on Randall Road, the last one just after it dead-ends, he had said, so I stayed on the road as it followed the river, and after about five miles it finally looked as if there were an end in sight. When I followed a slight rise and could see far behind me in the rearview mirror, I was glad to confirm that mine was the only car on this road.
Randall Road petered out in a heavily wooded spot with one lone driveway shooting out from the end like a spur. Ignoring the “Private Property” signs, I turned into the driveway beside a mailbox marked “4839 Randall Road,” pulling past the screen of trees to see a big riverfront home, the lawn wide and expansive, the house itself pretty but not ostentatious. On the other side, of course, lay the river, wide and dark and slow moving.
There were no cars here, and the place looked empty, closed up tight. Still, I drove all the way up to the house, got out, and went to the door. I knocked and rang the bell several times, but no one came. I tried peeking through the windows, but there were no lights on inside, so I couldn’t see much. What I did see looked like a typical upscale vacation rental—wide fireplace, sturdy furniture, muted tones.
I walked around the house and noticed a graceful porch fronting the river, with a walkway leading down to a dock and an over-the-water shed. I followed the walkway to that shed, peeking inside and then catching my breath at the sight of the red cigarette boat docked there. Was it the same boat, the one that had struck Bryan and killed him? I stared hard at the waterline, near the front, but I couldn’t see any dents or marks. Of course, the accident had happened several years ago. With a nice boat like that, any damage caused by striking Bryan’s body would have been repaired by now.
From my vantage point, I looked out at the river, trying to calculate how far this was from the scene of the accident. From what I could tell, it wasn’t far at all, maybe a quarter of a mile, just enough for the boat to pick up some speed.
Frustrated, I headed back up the walk, taking the steps onto the front porch. There were no curtains on these windows, and I could see a little better. The place was nice inside, with a large kitchen and a table with seating for ten near the windows.
There was something on the kitchen counter, a sort of brochure that was propped up, with the word “Welcome” printed on it. I couldn’t make out what else the thing said, so I quickly ran to the car, dug out the binoculars I had bought earlier, and came back for a better look.
“Welcome!” the top line said in large red letters, and then in smaller letters the next line said, “We hope your stay is a pleasant one. Please read the following information.”
There was a bulleted list of rules about things like trash disposal and recycling, and information on where different items could be found, such as “Local maps in top right drawer of credenza.” At the bottom was a small logo, with the words “Chalfont Vacation Homes, Richmond, Virginia.”
Back in the car, I was frustrated to see that my cell phone couldn’t get service. I started up and drove back the way I had come. I finally got service once I was on the highway, so I pulled over into an abandoned gas station, left the car running, and dialed information for Chalfont Vacation Homes in Richmond. They connected me right away, and when a woman answered, I asked for the agent who handled 4839 Randall Road. After a moment, a woman picked up, identifying herself as “Misty.”
“How can I help you today?” she asked cheerily.
“My name is Callie Webber,” I said, “and I’m a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions about a rental property you handle at 4839 Randall Road, near Riverside.”
“Yes? Is there a problem with the house?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “This is regarding an incident that happened several years ago. An accidental death involving a man who was staying at that house at the time.”
“He died in the house?”
I pinched the area between my eyes.
“No, the man was staying in the house. The death happened nearby. On the river.”
“Oh. Okay. What do you need to know?”
I tried to make my voice sound nonchalant, though I knew that what I was asking for was probably against the rules for her to give.
“I need the name that the house was registered under at that time.” I gave her the date; she repeated it back to me and then asked me to hold on.
While I waited, I tried to decide what I would do once I heard the inevitable, that the house had been rented under the name “Tom Bennett.” I had nearly convinced myself that this was the case, that Tom felt responsible for Bryan’s death because he had coordinated the vacation that had brought his friend James Sparks to the house, to the river. That wouldn’t explain all of the weirdness, all of the secrecy, behind my meeting with Tom and the lawyer, but at least it would give him a tangible claim for guilt—and a starting place for me to begin finding forgiveness.
“Miss Webber?” Misty said.
“Mrs. Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but this is odd. I can’t tell you who rented the house that week.”
“I know it’s probably against the rules, but it’s just a simple request that would save me an enormous amount of—”
“No, you don’t understand. If you’re an investigator, I don’t mind telling you what you need to know. But that week isn’t in the files.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling the skin prickle along my neck.
“I checked the paper file and the computer. The house was occupied on that date, but under the place where it tells you the name and the address of the person who rented it, it’s been deleted.”
“Deleted?”
“Deleted in the computer. And in the paper files, that page is missing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
First the police file, now the real estate file. My mind raced.
“I wonder if you could tell me the agent who would’ve handled the rental.”
“Gosh, we’re a big place. It could’ve been anybody.”
“But at the time there was a tragic death, an accident on the river. The speedboat that rents with the house ran into someone in the water and killed him. The boat was impounded by the police and all of that. Surely someone there would remember.”
“Wow. I wasn’t here then. Hold on. Let me see if Trudy knows.”
This time I was on hold for so long I was afraid my cell phone battery might die. While I waited, I nervously cleaned out the little basket that sat between the two front seats of my SUV.
“Hello? Maybe I can help you,” a different woman said finally, coming onto the line. “I remember all that. It was real sad. Just tragic.”
“Yes.”
“Our insurance company handled the situation with the widow’s lawyers.”
“Who handled the matter on your end, in your office?”
“I did. Man, what a brouhaha we had with that boat afterward. It was impounded by the police, you see, and we had to get it back and then get it repaired. We lost a lot of money in the meantime.”
I held my tongue, thinking, Some of us lost a lot more than money.
“See, the boat is a big draw for that house,” she continued, oblivious. “A lot of people rent the house just to get the free boat that comes with it. I mean, we say it’s free, but they don’t understand that we build the cost of the boat into the rental price, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the police impounded the boat and kept it for a couple weeks. The folks that had the rental during those weeks were furious. We finally had to rent another speedboat for their use just to shut them up. It was terrible. What a pain in the neck.”
“A pain in the neck?” I said, feeling a sudden rage. “A man died.” Certainly, she could hear the anger in my voice, because when she spoke again, she was much more subdued.
“Yes, well, anyway,” she said, “once we finally got the boat
back from the police, we weren’t really involved anymore. Though I think our insurance company did end up giving a big settlement to the widow.”
I hesitated, knowing that I was the widow in question and that, yes, the settlement had been satisfactory.
“Well,” I said, trying to regain my composure, “I really just need the name of the person who was renting the house when the accident happened.”
“Yeah, Misty gave me the file. That information doesn’t seem to be in here. Huh. That’s weird. It’s like somebody came along and just plucked that page right out of the file.”
“But you handled the rental. Don’t you remember who it was?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. They rented the place sight unseen over the phone. After the accident we turned everything over to our insurance company.”
“How about Tom Bennett?” I pressed. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“No, I’m sorry, hon. I handle so many rentals. Unless they’re a repeat customer, I’m not going to remember their name.”
“And you don’t remember anything about the rental?”
“No, but I’ll tell you this. When the accident happened, I was really surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because I do remember that the renters weren’t even interested in the boat. They called here wanting a place with privacy. That’s the most private rental we have, you know, way off at the end of that dead-end road. Even though it’s one of our more expensive properties, they took it. I don’t think we ever even talked about the fact that it came with a boat. I guess they figured that out on their own.”
“I guess so.”
I asked her a few more questions about their company’s billing and contractual procedures, trying to find some way to learn the identity of the person who rented the house.
“What about payment?” I asked. “Could I track the rental payment somehow and find the name that way?”
“Probably not. I mean, I suppose you could go through old deposit slips or something, but we handle a lot of properties. You wouldn’t have any way of knowing which payment went with which property unless you pulled all the files of all the properties and cross referenced them with each other, eliminating the ones you do know. It would probably take you a week just to figure it out, if you even could.”
“I understand,” I said, exhaling slowing. “One last try. Misty said there was a computer file that was deleted also. Would there be a history to the record? Some way to pull up what had been there before?”
“It’s just a simple database,” she said. “Far as I know, all you can see is what’s on the screen in front of you.”
There wasn’t much else she could tell me, so finally I thanked her for her help and concluded the call. Then I pulled out onto the road, not even sure where to turn next.
Nine
My cell phone died as I got back into town. The sun had set, and I realized I didn’t even have a place to stay for the night. Feeling a little lost, I checked into the Holiday Inn along the main drag. As I carried my things to my room in plastic shopping bags, I decided I would need to pick up some inexpensive luggage very soon.
Once I was organized in the room, including plugging my cell phone into the charger, I used the motel phone to call my old Virginia law firm, the place where I was employed at the time of Bryan’s death. My boss back then, Preston Gulliford, had kept an eye on the legalities surrounding Bryan’s death for me right up until the day Sparks pleaded guilty and was sent to prison for manslaughter. I thought Preston might be just the person to contact now.
Leaning back against the headboard, I propped a pad of paper on my knees for taking notes. If Preston was the same workaholic he used to be, he would still be at the office, just settling in for a few more hours of work. Sure enough, I used the company directory to get his extension, and a moment later he answered the phone himself.
“Preston Gulliford.”
“Preston? This is Callie Webber. How are you?”
“Callie Webber?” he cried. “Talk about a voice from the past! How are you, dear?”
We talked for a while, catching up, and I found myself feeling oddly nostalgic for the time I spent working at the law firm. There was no comparison to my job with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, of course, but I had always liked the firm and its partners, and Preston had been my favorite of all. An older, fatherly-type fellow, we were already friends when I learned that his hobby was making hand-hewn canoes. He and his wife had invited Bryan and me to dinner a few times, and we always ended up out back in Preston’s fancy workshop, talking wood buoyancy and water displacement.
“So what can I do for you tonight?” he asked. “I’m sure you didn’t call just to catch up.”
“No, Preston. If you have a minute, I actually need to ask you some things about my husband’s death. You handled all of that for me at the time, but some new issues have come up, and I’m hoping you might have some answers.”
“Well, sure, Callie. I’ll do my best.”
“First of all, I need to know if the name ‘Tom Bennett’ means anything to you.”
“Tom Bennett. I don’t think so. Should it?”
“I’m just wondering if his name ever came up during that time. He would’ve been connected with James Sparks in some way.”
“Hmm. I don’t recall, but I could check the file. Why don’t you hold on and I’ll see if I can find it.”
The whole time I was holding, I expected him to come back to the phone and tell me the file was missing. Instead, when he returned, I could hear him flipping pages.
“You said Tom Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see anything here…”
His voice trailed off as he continued to page through the file. Finally, he spoke again.
“Nope,” he said. “Sorry. No one in here by that name.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Then let’s move on. I’m wondering if you can tell me where Sparks ended up. I know he got manslaughter, but I don’t even know—”
“He’s at the state penitentiary, down near Surry. He got sixteen years, so even if that gets cut in half with good behavior, he’d still be in there now.”
“Good. Okay, that’s what I needed to know.”
“You’re not thinking of filing suit against him, are you, Callie? Because the statute of limitations—”
“No,” I said, “no suits. It’s just information I’m after now. What do we know of Sparks?”
I knew my question sounded stupid, but I had never asked much about the man, instead leaving Preston to handle all of the legal matters on my behalf. I think I wanted to keep Sparks at arm’s length, sort of a nameless, faceless entity. It was easier to blame him that way.
“Let’s see, I’ll tell you what’s in my notes here.” Again, I could hear pages being flipped in the background. “This is from a deposition we had with him. He says he was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia…went to Georgia State, worked after that as a sales associate…”
“Where?”
“Looks like a place called Silmar Systems in Atlanta. Had numerous DUIs, pled guilty to manslaughter, and got sixteen years. That’s about all I know of the man personally.”
“What was he doing in Virginia when Bryan was killed?”
“According to him, vacation. Staying at that big house with some friends.”
“Did we ever get any information on the friends?”
“Not that I can recall. I do remember thinking that they had sure made themselves scarce after the accident. From what I remember, police weren’t even sure who Sparks was for the first twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t say a word, and no one else showed up to help him out.”
“You mean he wouldn’t tell the police his name?”
“Everyone has the right to remain silent, Callie. They finally ID’d him from fingerprints.”
“I guess with his prior record of DUIs, he couldn’t remain anonymous for long.”
“Guess not.”
<
br /> My mind was working, trying to think of any other questions I might have before we concluded our call.
“Is there anything else you remember from that time, anything at all that seemed out of the ordinary?” I asked.
“Well, looking back, I do remember being quite surprised with the speed and the amount of the settlement from the insurance company.”
“Bryan’s life insurance?”
“No, the Realtor’s insurance. From the complaint we filed.”
“Tell me about it.”
I wrote “Realtor’s insurance” in block letters on my pad.
“On your behalf, we filed a complaint against the Realtor who handled that piece of vacation property,” Preston said, “alleging negligence in allowing a boat like that to be rented without proper provision. It’s one thing to rent someone a boat, but putting somebody behind the wheel of a craft like that one should require special training. It’s just too powerful of a machine, and it was way out of the league of the poor kid who ended up—well, who ended up accidentally killing someone.”
I felt a surge of some emotion I couldn’t identify. Somehow, I had never considered James Sparks to be a “poor kid.”
“So what happened with the complaint?” I asked.
“You know how those things go. We sent it out, ‘We allege this, we allege that, blah, blah, blah,’ expecting everything to be denied, which would end up giving us a jury trial and a long court battle. Instead, we got an answer back within two days, offering to settle for the full amount as long as we released them permanently from any further liability.”
“And that’s the five hundred thousand that’s in trust?”
“Yes, minus the firm’s costs, of course. You ended up with four ninety and some change.”
“What was the name of the insurance company?”
“Virginia Mutual, out of Richmond. Looks like we dealt with a man named Burkett. Lance Burkett.”
I wrote down the information and then thanked Preston for his help. I was glad I had called, and I told him so.
“Oh, anytime, dear. It’s been a pleasure talking with you. Hey, you’re not looking to move back to the area by any chance, are you? Because you know there’s always room for you here.”
The Buck Stops Here Page 7
