by Nancy Skopin
We stepped into the foyer and introduced ourselves. Her name was Gina Cirone. Once the introductions were out of the way, Gina asked if we wanted coffee.
“Please,” I said.
“I’d love some,” Elizabeth chirped. Elizabeth doesn’t normally drink coffee, but she is always gracious.
I was hoping Gina would offer something more substantial since I was presently missing nicotine more than usual and needed a substitute vice. I was in luck. She produced a plate of fresh baked cheese scones and blueberry muffins. As we sat companionably around the cozy kitchen table, looking out on the lavish backyard, drinking French roast coffee and eating scones and muffins, Gina told us she had been Carmen Murillo’s housekeeper for the last four years. She was comfortable with the routine, but it wasn’t very stimulating. Perfect.
“So, Gina,” I began. “We need to know anything you can tell us about the Wallace family.”
I let the statement hang. Usually a subject will start talking just to fill the silence. Most people are uncomfortable with silence. Gina was no exception.
“They were quiet,” she said. “The wife and kids, I mean. Kept to themselves. Carmen invited them to her Christmas party every year. The wife was pretty, but timid. She almost never spoke. I think she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. The children were very well behaved and very well dressed. They were quiet too. Mr. Wallace was the most talkative one in that family.”
“Did you ever see Mrs. Wallace apart from Mr. Wallace?” Elizabeth asked.
“Just in the driveway. She would drive the kids to school, and when she came home she’d park the SUV in the driveway instead of putting it in the garage. Sometimes I’d see her when she came home with the groceries.”
“Did they have live-in help?” I asked.
“No, but someone comes in to clean twice a week.”
We talked with Gina for twenty minutes. The most relevant piece of information she had to offer was that she didn’t like Wallace. I didn’t like Wallace either. That didn’t make him a killer, but I would look extra hard at him because of it.
Before we left, I asked if she could introduce us to any of the other employees in the neighborhood. She walked us next door to a stately two-story brick house, took us to a side door, and entered the kitchen without knocking.
“Ethel?” she called out, as she entered.
A pink-faced, silver-haired woman in a crisp white uniform popped up from behind a granite center island. “Gina! What a nice surprise. Who are your friends?”
Gina introduced us to Ethel MacDougall, cook and housekeeper to Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy. The four of us sat down at the kitchen table and Ethel served everyone coffee cake. I accepted a small piece, but I’d already eaten two of Gina’s cheese scones and I knew the carbs were going to give me a headache. Everything has a price.
Ethel insisted she knew less about the Wallaces than Gina did, being one house further removed, however she did say she had observed the mister in the driveway one night slapping the missus. She didn’t know what had provoked the attack, only that the missus was crying at the time. Ethel said she had barely controlled her desire to take a frying pan to his skull.
Both Elizabeth and I used the bathroom off Ethel’s kitchen before moving on. We asked if either of them could introduce us to anyone else in the neighborhood, and Ethel picked up the phone.
Our next stop was the house across the street from Wallace’s. The driveways were long, but if you stood in the middle of the street between the two houses you could see in both front windows, which were directly across from each other. This house was a Tudor with beautifully manicured grounds and a fire engine red front door. The brass knocker was in the shape of a boar’s head. I couldn’t resist using it. After about thirty seconds the door was answered by a young woman wearing white shorts and a powder-blue tank top. Her skin was the color of cappuccino and her smile displayed a perfect set of brilliant white teeth. In fact, everything about her appeared to be perfect. She was at least five-ten in her Nikes, and maybe a hundred and forty-five pounds of lean body mass.
“Hi,” I said. “We’re looking for Rebecca.”
“I’m Rebecca,” said the young goddess. “You must be Nicoli and Elizabeth. Ethel said you’d be right over. Come on in.”
We entered the house and I looked around, hoping to find a layer of dust on the furniture, a smudge on a mirror, dirt on the carpet or scratches on the hardwood floor, but there was nothing. She was beautiful and efficient. Not much potential for likeability.
Rebecca ushered us into the living room. Willow trees framed the floor-to-ceiling windows and an ebony baby grand piano sat in the corner, surrounded by bookshelves filled with sheet music. I wondered if the owner of the house was a concert pianist.
“Did Ethel tell you why we’re here?” Elizabeth asked.
“She said you were asking about Wallace.” I thought I detected a slight shudder when she said his name.
“That’s right,” I said. “We’re doing background research on the victims of the accident that killed his wife and children.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Why are you researching the victims’ backgrounds?”
I looked into her shrewd brown eyes and wondered why she was working as a domestic. “What’s your major?” I asked, taking a shot.
“Political Science at the moment. I’m pre-law,” she said.
Of course. “Night classes?”
“Some day classes too. I live in, so I can work whenever I’m not in class.”
“That must be nice,” I said. I was thinking maybe Rebecca took care of more than the house and mentally slapped myself for the assumption.
“Are you going to answer my question?” she asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “You’re the first person who’s asked. We’re researching the background of each passenger to determine their life insurance value for any potential law suits. Not everyone buys preflight insurance.”
It was a good lie. One I’d spent a lot of time thinking up. I was proud of it, and thought I had delivered it convincingly.
“I guess that makes sense. Mind if I look at your credentials?”
“Not at all.”
I took out my wallet, showed her my PI license, and handed her one of my business cards. She accepted the card and read the license carefully. Then she looked at Elizabeth expectantly.
“Elizabeth is my associate,” I said. “If you’d rather not talk to us, that’s okay.”
“I don’t mind talking to you. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t working for that asshole across the street.” She waved her hand in the direction of Wallace’s house. Now we were getting somewhere.
“That’s reassuring,” I said. “I was wondering if it was just me.”
“You’ve met him?” she asked, looking suspicious again.
“Yesterday,” I said. “Totally anal.”
“He’s a peeping-Tom,” she said. “You want coffee or something?”
“No, thanks. We’re pretty much coffeed out,” said Elizabeth. “So Wallace has been watching you? Like, with binoculars?”
She shook her head. “Camera. He’s got a telephoto lens.”
“What can you tell us about his wife?” I asked. “Did she seem to be afraid of him?”
“Any rational person would be afraid of him. I don’t like to judge people,” she said, with a self-deprecating smile. “I know it sounds like I’m really into putting him down, but that’s not my style. I almost quit my job because of that man.”
“How did he treat his wife and kids?” Elizabeth asked, trying to steer her back to the reason for our visit.
“I saw him hit her a couple of times, and he used to yell at her a lot. I’ve read about people like him. They feel threatened by anything t
hey can’t control.”
“You’re very observant,” I said. “What else have you seen him doing?”
“You mean besides watching me with his camera?” I nodded. “My boss, David, and I went to Carmen’s Christmas party together the last two years, and at both parties Wallace stared at me the whole time he was there, even though his wife was standing right next to him. I could feel his eyes on me the minute he walked in. It’s creepy. Almost like being stalked. When he’s watching me with the camera I can feel it. I turn around and there he is. And he doesn’t stop when he knows I see what he’s doing. Can you believe that?”
“Maybe he wants you to know,” Elizabeth ventured.
“I thought voyeurism was about being sneaky. You think it turns him on that I know he’s watching me?” She covered her throat with her hand and looked like she might be sick.
“It might,” I said. “He may want you to feel that he can exert power over you, even from a distance.”
“That’s disgusting,” Rebecca said. “So what can I tell you that will get him out of my life?”
I raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
“Oh come on. You’re not investigating the victims of a plane crash. You’re looking at Wallace for some other reason and whatever it is, I’m in.”
I wondered if she was volunteering to lie on the witness stand to get rid of a nasty neighbor.
“We really are conducting background investigations on the victims of the crash,” I said. “What we need from you is information about the relationship between Wallace and his wife and kids. Anything you observed first-hand, or overheard.”
She sighed. “If you say so. I’m naturally skeptical. Probably got it from my dad. He was a cop, killed in the line of duty. If he was still alive all I’d have to do is ask him to talk to Wallace. Dad had a way of talking to people so they understood it was in their best interest to do the right thing.
“What I observed about Wallace’s relationship with his wife and kids was that he didn’t respect them. He treated them like property. He talked down to his wife. Told her what to do, and she did it. I never heard his kids speak in his presence, but they were pretty chatty with their mom when he wasn’t around. Sometimes I would be out in the front yard gardening when they got home from school, and I’d hear them telling her all about their day.
“On the few occasions when they’d all go out together the kids were like zombies—silent and obedient. I saw him slap his wife’s face once, in the driveway. And I saw him punch her in the face one time, in the front room. I was getting into my car to go to class and I heard him shouting, so I looked across the street. I never saw him hit the kids, but he probably knocked them around too.”
“Has his behavior changed since the accident?” I asked. “Have you noticed him leaving the house late at night or very early in the morning?” I knew I was tipping my hand, but it was information I needed.
Rebecca stared at me for a moment. “No,” she finally said, “but I usually go to bed around ten and I’m a sound sleeper, so if he went out late I wouldn’t know.”
I rose to leave and Rebecca held up a hand. “Wait,” she said. “You’re a PI, right?” I nodded, wondering where this was going. “Could I hire you to install some video surveillance equipment?”
“I suppose so. What do you want to keep an eye on?”
“Wallace,” she said. “I want evidence that he’s a pervert. I want to get him on film watching me with his nasty little camera. He probably jacks off while he’s doing it.” She shuddered.
“I can’t install the equipment on his property, but if it’s okay with your employer, I can install it in one of the rooms facing Wallace’s house. Will that work?”
“I think so,” she said, smiling now. “How much will it cost?”
“I can get the equipment for about fifteen hundred. I’ll throw in the labor for free if you let me watch the videos.”
“Deal,” she said, and reached out to shake my hand.
I took her hand and she wrapped her other arm around me and hugged me. It took me by surprise. I guess she was grateful to have an ally in the battle against Wallace. So was I.
“I can’t do it today,” I said into her shoulder, “but maybe I can come by on Monday while Wallace is at work.”
“Monday’s good,” she said. “That’ll give me time to explain the situation to David.”
Before Elizabeth and I left, I gave Rebecca my home and cell phone numbers and asked her to call if anything unusual happened. I didn’t know what that might be, but I had a feeling she would call. I asked for her phone number and entered it in my cell.
Elizabeth and I knocked on a couple more doors, but didn’t gather any new intel. I was satisfied that Wallace was a monster. I just didn’t know yet what level of monster he was.
We drove back to the marina in silence, probably because we were both contemplating what Rebecca had shared with us about Wallace and his perversions. I parked in the boat owner’s lot and turned to Elizabeth. “Thanks for helping with the interviews,” I said.
“It was fun. What time are we leaving for the Humane Society in the morning?”
“I’m not sure when they open, but I’d like to get there early.”
“Okay,” she said. “Come over for breakfast.”
She headed for the docks and her trawler, and I went back to the office.
I started a pot of coffee and cleared everything off my desk. I didn’t want anything to distract me. I even closed the blinds so the view of the marina wouldn’t divert my attention. I stacked the accident reports in the middle of my desk, poured a mugful of coffee, and sat down. I wished briefly for a cigarette, remembering how the nicotine used to help me focus, but caffeine would have to be enough for now.
I dug through the pages and eventually found the accident that had caused Wallace, Fragoso, and Boscalo to lose their wives and children. I copied the individual pages and reinserted the originals back into the stack so I’d have a complete set in sequence. I spent the rest of my afternoon reading through the accident report to get a better handle on what had caused the plane crash that had taken the lives of our subjects’ families. I’m a visual person. I needed to picture the tragedy in order to understand how each individual might be reacting to his loss.
The plane crash had occurred on August 16th at 3:05 a.m. Pacific Standard time. The air traffic controller had radioed the pilot at 2:58 a.m., instructing him to correct his trajectory. The angle was too steep and the aircraft was coming in slightly off course. The pilot had not responded to the ATC’s warning, and the aircraft had subsequently crashed into a field near SFO, killing everyone onboard.
The team investigating the incident suspected that the pilot and co-pilot were unconscious at the time of the crash. Carbon monoxide poisoning was suggested as one possible cause. The investigation was ongoing, but there was no indication of incompetence or neglect on the part of the pilot or the controller.
I highlighted the relevant passages and then summarized them in a Word document, which I printed and stowed in the file I was building for Paul. A quick look at my watch told me I could catch him at home if I called now. He needed to know what was happening with the investigation, and I needed to know that he was okay. It had been five days since the last controller, Gordon Mayes, had been killed.
Paul answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Nikki.”
He sounded defeated, or maybe just exhausted. It must be hard enough to sleep during the day without worrying about whether or not a homicidal maniac was waiting to pick you off.
“Hi, Paul. I wanted to give you an update on what Sam and I have been doing.”
I filled him in on the background data we’d collected so far on Wallace, Fragoso, and Boscalo. I explained why we’d chosen to focus on these th
ree individuals, and told him about interviewing each of them this morning and Wallace’s neighbors this afternoon. Paul silently took it all in. I could almost feel his desperation through the phone line.
“How are you doing, Paul?”
“I’ve been better. So you think the killer was related to someone onboard the August 16th flight?”
“That’s our supposition, since it was the only recent accident with fatalities. Have you said anything to the other controllers who report to you?”
“There are only two left at SFO who were working the morning of that crash. Besides me, I mean. Arthur Mann and Kim List. They know about what happened to James, Shirley, and Gordon. There’s a lot of speculation going on over coffee in the break room. I’m not the only one convinced these deaths weren’t accidental.”
What neither of us said was that Paul was the only one who would feel responsible if another member of his staff was killed.
“Maybe you should all hire body guards,” I said, “speaking of which, have you called Quinn yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“You know, Paul, the time to hire a bodyguard is before you need one.”
Paul promised he would think about it, and we ended the call.
I was starting to have trouble focusing, so I poured another mug of coffee. I cracked the blinds and looked down at Kirk and D’Artagnon’s boat. Then I remembered that I was adopting Buddy in the morning. Even if I only kept him until I found him a better home, at least he’d be mine for a while. The thought made me smile.
Chapter 15
As Paul Marks drove to work that night he was unaware that he was being shadowed. The killer followed him from his home in San Mateo all the way to SFO, mentally recording his route, and noting where he parked his BMW Z4 in the gated lot. He used binoculars to watch as Marks locked his car and scanned the area nervously, then crossed to the secure tower building.
