4 DEAD ... If Only

by Heather Haven

  “We don’t know that for certain, Richard,” Lila interrupted. “We only believe that to be true.”

  “Mom,” Richard said, instead of using her given first name. His unprecedented anger and outrage had him gyrating in his seat. “I knew you were going to say that! You don’t believe her!”

  Lila’s eyebrows rose several centimeters. “Certainly, I do. I am merely establishing --”

  “No, no. You think she’s lying.” Richard jumped to his feet, sending his chair skittering across the floor with a screeching sound. “He’s alive. Vicki saw him. You can be so uptight in your thinking --”

  “Ricardo,” Tío said sharply. “Do not speak to your mother like that.”

  “All right, all right.” I leaned forward and put a hand on Richard’s arm in a quieting gesture.

  Wordless, Gurn stood and returned the chair to its place beneath my brother, pressing him down into it. Richard seemed to deflate on the spot and running fingers through already unkempt hair, mumbled an apology.

  “Lila isn’t saying she doesn’t believe Vicki.” My aim was to return the meeting back to normal, if possible. “I think she’s making it clear that at this moment we have no proof he isn’t dead.”

  Lila shot me a grateful look, but had a grim look on her face. I wasn’t sure if that’s what she was saying at all, but I was going for love, peace, and harmony. A little something left over from the mud baths.

  Richard deliberately didn’t look at Lila. Whether he was still angry or embarrassed, he concentrated on crushing the empty juice carton then folding it again and again. This chasm between them was unusual. He was her favorite child, as I had been Dad’s. It isn’t that most parents don’t love all their children, of course they do. But there are favorites. That’s just the way life is.

  Gurn jumped in. “Rich, why don’t you give us a rundown on what you know about Dennis Manning?”

  Richard thought for a moment then tossed the folded carton into a nearby trashcan. He picked up his laptop, keyed in a few commands, and began to read. “Dennis Manning. Born 1960 in San Mateo, California. Went to UC Santa Cruz and got a degree in Business Administration in 1982. Upon graduation, he sailed around the world on a thirty-two foot sailboat with two other men for eleven months. In 1984, he got a job as a mortgage broker at The Greater Woodside Mortgage Brokerage in Woodside. He wound up owning the business in six years. There’s some question regarding that, but that’s a story for another day.”

  As Richard continued reading, he relaxed more, tension leaving his voice and body.

  “He spent nineteen years acquiring a considerable fortune as a mortgage broker and didn’t marry until he was forty-two, although he was linked from time to time with a few society women. The property at 4705 Northgate Street in Woodside is where he lived after he married Pamela Nickels in 2002 remaining there until the time of the assault. They have two children, a boy and a girl, Simon and Ruth, named after Pamela’s parents. The wife is considerably younger, twenty-one when they married. She’s now thirty-two. The children are nine and eleven.”

  “He marries the niña, young enough to be his daughter?” Tío’s voice registered his shock. “And her pápa allows this?” Sometimes my uncle’s views on the world are charming, if not antiquated.

  “Where is this considerable fortune now?” Lila once again cut right to the chase. “With his wife?”

  “This is where it gets interesting, Lila.”

  Richard studied CEO Mom/Lila with cold contemplation. Apparently we weren’t totally past the bad feelings yet.

  “Gurn and I were talking about this earlier. So far, I can’t find her or the money. And I’ve been looking for nearly three hours with every resource I have. She and the children vanished about a year and a half after Manning supposedly died.”

  “How much is a ‘considerable fortune’?” I watched Gurn as I asked the question. He was being quieter than usual, almost pensive.

  “Around twenty million dollars at the time.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a mortgage broker.”

  “He appears to have had some underworld connections, as well, although nothing could be proven. Just a lot of sniffing around.”

  “An unsavory character, it would seem,” remarked Lila. We all digested the latest developments.

  “Richard,” I said, formulating an idea. “Here’s an angle. He was an experienced and avid sailor, as well as a money maker.”

  “Oh, yes,” Richard nodded in agreement. “He participated in the Americas Cup when he was in his early twenties. The boat he was on came in second.”

  “What type of sailboat did he scuttle when he faked his death off Pacifica?”

  He tapped in a few instructions on his keyboard then read, “A Westsail 32.”

  Gurn finally spoke up. “That’s interesting. Remember the Satori? It was a Westsail 32. It didn’t sink, even when the crew abandoned it during the Perfect Storm: the real one, not the movie. It’s supposed to be the unheralded workhorse of sailboats. I know a man who has one. You either love them or hate them.”

  “That’s probably why he had to blow it up,” offered Richard. “It wasn’t guaranteed to sink otherwise.”

  “And,” I said, taking back the focus of the conversation, “That could be another reason he chose New Orleans, the close proximity to open water. People don’t abandon a life-long love, just like that. Even though I never was good enough to be a ballerina and these days I’m not even young enough --”

  “¿Que? ¿You, mi sobrina? ¡Nunca!” Tío interrupted, protesting my statement. He’s such a love-bucket.

  “Tío, during my teens I was at the height of my dancing ability, which was mediocre. Add to that, a ballerina’s career is in dog years and I’m thirty-four years old. By those standards, I’m an old bag. But that’s not my point,” I said heading off any further protestations by Tío.

  “Even though I will never be a professional ballet dancer, it doesn’t stop me from doing a barre every day or going to the ballet whenever I can. When something’s in your blood, it’s there to stay. Maybe the same is true for Dennis Manning.”

  Everyone’s eyes lit up, latching on to my idea. The energy level rose by about five hundred percent in the room.

  “Como no, La devoción del corazón,” murmured Tío, leaning forward.

  “The devotion of the heart,” echoed Lila. “You may have something.”

  “So brother dear,” I said. “How about concentrating on someone who purchased a one-man sailboat after two-thousand five somewhere in the New Orleans area? You could start with a Westsail 32 and see what you get. There must be a listing of sales somewhere.”

  Gurn jumped in for the first time. “Not necessarily. These days, one person can handle almost any size boat with the right rigging. However, the boat would have to be registered in order to use marinas, docks and certain waterways, unless the owner is willing to keep it moored at sea, which I doubt. All sorts of things can happen to a boat left in open waters.”

  I turned to Gurn. “So you’re saying tapping into the marina logs might be a better way to go?”

  “What are you both talking about?” Richard’s plaintive cry was higher pitched than normal. “I’ve already pulled the IT team off everything else looking for Manning. Now you want to add searching through years’ worth of marina logs and sales records in the greater New Orleans’ area? It could take weeks if not months!”

  “Hire extra help if you have to. Whatever it takes, Richard. We’re here until we nail him.” My voice was firm. “But maybe we can whittle this down. Maybe we --”

  “How can we whittle it down? You’ve got me looking for everything that floats.” Richard interrupted, his protest loud.

  I thought for a moment. “Wait a minute. Maybe Pamela Manning was part of his crew. Was his wife a sailor, too?”

  “Hardly.” Richard scoffed. “A real princess. She wasn’t into sports of any type. Spending money and going to day spas was more her line. Wait a mi
nute. Maybe the local racing community knows something. Manning did compete in the America’s Cup.”

  “Okay, that’s good. You’ve narrowed it down. I’ve got another angle.”

  “You and your angles.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious. You’ve got more angles than a polygon.”

  “And I’m sure that’s a good thing. To go on, did Manning repair his boats, himself? Some seamen like to do that. Finding those records could be another way to tracking him down, once we have his new identity.”

  “I’ll have D.I. run checks on boat repair shops in the Bay Area for back then, Lee. I don’t know how many years back businesses keep their records, especially for a supposedly dead guy. This is at least nine years ago.”

  “Another slant.” I was on a roll and went with it. “Maybe we can drag some of our friends at Woodside and Palo Alto Police Departments in on this. There might be a report on Manning’s personal life or a background check they did on him they might be willing to let us read. Maybe there’s something in there that might be helpful. Richard did manage to get the police report on Robin’s attack, and I’ll be going over that tonight, but there could be something more.”

  “Appealing to some of the friends we’ve made in both departments crossed my mind, as well,” Lila said. “In fact, an hour or so ago I contacted one of the officers at Woodside, whose run-away son, Siegfried, we located last year before he was officially declared missing and further embarrassing his family.” She turned to me. “You actually found the boy, Liana, at the LA Computer Fair, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, Siggy. Hot pink mohawk. Tattoos up the wazoo. Runs away from home periodically. The lesson here is, you name your kid Siegfried in this day and age, you’re going to have to suffer the consequences. Murphy’s Law.”

  “Yes, well, thank you for that insight, Liana.” But it didn’t sound like Lila was thanking me for the insight at all. She cleared her throat.

  “To continue, because of our past history with his father, I felt I could ask him to place a few calls to the New Orleans Police Department on our behalf to ascertain the dead man’s identity. He should call back momentarily. I’m also overnighting the voodoo doll to the lab we use at home, with their promise they would not only analyze the blood to see if was human, but check it for random fingerprints. Hopefully, there will be someone’s other than yours, Liana, and Detective Devereux’s, both of which are on file.”

  “You have been a busy bee, Lila.” I looked at her with admiration. “And never one to let the grass grow under your Jimmy Choo’s.”

  Lila gave me a smile then looked at her watch, taking in a quick breath.

  “You need to wind this up?” I pushed the issue not only because I was tired, but wanted to see what seemed to be bothering Gurn.

  “I do. I need to present the doll to UPS before they close, which is in less than a half an hour, so it will arrive in Palo Alto by ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Let’s quickly go over what each of us is doing tomorrow. Richard, you will continue your compilation of data. Liana, you will begin the search for Dennis Manning. I will be at Victoria’s store in the morning awaiting the workmen’s arrival. They’ll be finishing the sheetrock and starting placement of the shelving. Someone needs to be there to supervise until Victoria’s return and I have the blueprints and work orders. I thought of cancelling, but I know Victoria would like to see the work continue until her return in a day or two, and it might help keep her spirits up. And as you know, we have similar tastes.”

  Okay, reality check. That was the fattest lie I’ve heard coming out of Lila’s mouth in a long time. While my mother adores her daughter-in-law and the positive effect Vicki has on Richard, taste-wise, not so much.

  Mom has long held that Vicki’s skirts are too short, her footwear flamboyant, and her combination of colors, erratic and unsettling. Once, after two martinis, Mom told me she’d rather wear a San Francisco 49ers football helmet backwards to the Black and White Ball than one of Vicki’s designer chapeaus to the grocery story. So much for similar tastes. However, I applauded her trying to gather the covered wagons around the campfire, so to speak. But would my brother buy it?

  I need not have worried about a man getting the gist of this sort of female stuff. It goes right over their heads, the little dears. Richard turned to his mother, his look sending love beams by the bunches.

  “Thank you, Mom. She wants the work to go on and it frees me to stay here with her at the hospital.”

  “Of course, my dear.” She returned the mother/son love beams and whatever rift between them healed instamunto. Maybe Richard can teach me how to do that trick. Mom went on.

  “Anything I can do to help, you know that.”

  It was getting a bit thick in here, and I was glad when her cell phone rang. She swiveled in her chair away from the table and answered quietly. I turned to my brother.

  “Can you give me the address of where you found Vicki? I’d like to visit it myself tomorrow morning. See what I can find. Maybe you can join me?”

  I directed the question to Gurn, who still remained uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn throughout the meeting. He smiled back, but said nothing. Something was going on.

  “Rather than the address,” said Richard, as he pulled out his IPhone and started banging on it. “I’m sending the GPS coordinates I got from Vicki’s phone to yours. All you have to do is follow them and you will be taking her route. You might find something useful along the way.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed, but secretly thought, Oh, great. Now I have to find out where the hell the GPS is on my phone. I hope it’s near the flashlight.

  As if reading my mind, Gurn leaned in and mouthed, “I’ll show you where it is.”

  I mouthed back a thank you.

  “I am supposed to be working at the shelter run by the Garden District Community Center tomorrow morning, cooking and serving el desayuno,” said Tío. As a retired master chef, this was something my uncle did wherever and whenever he could. When he knew he would be visiting to New Orleans, he’d offered to spend one or two mornings cooking breakfast at a local shelter. “Maybe I will try to postpone or perhaps I ask Slavio to fill in for me --”

  “Absolutely not, Mateo,” Lila jumped in, having finished with her call. “Please don’t disrupt your community service obligations for this. We’ll all be busy with our various projects and you made these arrangements weeks ago. One hundred and fifty people are looking forward to a hot breakfast. And let us not forget, as coordinator of the kitchen program, Felicity is counting on you.”

  “She’s a woman in charge of a lot of programs,” I said. “I wonder how New Orleans got along without her before she moved here.”

  “And her good works are to be appreciated, Liana, not criticized.” Mom did her sniffing routine again, the one that makes me want to brain her. But I smiled.

  “I’m not criticizing, just observing.”

  “On another matter,” Mom said, “the call I took a moment ago was from my source at Woodside. Unfortunately, and I quote, ‘NOLA won’t give me the time of day.’ So much for courtesy between police departments.”

  “They’re going to eventually have to tell someone. The dead man’s name should show up in the papers tomorrow, won’t it?” I looked around for confirmation of this.

  “They could stall for weeks or even months, if they choose to.” Gurn made this statement quietly. “Unless the press wants to run with this and create a stink, it might never show up.”

  “Hmmmm,” I said. “Who do we know in the newspaper biz down here?”

  Lila addressed no one in particular, but focused on a far wall. “No one. Even if we did, it seems the Alvarez Family and all our friends are persona non grata.” She stood with a heavy sigh. “So be it. Let us see what tomorrow brings. Time to end this meeting and go our separate ways.”

  The rest of us stood and I picked up my purse. Gurn glommed to my side, wrapped one arm around my waist, and hurried me out
side the door, stopping in a secluded corner of the corridor.

  “Honey, listen, I need to speak to you,” he whispered hoarsely in my ear.

  “Okay, but first what’s a polygon? I didn’t want to let Richard know I didn’t know.”

  “It’s a plane figure with a lot of sides. Now listen, sweetheart --”

  “You mean like a hexagram or something?”

  “It can be. Now listen to me. I have something to tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Darling, listen to me.” He looked around him furtively, paused, and gulped.

  “Okay, that’s a honey, a sweetheart, and a darling. What gives?”

  “Listen, I need to go to D.C.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now. Listen --”

  “Stop saying ‘listen’. I’m listening.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was being condescended to or patronized, if there’s a difference. In any event, I was annoyed.

  “Fine,” said Mr. Oblivious, “just listen. I think there’s more to this situation than meets the eye. I’ve made a seven a.m. appointment with a friend of mine in the FBI. I think he’ll tell me what’s really going on.”

  “You’re C.I.A. What --”

  “Shhhh!” he interrupted, looking around him as if I’d just pulled down his pants to reveal his snow-white jockey shorts.

  “There’s nobody within earshot, just you and me, Gurn. We both know you’re in the C.I.A. no matter what you say about being a C.P.A. And by the way, there are far too many initials in your life for my liking. It’s hard to keep them all straight.”

  “Forget the initials,” he demanded, in almost a snarl.

  I bristled. On seeing that, he cooed his next few words.

  “Listen, sweetheart --”

  “Say ‘listen’ or ‘sweetheart’ one more time and I’ll belt you.” I grated my teeth together in a way that would have stopped my dentist’s heart.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lee, let me start over, so we have no misunderstandings. Within the hour I’m going to fly to Washington D.C. on a commercial jet because I am dog tired and can sleep on the plane instead of having to fly it. I have arranged a seven a.m. meeting with an unnamed person or persons who might be able to shed some light on this matter. I have called in some markers and I need to go, in person, to collect them. But in case this doesn’t pan out, I don’t want to get your family’s hopes up, so mum’s the word. Okay?”