Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft

by Catherine Nelson

  “Damnit!”

  Disgusted, I banged my palm on the steering wheel and left the complex. This kid was starting to make Tyler Jay look like an amateur.

  I made a stop by Safeway on my way to visit the friend I’d made in the County Clerk’s Office. She’d proved to be very helpful since I’d started this bond enforcement gig. A large percentage of county records is public information. But most of it isn’t available online. It requires a trip to the courthouse, a few dollars for processing and copy fees, and a week-long wait, sometimes longer. Unless you have a friend like mine. Donna Gilbert not only helps me find what I’m looking for in public records, but she also slips me private ones every now and again. I know she likes chocolate, so I make a point of bringing her something when I stop by. Today, I brought her a bag of Ghirardelli milk chocolate squares with caramel centers.

  The records office isn’t usually packed with people, like the DMV always seems to be when I need license plates or a new driver’s license. Since it was a Friday afternoon, the office was totally empty. I smiled to the woman behind the counter and asked if Donna was in. She went to get her, then Donna led me back to her office. She opened the chocolate, and we ate some while we chatted.

  “What happened to your neck?” she asked.

  “I was mauled by a wild animal.”

  “Really?”

  Close enough.

  She reached for another chocolate. “You only visit me when you need something,” she said.

  “That’s true, isn’t it?” I said, realizing it for the first time. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t really seem fair.”

  “Oh, geez, Zoe,” she said, waving a hand. “I only meant ‘get to the point.’ I wasn’t complaining.”

  Donna and I had hit it off the first time I’d come to the County Clerk’s Office. I thought she was a hoot, and she gave it to me straight, a quality I appreciate in people.

  I laughed. “All right. I need to know about a criminal court case involving a woman named Martha Porter. It would have been about sixteen, seventeen years ago. I also need whatever you’ve got on a man named Wayne Dillon.”

  She punched something into the computer. After a moment of searching, she said, “Got it. What do you want to know?”

  “Why was she on trial?”

  “Murder. She shot and killed a man named Wayne Dillon. The prosecution was going for second-degree murder. The defense argued self-defense. The jury found her not guilty.”

  “Are there details in there about why she shot him?”

  “Uh, let’s see … .” She spent another minute searching before she found the information. “Her attorney said Dillon broke into her house one night, drunk, and threatened her. When she confronted him, he attacked her. She shot him.”

  “Was it a random break-in or a robbery?”

  “Uh, no, they knew each other. Let’s see. Looks like Martha Porter had two granddaughters, Danielle and Desirae. The girls had been adopted by Wayne Dillon and his wife, Janet, some time before. Janet was their aunt and became their legal guardian when their mother was sent to prison for solicitation and drugs.

  “The defense claimed Dillon was sexually abusing the girls. Porter, their paternal grandmother, found the girls after an estrangement of some kind and learned what Dillon was up to. She got custody from the court. It was shortly after this Dillon broke into her house and threatened her.”

  In listening to Donna recount the family’s history, it struck me she could have just as easily been talking about mine. Suddenly, I felt a kinship to Martha Porter for what she’d done. I also had a better understanding of her motivations now. I wondered what had happened at her house, why the police had been there earlier, and if she was dead. I really hoped she wasn’t dead. She’d been protecting her granddaughters sixteen years ago when she stopped Dillon, and she’d been protecting Danielle yesterday when she refused to help me. I needed to figure out what was going on now and find Dillon. And I noticed I was starting to feel pretty protective of her, too.

  “You wanted to know about Wayne Dillon?” Donna asked, hitting some keys.

  “That answered my questions. What about the girls he was abusing, Danielle and Desirae? Is there anything on them?”

  She did a bit of searching then nodded.

  “Their name was changed to Dillon when they were adopted. Their legal names were Danielle and Desirae Wright. Born to Patricia Wright and Jonathan Porter. Both girls were arrested as adolescents, but there was nothing after they turned eighteen, aside from Danielle’s assault charge a few months ago.”

  “All right. What can you tell me about Jeremiah Vandreen?”

  She hit a few more keys.

  “He’s the victim in Danielle’s assault case I just mentioned. His name only comes up on a marriage license, some property records, and on some foster care paperwork. He and his wife have been foster parents for the last ten years. From what DHS has here, they’re good parents.”

  “He’s never been arrested or in any kind of trouble?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see anything here. Why?”

  “Why did Danielle Dillon attack Jeremiah Vandreen? Why beat the snot out of a stranger at random?” And risk exposure to do it.

  Donna shook her head and shrugged. “No idea. There must have been a reason.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  I thought Danielle Dillon had a very good reason for attacking Vandreen. At this point, I also believed she was in hiding—from something more serious than a bond violation. Something serious enough Grandma Porter was willing to lose her house. And whatever her reason for the attack, it was motivation enough to risk exposure.

  Once I figure that part out, the rest would come together.

  __________

  I left Donna’s office and made it halfway through the building before I ran into Priscilla Casimir.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I hissed.

  I eyeballed the door and made a beeline for it. Anticipating my escape, she strode over, calling my name and waving, the click, click, click of her expensive heels echoing off the walls. She cut me off a foot away from freedom.

  “Zoe, fancy meeting you here.” She smiled—with sick satisfaction, I thought.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Ew, why’s your face all red?”

  “Priscilla, you were here a whole month, and I barely remembered to hate you. Now, I’ve run into you twice in the last two days.”

  “You’re just lucky, I guess.” She was still smiling. I wanted to choke her.

  “I used to be.”

  I started to move around her, reaching for the door. She stepped in front of me.

  “Are you here often?” she asked.

  I stopped and looked up at her. She must have rethought her position when she saw my eyes, because she took a step back.

  “We’ll probably be seeing quite a bit of one another around here,” she said, though the energy behind her words had dimmed slightly.

  “Let’s hope not,” I said, pushing through the door.

  I checked the time as I walked back to the truck. Just after two. Dinner with Ellmann’s family was several hours off, and I had time to chase down a few more leads. I considered swinging by Dix’s house again but ultimately scratched it.

  I needed a new plan for Dix. My problem wasn’t finding him; it was capturing him. He seemed to have the advantage because he was a good runner and wasn’t afraid to jump out of second-story windows onto tree branches.

  But I had advantages of my own. And until I figured out what to do with him, Dix was on hold. Danielle Dillon was the more pressing issue, anyway. And on that front, I wanted to stop by First National Bank.

  With my latest encounter with Priscilla Casimir still burning fresh in my mind, I made a detour before hitting the bank.

  Amy Wells lives with her fiancé in a nice two-bedroom, two-bathroom house on the north side of town. Amy and Brandon had been dating for more than two years when he’d proposed last October.
I made a point of getting to know Brandon the minute she’d mentioned him, and he’d proven himself to be an okay guy. Plus, it went a long way with me that he seemed to respect my position in Amy’s life; he’d asked me for permission to marry her. I gave him my blessing because he’s good for her, and he’s good to her. And she’s crazy about him.

  When I got to Amy’s house, her car was in the driveway. I parked behind her then went to the door, using my key when I found it locked. She peered around the corner of the kitchen when she heard me then smiled. She was wearing an apron with a towel thrown over one shoulder and had a wooden spoon in one hand.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  The house is a tri-level, with the living room, kitchen, and small informal dining room on the main level. The kitchen and living room were separated by a wall and connected by the dining room. The house smelled delicious. Cookies, maybe.

  “I’m having a shitty day.”

  She licked what I guessed to be cookie dough off the wooden spoon and surveyed the damage to my face.

  “Looks like it.”

  I walked over to the sofa and flopped down.

  “I lost the same FTA four times in two days, and you’ll never guess who I just ran into two days in a row.”

  “Who?”

  “Priscilla Casimir.”

  She sucked in a breath and her eyes got wide. “No!”

  “Yes!”

  She walked over and plopped down on the sofa beside me, passing the spoon to me without a word. I took a lick. It was cookie dough.

  We sat there in stunned, depressed silence for several minutes. When a buzzer rang, she got up and went to the kitchen. I followed her, lifting myself up onto the counter and watching as she traded cookie sheets in the oven, reset the timer, then scooped the baked cookies onto paper towels to cool.

  “Why are you baking?” I asked.

  Amy’s no stranger to the kitchen, but she likes to cook. I’m the one who usually bakes. It wasn’t uncommon for her to call and ask me to either bake something for her or come help.

  “One of the little neighbor boys was just diagnosed with cancer. The family is doing a bake sale fundraiser tomorrow to help pay for his treatment. I’m donating these.”

  “How sad.”

  “It is. He’s a sweet kid. Is Priscilla bald yet?” she asked. “Tell me her hair fell out. Or that she’s missing her teeth.”

  She carried the empty tray back to the stove and began scooping out dough for the next batch.

  I told her the story of running into her at Starbucks and then at the courthouse.

  “What a bitch!” she said when I was finished.

  I really love Amy.

  I reached over and picked up a cookie. “I know! So, shouldn’t she be in some hole somewhere, lonely, miserable, and afraid, having amounted to nothing? Why is she some big-shot lawyer with an Ivy League education? And, why is she in my town?”

  “Your town?”

  I told her about my parting words to Priscilla at the coffee shop.

  “Oh, very John Wayne/Old West. I like it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Was she scared?”

  “No! Can you believe that?”

  “Actually, yes.” I gave her a look. “Come on, Zoe, we both know she’s smart, which is why we hate her even more, but she’s pretty stupid, too. She’s just too stupid to know when to be scared.”

  She had a good point, and I told her so. Then I told her about signing up for classes.

  “Good for you. You’ve always wanted to finish. We can do it together. Maybe we can take a class or two together.”

  “Are you going fall semester?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to take a full load, but I thought I’d take a few credits, maybe two classes.”

  We talked about school for a while. Amy had graduated high school and moved out of her mother’s house immediately. She went straight to work, always working at least one full-time job and usually a part-time one as well. About five years ago, she’d gotten to talking with a woman she worked with named Jody. They ended up starting their own business, a commercial and residential cleaning company called Clean Sweep, incidentally the same company Linda McKinnon now used. In five years, they’d built the company to a respectable size of something like two hundred clients, and they were making a very decent profit. Amy didn’t even have to work all the time anymore.

  I’d been on the verge of expulsion my sophomore year of high school when the principal called me into her office and asked me about my almost non-existent attendance. I’d been working a full-time job and found it was more productive to work and make money than to go to school and be bored out of my mind. Instead of expelling me, we struck a deal. I agreed to bring my attendance up to one hundred percent, and she arranged for me to graduate in two more semesters. For the record, Priscilla may have graduated a year early, but I graduated a year and a half early.

  After high school, I enrolled at Front Range Community College. During my first semester, my friend Brandi introduced me to a guy named Matt who said he loved me and wanted to marry me. I’d believed him. I ended up quitting my job and school after my second semester and moving to Denver. The relationship ended when I found out he’d knocked up Brandi. I eventually moved back from Denver, but I never went back to school.

  “You know, there really is no comparison between you and Priscilla, Zoe.”

  I sighed. “I know. But I can’t help it.”

  “All right, Priscilla went to some pretty impressive schools, but so what? Now she has two pretty pieces of paper and enormous debt. And she became a lawyer. Everybody hates lawyers, even the good ones, which she won’t be. People don’t hate you.”

  “Well, some people do.”

  “Whatever. The point is, everybody hates lawyers. Look at what you have. You have friends—good friends—and you have me. And you have Ellmann. Do you ever remember Priscilla having a single friend?”

  I thought back to our school days. I remembered Priscilla constantly surrounded by groups of people who seemed to hang on her every word and jump at her every command.

  “Yes, she had lots of them.”

  “No, not groupies. Friends. Real friends. She didn’t.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “And what about Ellmann? There is no way she can beat you there. I mean, come on, he’s Ellmann.”

  Amy calls him “Ellmann” because I do. And, by the way, she doesn’t think it’s weird.

  This was a very good point. I realized I was smiling. “He is pretty great, isn’t he?”

  “The best, and so perfect for you it’s scary. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you did it.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t really do anything. He just sort of showed up one day and never left.”

  “You’ve always had the best luck.”

  “Don’t you think my life would have turned out differently if I actually had good luck?”

  “Think of how much different it might be if you didn’t have such good luck.”

  That was a frightening thought.

  __________

  I gave Amy twenty-three bucks—all the cash I had on me—for the bake sale and munched on another cookie as I drove to the bank. I was feeling a little bit better about things, a little more hopeful. Amy made some really good points. Priscilla may have me beat in the education and career departments, but I was the one with good friends: Amy, who was way better than any family a person could have, and Ellmann. She’d never beat me there.

  The lobby of First National Bank was full. There were three female tellers working to help customers, but there was still a line. I bypassed the line and walked the perimeter of the lobby, reading the nameplates on doors. By chance, I found one with Vandreen’s name on it. jeremiah vandreen, branch manager. His door was closed, but I could see him inside, sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. I knocked, causing him to look up. He looked past me, trying to figure out why I was knocking on his door,
then put his call on hold and walked over.

  “Yes?” he said, peering out through the partially opened door. “Can I help you?”

  He was about six feet tall, and although his body was softened by indulgence and age, there was still evident strength. He was dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, blue shirt, blood-red tie, and matching suspenders. The suit was pricey. So were his shoes and haircut. His brown hair was short, perfectly styled, and flecked with gray. His teeth weren’t straight, but they were so white they were almost iridescent. And his tan seemed a little too even to be natural.

  This was a man who spent a great deal of time and money on his appearance. In Vandreen’s case, I sensed that drive was born of entitlement rather than insecurity. Experience had taught me to be cautious of men like that.

  “I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Vandreen.”

  “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Allergies.”

  He eyeballed the scratches but didn’t question me further. “Right, well, have a seat. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He was a man accustomed to getting his way.

  He stepped back into his office and made to close the door.

  Caution didn’t mean passivity.

  I put my hand on the door, holding it open.

  “Now’s better, Mr. Vandreen.”

  His head snapped up, and I saw fire burn in his eyes. He saw the badge I was holding in front of me then looked around. Transitioning his face into a smile, he stepped back and held the door open, inviting me in. As he shut the door behind me, I noticed he gave another look around, ensuring no one had noticed our exchange.

  I didn’t like Vandreen. That had a lot to do with my impression that Danielle Dillon didn’t like Vandreen. As the victim of abuse, I have developed a pretty keen sense of people. Danielle Dillon was also the victim of abuse, and I was betting she had the same sense. If she didn’t like Vandreen, I thought he at least warranted my suspicion.

  “Okay, you got your face time,” he said, walking around behind his desk. “What’s this about?”

  “I need to ask you a couple questions about Danielle Dillon and her recent attack on you.”

  “Which I’ve already been over with you people. What’s the problem?”