Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  Finally, Dr. Sam came back on the air. After a brief and very sincere apology, he suggested a few things we all might do to help prevent the spread of the virus. “I think now would be a good time to say that while the chances of contracting the virus are low, there are things we should all be aware of to prevent another incident. Dead birds are a definite sign. If you see them, call the CDC. Also, if you’ve seen standing water or anything that might attract mosquitos, get rid of it. And if you go outside and see mosquitos, use an insect repellent. As for symptoms, watch for a low-grade fever, headache, body ache, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, and skin rash. The good news is that for those persons who do contract the virus, only about twenty percent would show any signs or symptoms of the disease at all.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Sheri. “How’s Clint?”

  “Like a caged gerbil. Housebound and sick of being inside. Can you do me a favor? Have Charlie pick up his history book? He’s got a test tomorrow. If you do, I’ll make dinner.”

  The prospect of Sheri cooking was a no-brainer. Misty had told me not to expect her for dinner. She planned to do some meditating in her room in hopes of improving her talents. Whatever that meant. And given a choice between my cooking, which usually consisted of anything that came out of a box, versus Sheri’s gourmet special, I opted for the latter and told Sheri to expect us by seven.

  “There’s something important I need to discuss with you. It concerns Jennifer.”

  Charlie and I arrived at Sheri’s just after sunset. The view from her SoCal manse located at the top of Mulholland Drive overlooking the city was spectacular. During the day, she had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the valley below on one side and the city with the ocean wrapped behind it like a blue baby blanket on the other. At night, the sky was so black all the street lights and the stars blended together like diamonds on an inky black canvas. I buzzed the security gate. Sheri’s voice came through the intercom just as the huge metal entry gate swung open.

  “Back door’s unlocked. Come in and make yourself at home. Clint’s in the den, Charlie. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  If it had been anyone else, I might have been intimidated by the size of the Billings’ estate. But Sheri had grown up here and inherited the property upon her father’s death. It was the family home, a seven-thousand-square-foot red-tiled Mediterranean mansion her father had built in the early seventies as a showcase to his illustrious career. Sheri was so used to her surroundings, I didn’t think she even realized how opulent it all was. And since meeting her ten years ago, I had spent as much time at her home as I had my own. When you were both single moms with boys of the same age, you bonded.

  I pulled up the drive, drove around to the back of the house, and parked my Jeep in front of the garage, an oversized complex that had once housed Sheri’s father’s collection of vintage cars. Charlie hopped out, and I followed, entering the house through the kitchen door as instructed.

  Two feet inside, Charlie deserted me and followed the sounds of the television coming from the den while I trailed the warm smell of roasted garlic and tomatoes wafting from the oven. Dropping my bag on the kitchen’s large center island, I was about to open the oven door and peer inside when Sheri walked in.

  “Don’t you dare.” Grabbing an apron, Sheri pushed me aside. “Why don’t you fetch us a glass of red while I check on the manicotti. Cross your fingers it’s as good as it smells.”

  I nodded. Taking steps towards the bar, I peered over Sheri’s shoulder as she opened the oven. For something Sheri had just thrown together, it looked as though it belonged on the cover of Gourmet Magazine, all hot and bubbly with cheese dripping from within the pasta.

  “I thought we’d eat out on the patio. I set the boys a place in the den. Didn’t want Clint to catch a cold, but we can always turn the portable heater on for us. That work for you?” Sheri took the manicotti out of the oven and put together two plates for the boys. “I can’t wait to hear what Jennifer had to say.”

  “You won’t believe,” I said. “It’s bigger than I thought. Much bigger.”

  “Good, then grab a plate and meet me outside.”

  I slung my reporter’s bag over my shoulder and did as Sheri said, fixed myself a plate, then grabbed a bottle of wine and a wine glass and headed outside to the deck. Sheri had set up a small café table next to a space heater overlooking a koi pond and lap pool.

  Moments later Sheri joined me. She held a plate of manicotti, a basket of garlic bread, and a bowl of Caesar Salad tucked beneath one arm. Without missing a beat, she settled herself and asked, “Okay, so tell me, just how does Jennifer know Mustang Sally? I can’t wait to hear.”

  Sheri picked up her wine glass, poised to take a sip.

  “First off, it’s not just Jennifer who knows Sally. There’s someone else as well.”

  “What?” Sheri put her glass down, spilling some of the wine on the table. “Who else?”

  “If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t say anything. Not to anyone.”

  “Again with the promises?” Sheri held her hands up. “Didn’t we just go through this with Silva?”

  “It’s bigger. Only this time, it’s not just my job at stake, but lives.”

  Sheri sat back and stared at me. In a slow, deliberate manner, she asked, “Who is it?”

  “DJ,” I said.

  “The general manager of the radio station?” Sheri leaned forward, both hands on the table. “She’s involved?”

  I explained that before I had breakfast with Chase, Tyler had called to tell me the GM wanted to see me in her office, immediately.

  “Turns out Jennifer wasn’t the only one to recognize Sally’s voice on the air last night. DJ did too. And the reason she recognized her voice was because—”

  “They’re friends?” Sheri interrupted.

  “Not exactly. Mustang Sally rescued her. DJ was an abuse victim. Sally helped her escape.”

  “Does Chase know?”

  “Not about DJ. And he can’t. Not ever. She made it very clear, her name can’t be associated with any of this. Meanwhile, I have asked Chase to go back through his social media contacts to see if he can find Sally. But if he finds her before I do and Sally confesses, he’s going to want to turn her over to the police and then—”

  “And then women who think their past is behind them may suddenly find themselves being hauled into court to answer a whole lot of questions they’d rather not talk about.”

  “You got it.”

  “Does DJ have any idea how to find Sally?”

  “No, but I think Jennifer may have stumbled on to something. Here, let me show you.”

  I took my laptop out of my bag and then fired up my computer. While waiting for the online chat room to open, I explained to Sheri how I had come to learn about it.

  “Jennifer described it as a self-help group for women whose relationships have blown up and are trying to get their lives back on track. She thinks that’s where Mustang Sally found her.”

  Sheri pulled her chair around the table and stared at the screen, then started reading the various posts.

  “Geez, if I had known about this back when I was with Clint’s father, my dad wouldn’t have had to do what he did.”

  “What?” I felt my jaw drop. It never occurred to me Sheri might have been involved in anything so sinister. “He didn’t murder him, did he?”

  “No. But he might as well have.”

  “Why?” I asked slowly and cautiously. This was a story I hadn’t heard, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to.

  “It’s not something I like to discuss, and I wouldn’t want it to get back to Clint. Ever.”

  “You know better than to ask. What happened?”

  “What didn’t? The man was an actor. Not a particularly good one. But handsome? Oh yeah. And what he lacked in talent he made up for in the
romance department. Unfortunately, not just with me.”

  “I take it you kicked him out?”

  “Not quite. At the time, I was pregnant with Clint, and he was working on a movie with my father. We were going to be the perfect little family. Everything I wanted and didn’t have growing up. At least that’s what he told me.” Sheri sighed and took a sip of her wine. “To make a long story short, he was supposedly out filming a scene when I was home alone and went into labor early. When I tried to phone him, I couldn’t reach him. So I called my dad, who was directing the film. Only thing was, they weren’t shooting that night. I later found out they hadn’t even begun. And when Dad found him, by the time he was finished talking with him, I doubt he was fit for the part anymore. I never knew what happened. Only that Dad didn’t use him in the movie, and I suspect made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “You mean like leave town or die? I thought that only happened in the movies.”

  “It was the movies, Carol. And like I said, I don’t know what happened. All I know is my father told me he would never work in this town again.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since?”

  “No. As far as Clint knows, his father deserted us before he was born and has never tried to make contact again. It’s not something I like to talk about.” Sheri stared back at the page and switched the subject. “I don’t see any names I recognize.”

  “You won’t,” I said. “The women all use aliases to hide their identity. Jennifer’s was DumpedAndDepressed. But that’s not what I want to show you. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Jennifer shared this with me this afternoon. And I think I’ve found something.”

  I moved the mouse up the page, back through conversations that were at least a month old. “What do you see?”

  “A bunch of crazy pen names and conversations. Why?”

  “Look at the names. Dead2Me, NoseyNan, MerryWidow. They’re all like Jennifer, women who were dumped or are angry at their ex-boyfriends. They call themselves Butterflies. Doesn’t take long before you start to recognize them. But if you scroll up through the older entries, you’ll start to see some other names. Only these don’t appear to be women who are posting about their relationships but instead offering support. My guess is these are counselors. They’re there almost every day.”

  Sheri scrolled back through the screen. “You mean like these. Greymare. GuardianAngel. Never2Late, and Mustang Sally.”

  “Exactly. And look at the date.” I pointed to the computer screen. “Bruno’s body was found on the Hollywood Sign the day before Charlie’s birthday. I remember because I was planning his party. Then Mustang Sally called my show Sunday night, two days later, and suddenly the rest of the Butterfly handlers or counselors, whatever you want to call them, disappear.”

  “Except for Sally.” Sheri scrolled back through the entries, noting Sally’s response to several, and then stopped when she came to DumpedAndDepressed. “Look here, she’s chatting with Jennifer, right after her fiancé dumped her.”

  Sheri took a bite of her manicotti, her eyes focused down at the table, then back at the screen. “But Jennifer claimed she recognized Sally’s voice, how could she do that from this?”

  “Because Sally called her.” I explained when Jennifer had signed up for the site she had given an emergency number and that Sally had used it to reach out to her when Jennifer didn’t respond to her online. “That’s what nailed it for her. Jennifer said the woman’s voice on the phone was the same one that she heard on my show. The woman told her she wanted her to meet with people who could help her.”

  “As in get rid of her boyfriend type help? Permanently?”

  “That’s what Jennifer thought she meant.”

  “And these other names, the ones you call handlers or counselors, you think they’re part of Mustang Sally’s tribunal, her team of assassins?”

  “Probably. And I suspect the reason the other three names disappeared from the site is because Sally’s been speaking out. I think they’re worried they might be discovered.”

  “With what Sally’s said on the air, I would be too. But what I don’t understand is why. Why would Sally start rocking the boat? Isn’t she afraid of being caught?”

  “I think something happened after Bruno was murdered that upset Sally, and that’s why she started calling the station. And not just my show.” I explained how I had heard Sally on Dr. Sam’s show, talking about the recent outbreak of West Nile Virus and that she sounded distraught. “She said her son had died. That alone would be enough to send a woman off the deep end. If she’s had some type of emotional breakdown, and her team can’t control her, my guess is they’re all lying low, afraid of what she may do.”

  “Then why would Mustang Sally call and tell Jennifer she wanted her to meet someone?”

  “I’m not sure how clear-headed Sally is right now. If she’s calling the station and talking about murdering men and settling some phantom score, she’s certainly not thinking straight. And if she lost her son, she may be delusional.”

  “Let me get this straight. DJ wants you to find Mustang Sally so you can rescue her. Chase, who only understands half of what’s going on, wants to find Mustang Sally so he can turn her in for Bruno’s murder. And if he does, he’ll blow this case wide open. While Sally’s posse, if there really is one, is pissed off and headed for the hills.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “And meanwhile, you’ve no way of tracking her down or getting in touch with her?”

  “I might. Sally sent Jennifer a private message via the website telling her when she was ready to set up a meeting to go online and type in the phrase, I’m sick and tired of it all, and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

  “Exactly like she said that first time on the air.”

  “Right. And after that, Mustang Sally would call and give her instructions where to go. Which is why I have this.”

  I took Jennifer’s aquamarine cell phone from my bag and slid it across the table. “This is the phone Jason gave Jennifer as an engagement present. It’s also the number Jennifer used when she went online to register with the Butterflies. They required an emergency number. And it’s the number Mustang Sally used when she called Jennifer.”

  Sheri picked up the phone and stared at it. “So why not just call her back?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t. Sally’s call to Jennifer was from a blocked number. But I do have another idea.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Sheri put the phone down and pushed it in my direction. “You want to assume Jennifer’s identity and try to find Sally, don’t you?”

  “Why not? Mustang Sally doesn’t know what Jennifer looks or sounds like. The phone’s so new Jennifer hadn’t even set up her voicemail yet. And they’ve never met in person. All she could possibly know about Jennifer is what she read in the chat room. And if I don’t find Mustang Sally soon, someone else will.”

  I reached for the open bottle of wine between us and filled Sheri’s glass. “But I’m going to need your help.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Monitor the site. Type in the phrase Sally gave to Jennifer and cross your fingers. With any luck, Sally will take the bait.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Marcus Reddings Murdered. For the second day in a row, the story of Reddings’ death was headlined above the fold in the LA Times. The coroner’s report had found scratch marks and bruising on his body, and the police were now reporting signs of a struggle inside the apartment. The story was driving KNST’s morning show. Listeners were calling in with all kinds of bizarre theories. Everything from why one of LA’s richest men would never have voluntarily taken a nose dive off the top of Ava Yablonski’s high-rise apartment building, to his being a victim of organized crime or perhaps a murder-for-hire by his wife.

  My cell phone rang before I’d even reached the station. Tyler wante
d to see me in his office. A copy of the newspaper was on his desk when I walked in.

  Without looking up, Tyler barked at me, the incessant sound of his fingers hitting the keyboard in the background, like pigeons pecking for food.

  “I need you to get Andrea Reddings on the phone again. Our morning team’s got nothing. Just a bunch of blowhards calling in with conspiracy theories.”

  I leaned against the doorway. Despite the fact Andrea Reddings had given me her phone number, I didn’t hold out much hope the woman would talk to me again. Sunday night had been Chase’s doing. He had convinced her she needed to get the news out, to stay a step ahead of the gossip they both knew would follow. But now that the news was out, I doubted a woman as cold and calculating as Andrea would feel she needed me.

  “I can try. But no guarantees.”

  “Make it happen, Childs.” Tyler stopped typing long enough to grab the newspaper off his desk and shove it in my direction. “Get her to talk, and you’ve got yourself a seat in the studio with the morning team. At least for today.”

  I dialed the number Andrea had used to call into the station. I was surprised when by the fourth ring neither her butler nor any of her help had answered. My guess was that she’d instructed that nobody pick up the phone. I let it ring a few more times, and then, as I was about to hang up Andrea answered the phone herself. I recognized the firm, flat delivery of her voice.

  “Whatever you want, I’m not interested in talking—”

  “Ms. Reddings, please, this is Carol Childs with KNST. I was hoping I might talk with you.”

  “I’m sure you are. And I assume the purpose of your call this morning concerns the story in the paper?”

  “It does.” There was a long pause. I wondered if she was debating whether or not to hang up or if she had simply walked away from the phone and left me dangling. “Ms. Reddings?”

  There was another pause, a heavy sigh, and then finally, “You realize,—other than that little chat we had on Sunday—I have not spoken with any reporter in town, including the Times. They didn’t have so much as one quote from me. And I’m not about to give them one either. Not with all the photos they’ve run over the years of Marcus with his various female companions. If it weren’t for the fact you’re a friend of Chase’s, there’s no way I’d talk to you. But I do owe the man a favor.”