“Fair enough. But why the concern? She can go on being Sarabeth Timmons as far as everyone else is concerned. Just not for money.”
“She hasn’t calmed down. She’s still making plans to leave. She is afraid of something, Mr. Haggerty. Whatever led her to take this false identity is still out there, and she doesn’t feel safe any more with anyone knowing that she isn’t Sarabeth Timmons.”
“And she won’t tell you who she is or what she’s running from?”
She shook her head. “I’m worried about her. I think I love her, I know I care a great deal about her. I don’t want to lose her, and I want to help her if I can. She won’t let me. She says it has to be this way.” She took a deep breath, squared up her shoulders, and laced her hands across her knees. “So that brings me here, Mr. Haggerty. Will you take the case?”
A quick inventory of ethical qualms was negative so I said, “Yes. We’ll take the case. I require a two-thousand-dollar retainer, and I’ll ask you to read and sign a fee-for-services agreement before you leave today.”
“That’s fine. I brought my checkbook with me.”
I lined up a pad and pulled a pen out of the desk. “First I need to know everything that you know about her. No matter how trivial. Has she ever said anything about her past or her family?”
“No. Nothing directly. She’s said that she really misses the ocean and the beach. I know that she’s a Raiders fan. I thought she was going to cry when they lost in the playoffs. I figured she was from L.A.”
“Any idea what she did for a living?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t work now, does she?”
“No. I support her entirely.”
“What does she do during the day, when you’re at work?” I tried to muffle my incredulity.
“She goes to the club and works out. Goes shopping.”
“Does she do any housework?”
“No. But she loves to cook. She goes out each day and buys groceries and has dinner ready when I get home. She’s really a great cook.” Whoa, you don’t have to convince me.
I scribbled a note: chef? caterer? cooking schools?
“Did she bring anything with her when she moved in?”
“Not much. Just some clothes and a suitcase. She was living in a furnished room when we met. It took her five minutes to pack and move in with me.” I’ll bet. What a deal.
“We found a storage unit and a bank account in her name. Did you know about these?”
“No.”
“When you go home start looking for a safe deposit box key. If you find it, bring it to me. We can get a copy made. We may be able to use it later.” She nodded yes, but she wasn’t happy about it. “Have you cut her off at the wallet?”
“No. I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her. I’d give her money to help her hide if I had to.”
“Yeah, but she might decide to take a bigger bite than you’d have offered. Second, without the money she’s not going to be in such a hurry to split. You want to keep her, cut off her cash. That’s my advice. Make leaving more painful. If you won’t do that, at least put a cap on her check and credit card privileges.” When she didn’t respond I went on.
“Did you ever notice any long-distance calls on your phone bill that weren’t yours?”
“No.”
“Any packages or mail come to the house for her?”
“No.”
“Did she ever send out any mail?”
“No.” I scribbled MAIL DROP and underlined it three times.
“Did she ever ask you for money, to pay off a debt, maybe?”
“No. I put her on my credit card and bank accounts because she really didn’t seem interested in money. Didn’t want it, hardly spent it.”
“Ever see her use drugs of any sort?”
“No. She’ll drink, but I’ve never seen her even the slightest bit drunk.”
“Has she ever done anything to make you think she was in trouble, or running from it?”
“You mean apart from having no history and no friends, and not going anywhere and hiding behind me every way she can?” Her mouth smiled, but her chin was trembling.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, she carries Mace and some sort of metal thing in her purse.”
“What sort of metal thing?”
“It’s got a black leather handle and a metal rod telescopes into it. It’s very supple when it’s fully extended.”
“It’s called a whipstick, and it’s also very nasty when fully extended. It can take an eye or open you up to the bone if you know what you’re doing.
“Your relationship, is it exclusive?”
“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I mean, as far as I can tell. She isn’t seeing anyone else. But it’s kind of obvious that I haven’t been terribly prudent in my relationship with her.”
I didn’t see any point in agreeing with her. “We know she had …”
“Uh, Mr. Haggerty, what I just said isn’t quite true.”
“About not looking into her life?”
“Well, that, but also about our relationship.”
I put down my pen and gave her my full attention. If I’ve learned anything in seventeen years of snooping, it’s to be respectful when someone wants to tell you a secret, no matter what it is. If we’re alike at all, it’s in the shade. Up front it’s all a loud display of how different we each are.
“I’m pretty sure Sarabeth is bisexual. Every once in a while, she won’t be home when I get there. The dinner will be ready but she’ll be gone. Then she comes home the next day. She never says where she’s been and I never ask. Sometimes I’ll smell a different soap on her, that’s all. I suspect that she’s spent the night with a man. It’s just something I know. I don’t think it’s serious, just something she needs.”
“I appreciate your candor. You said that you hadn’t been entirely truthful about not looking into her life; what did you mean by that?”
Ellen Piersall sighed. “You know, I used to feel quite guilty about this,” she said, and catching my eyes, clarified “this.” “Not our relationship, but having spied on her at all. Privacy is terribly important to me. Nothing good ever happened when I was open about my sexuality and so I’ve tried to respect other people’s privacy at all times. But I was pretty anxious. We’d gotten together so fast and I knew so little about her. So when this doctor phoned and asked for Sara, I don’t know, I just followed her.”
“Whoa, slow down. Let’s go back to the call. What doctor, her gynecologist?”
“No, not Dr. Purbright. She’s my gynecologist too. This was a Dr. Howard, Wesley Howard. His office was calling to confirm her appointment.”
“When was this?”
“Way back when we first met. The end of September or early October. I told Sara about it. She asked if I could drop her off the next day. So I did. Only I went around the block, came back, and went into the building and looked up Dr. Howard. I really didn’t have to. I already knew what he was.”
“And that was?”
“A plastic surgeon, of course.”
“And how did you know that?”
Ellen Piersall smiled again. Why did I feel like a candidate for the Special Olympics?
“Let’s just say that I was very familiar with Sara’s body. No matter how good the surgeon is, there’s always a scar. She’d had breast implants and some surgery on her face and some dermabrasion. That much I was certain of. Anyway, I felt very guilty doing that. So I left and never mentioned it to her. Whoever Sara really is, she used to look very different. Her hair is straight out of a bottle. Her natural color is brunette with some red in it. Her eyes aren’t brown. Those are contacts. They’re actually a green-hazel color.”
“Any other changes you know about?”
“No.”
“Okay, Ms. Piersall. We’ll see what we can do with what you’ve given us. Frankly, it’s not a whole lot, so if anything else occurs to you please call us at any time. We�
��re going to need all the help we can get, particularly if she’s intending to leave soon.”
I pulled a contract out of the desk and handed it to her. “Please read it carefully. If you have any questions, I’ll be glad to answer them. Otherwise sign and date it on the other side. I’ll sign it also and have a copy made for your records.”
While she did that, I wrote more notes: Call Joe Anthony. Call Dan Kearny. Resume surveillance. I drew a big heart around Wesley Howard’s name.
“Who do I make the check out to?” she asked.
“Franklin Investigations.” She did and handed it and the contract back to me.
“You’ll hear from us as soon as we know anything,” I said, rising and shaking her hand. At the door, a last thought occurred to me.
“Ms. Piersall, there’s something else you should think about.”
“Yes, Mr. Haggerty?”
“If there’s someone out there looking for her, they’re going to find you first.”
CHAPTER 11
“Joe Anthony please, it’s Leo Haggerty.”
“Leo, what can I do for you?”
“You’ll never believe who I’m investigating.”
“Yes?”
“Sarabeth Timmons. The girlfriend wants the flip-side, ‘who is this stranger beside me?’ I need to know if you’re putting the squeeze on her.”
“You mean a civil suit? No, I told Peter not to bother, she’s judgment-proof. It’s all hassle and no payoff.”
“What about pressing criminal charges?”
“For fraud? I really hadn’t thought about it. I’ll tell you frankly I wouldn’t recommend that he do it and I’m not going to.”
“As an attorney, aren’t you required to report a crime you know about?”
“Ethically? No, sir. As a citizen I don’t think our busting her will bring us safer streets any time soon. So she’s safe from me, Leo.”
“That’s all I wanted to know, Joe. Thanks.”
I found Del and Clancy writing reports at their desks. “Good news, boys. You’re back on surveillance.”
“Who is it this time?” Clancy asked.
“Your old favorite, Sarabeth ‘Who Am I Really?’ Timmons.”
“Hot damn. Miss Easy on the Eyes 1993.”
“Down, Del. Now we’re working for the girlfriend. It still looks like she’s getting ready to run. We know she’s waiting for a birth certificate. She’s been accumulating cash. I hope the girlfriend cuts that off. She’s got her own funds at the bank you found and the safe deposit box. If she isn’t going too far away, she may come back for her stuff. If she’s smart, and I think she is, she’ll have a mail drop somewhere. That’s where the b.c. will go. With that and the cash she can lay low till she gets a social security number and a driver’s license.
“I don’t think that following her is going to get us much information on who she is, but I want to be able to find her when we do find out.”
“Why not send the birth certificate ahead?” Del asked.
“States are finally getting wise to this scam and are asking for more information on interstate requests: existing driver’s license and so on. If she sends it here they won’t hold it up. Then she goes on to a new state and gets everything else there. It’s a cleaner break. Each of you get a bag packed, in case she hits the friendly skies.”
“Yeah,” they chorused.
“Okay, I’ll have Kelly write a check for pocket cash for you.”
Back in my office, Kelly buzzed me.
“Leo, it’s Dan Kearny on the phone. Also, the death certificate just arrived from California.”
“Courier it over to Joe Anthony. Rush.” I picked up the phone.
“Hello, Dan. Did you find out anything?”
“Piece of cake, Leo. The name was legit. I was talking to O’Bannion about it and Giselle overheard us. She was sure she’d heard that name recently. Turns out she was interviewed on TV about sex work in San Francisco after the Mitchell brothers’ killing.”
“Fill me in, it didn’t make the news here.”
“Jim and Artie Mitchell were brothers. Pioneers in the porn business. They brought us Marilyn Chambers and Behind the Green Door. Anyway, Jim was accused of murdering his brother. Big story out here. Turns out Rachel Porter is also Yvonna Tramp. Before that she was Bimbeaux D’Jour. Before that, you get the idea. She’d moved up here to concentrate on her career as a stripper. Anyway, we found her easily enough. I sent Giselle out to interview her, figured she’d take better notes.”
“What did you get?”
“Porter’s gay. Said she picked up Timmons at a casting call. The girl said she’d been riding with a biker gang, wait a minute. Yeah, the Hounds of Hell. Her old man Chino had been busted and she’d been sold to a guy she couldn’t stand. So she split and was trying to make some quick money. Porter took her home, she lived in Van Nuys, turned her on to the other half, and they were like married for three years. She said Timmons kept house, cooked, shopped, and she earned the money.”
“She say why they split up?”
“Nothing particular. Porter wanted to spend more time on the road dancing. She was making a lot more money that way. Timmons wanted to stay in L.A. So they went their separate ways. Porter was surprised to hear she was in Virginia, said she never thought she’d leave L.A.”
“Why was that?”
“She lived in that area her whole life. Seemed happy to stay there forever.”
“Say anything else about Timmons’s past?”
“Very little. Only child, raised by mother. Runaway at age twelve. Biker babe by sixteen. Any of this help?”
“I’m not sure, Dan. Rachel Porter’s name was the only solid thing she gave us in the deposition. I’ve got to figure that she did it for a reason. If they were close, she probably called her the same day, ran her story by her, and told her what to say if anybody asked about her.”
“Did it sound like that to you?”
“What you gave me is a fucking echo, nothing on the rebound. Had to try it though. I appreciate your help on this, Dan. If I can ever do anything for you out here, please call.”
“Will do. Good luck, Leo.”
“Thanks. Oh, tell Giselle thanks for her help too.”
Wesley Howard was the key, no doubt about it. ‘Sarabeth’ left California looking like one woman, arrived here and got turned into another one. Dollars to doughnuts her file would be a complete fabrication. False name, address, everything. Everything but the photos. Piersall said the surgery was excellent. No reputable plastic surgeon worked without before-and-afters. How to get those photos? Wait a minute. She’d used the Timmons name when he did the surgery. That’s how they called her for her follow-up appointment. Your first screw-up. You left a bit of overlap there. Maybe Piersall showed up too soon and she was too good to let pass. Whatever, I’ll take it. If you’d used another name I’d never be able to find those records.
What I wanted to do was patently illegal and the only way to get access to the records. The least I could do was keep everyone else in the agency at arm’s length from me. If I fucked up I’d do it alone. I weighed the risks of getting caught and the benefits of getting the records. No contest.
I left my office and told Kelly that I was going out to get a bite to eat and that I’d be back in about an hour.
She nodded and went back to her typing.
I drove to a shopping center on Gallows Road. There was a private parcel post company there that had a public fax machine. Outside was a public phone. I’d used both before. I parked, sauntered over to the phone, unfolded the script I had written sitting in the lot, and called Dr. Howard.
“Dr. Howard’s office.”
“Is Dr. Howard there, please?”
“No. I’m sorry. He’s in surgery. Can anyone else here help you?”
“I sure hope so. This is Dr. Doolin. I’m a trauma surgeon at Fairfax. We just got an admission here that’s a patient of Dr. Howard. Young woman named Timmons, Sarabeth. Proble
m is she’s unconscious and we don’t know anything about her history—allergies, reactions to anesthesia. Her friend told us she was a patient of Dr. Howard’s. We’re hoping you could fax us her chart. We’re about to go into surgery. Also, any pictures you’ve got of her. Anything you’ve got can help.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was hit by a car. We know one of her implants has ripped and she’s had extensive facial injuries. I’d like to know what Dr. Howard did. What she looked like before the injuries. She’s going to need reconstructive work after I’ve done what I can. If it’s possible I’d like to make it easier for Dr. Howard or whoever follows me; otherwise I’ll put her back the best I know how.”
“Well, I don’t know. Records aren’t supposed to leave the office.”
“I understand. This is an emergency, though. Tell Dr. Howard I’ll take complete responsibility. Can you help us?”
Silence. I urged her on to my side. Come on, buy it. It’s an emergency. Her face is ruined. Do you want to live with that on your conscience? Do the right thing. Damn the rules.
“Okay. What’s that fax number?”
I gave her the number. “Hurry, please. I’m going in to scrub right now.”
“It’ll be there in minutes, Doctor.”
I hung up the phone, walked into the parcel post store, and waited by the fax machine. True to her word, it began to drop papers into the bin. When it was done, I counted the pages and paid for them at the counter and left.
In the car, I scanned the file and slipped it into a manila folder.
Back at the office, I slipped the file out and arranged the pages in order with the photographs last. I made a fresh pot of coffee. Everyone else seemed able to drink it at the scalded-mud stage. I was always throwing half pots away. Cup in hand, I sat down at my desk.
As I suspected, the identifying information was all lies or blank. Her medical history was unremarkable. The most interesting fact was that the charges for her surgeries totaled $12,000 and she’d paid it all with cash, in advance. Wherever she’d come from, she brought a lot of money with her. Whose?
Mexico Is Forever Page 6
