Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4)

by Grayson, M. D.

  “Three if you count Bannister,” Doc said.

  “That’s right, maybe three. But think about it. If we make the assumption that Bannister was a victim and not the killer, that means there’s someone out there who’s already killed three people. At least. And if he killed three, who’s to say there weren’t more that we haven’t linked yet? Or there’s maybe some other kind of crimes connected that we don’t even know about. If there are, and if we can find that connection, maybe we can use that angle to work backward to solve Sophie.”

  “Seeing’s how we’ve been having so much luck working forward,” Toni said.

  “Exactly.”

  The meeting broke up at a little before nine, and I returned to my office to answer e-mails and transfer funds from my savings account into our operating account to cover mid-month bills. I hoped to get my daily administrative chores done so that I could focus hard on the case. I’d just closed the checkbook when Kenny’s voice came over our intercom. “Danny, Eric Gaston is on Line 1.”

  “Thanks, man.” I wondered why Eric Gaston would be calling me first thing on a Monday morning. Curious, I punched the flashing button. “Good morning, Eric.”

  “Hey, Danny,” he said, cheerily. “Good morning to you. Hope I’m not interrupting something terribly important.”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. Say, I just heard from my port trimmer. He fell off his four-wheeler over the weekend and dislocated his shoulder. He won’t be able to make our race this Saturday. I remember you’d said you might be interested in going sailing, so I thought this might be a good opportunity. I know I’d mentioned coming out to a practice, but this would be jumping right into a race—the real deal. You can help us out and sort of get your feet wet at the same time, if you don’t mind the pun.”

  “Get my feet wet?” I was dubious—I remembered the picture on his conference wall. He filled me in on the details, including the fact that I’d be one of eight people onboard. He even pointed me to some things I could download in advance to help prepare. “This is a big race for you guys?”

  “Yeah, kind of. It’s the kickoff of the Snowbird Series. Five races throughout the winter.”

  “Sounds like pretty serious stuff. Remember, I don’t know the first thing about sailing.”

  “Not a problem—you don’t need to know anything. You’ll be in the cockpit with me, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. You’ll be fine.”

  “You’re the skipper?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We call it the helmsman.”

  I wanted the opportunity to talk to Gaston anyway, so I agreed to go. I’d get up early and knock out my training run in the dark.

  Assignments in hand, everyone spent the remainder of the day and half of the next with their heads down, hard at work. Just before noon, Toni walked into my office. “You might find this interesting,” she said.

  “What’d you find?”

  She sat down and opened her notebook. “Rather than look at all the major crimes, I decided to break them into categories starting with homicides. I looked at all the murders in the whole area from June first through the end of July—sixty days. First off, the year started with a lot of murders. By the end of July, there was already one more murder this year than all of last year. And six of ’em happened in the June–July window. Of course, there’ve been only three murders since then, and we’re right back on average pace now. But those two months this summer were busy.”

  “Any of those six look interesting?”

  “At first blush, no.” She set a printout on my desk. “I had Yoshi send this over. These are the six people—all guys—who got murdered in the June–July time frame. Like I said, none of them have an obvious connection. These four guys here,” she pointed to mug shots of four tough-looking young men, “they’re all suspected gang murderers. Apparently, there was some sort of spat between a couple of rival groups, and they took it out on each other in a particularly brutal manner.”

  “Hard to see much of a connection with any of these guys to Sophie,” I said.

  “Exactly. Especially since they’ve already caught the killers on this one and this one, and this guy here—” she pointed to the third young man, “—was killed by this guy here,” she pointed to the fourth young man.

  I nodded. “Alright. What about this guy?” I asked, pointing to the fifth photo.

  “Number five here was killed outside a bar. Got in a fight and had a bottle broken over his head.”

  “Ouch,” I said, cringing a little. The thought of getting hit in the head gave me memories of waking up in a hospital. At least I woke up, which made me luckier than this guy, I guess. “That leaves him, then.” I pointed to number six, a balding, middle-aged man.

  “Yes. And at first, I didn’t see anything with this guy, either. This one’s not solved yet. A businessman, killed in an apparent robbery in Kirkland, of all places.” Kirkland is a trendy suburb just north of Bellevue on the Eastside, not exactly what you’d call a hotbed of crime. Toni handed me the police report.

  “Leonard McKenzie,” I read. “Walks out of his office at 8:30 in the evening at the Carillon Point office park and is mugged. Fights back and gets shot. Kirkland PD recover his wallet, minus cash and credit cards, in a nearby dumpster.” I read it again, looking for the connection and not finding it, then I looked up and shrugged. I was missing something. “Okay, I give up. You’re saying this connects to Sophie? How?”

  She smiled. “I felt a little uncomfortable about ruling him out just based on the report, so I decided to see if there was any press coverage. Check this out.” She handed me a photocopy of a newspaper obituary on the very same Leonard McKenzie.

  Leonard McKenzie

  Leonard McKenzie passed away on July 6. He was born on Aug. 29, 1962, and was 49 years of age. Leonard was a resident of Medina, Washington. Family and friends are respectfully invited to attend the Mass of Christian Burial on Tuesday, July 11, 2013, at 12:00 noon at the Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church in Clyde Hill, Washington. Leonard is survived by his wife, Gloria, and daughters Emily and Amanda. In lieu of flowers, the McKenzie family requests donations be made to the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation.

  “July six—the day after Sophie was killed,” I said, as I read the notice.

  “And?”

  I kept reading.

  “And?”

  “That’s interesting,” I said quietly as I reached the end. “Donations to the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation?” I looked up at her. “I wonder if that means anything?”

  She smiled. “You wanted a connection?” she said dramatically. “I give you . . . a connection.”

  Just after he got back from lunch, Kenny hacked into some kind of unlisted number directory and got me the McKenzies’ home phone number. I dialed the number, and two rings later, Gloria McKenzie answered. I introduced myself.

  “You’re with the police?” she asked.

  “No ma’am, I’m not. We’re working with the Seattle Police Department on the Sophie Thoms homicide investigation. Are you familiar with the case?”

  “I watch the news.”

  “Good. We’re working with the task force assigned to that investigation, but we’re not police. We’re private investigators.”

  “Private investigators? I wasn’t aware that the police brought in private investigators when they need help.”

  “I don’t think they do,” I said. “At least, not around here. But the families sometimes do. We’re working with the police, but we actually work for the Sophie Thoms family.”

  “I see. I had no idea you could do that,” she said. “I mean, hire someone to work with the police. Maybe I should have done that.” She paused for a second, then added, “As a matter of fact, maybe when you’re done with your current assignment, we can talk about helping the Kirkland police with my husband’s investigation. They’re not having much luck, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “And we’d
surely be interested in talking to you when we’re all done. Meanwhile, though, as to this particular case, we’re working on a theory that Sophie Thoms’s death might in some way be connected to others. You may have heard about the murder of a young woman named Judie Lawton?”

  “I did,” Gloria said. “I saw it on television.”

  “We believe Sophie Thoms’s murder is somehow related to Judie Lawton’s. We’re not exactly sure how they’re related, but there seem to be too many coincidences for the murders to be unrelated. We started wondering if there might be other connections like this as well, to other crimes. Along those lines, our office did some digging and noticed that your husband was killed the day after Sophie was murdered. And we noticed in the obituary that the Seattle Times ran that there was a request for donations to the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation in lieu of flowers. Did you know that that’s the same organization where Sophie worked? We’re wondering if you happen to know if there might have been some sort of connection between your husband and the Foundation?”

  “Well, Leonard absolutely adored Sophie,” Gloria said.

  I froze. “You’re saying your husband knew Sophie Thoms?”

  She laughed. “Knew her? Why of course. We both did. Sophie was our liaison with the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation.”

  “Your family was a donor with the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation?”

  “We certainly were. That’s why it was so coincidental that Leonard and Sophie were both killed during the same week.”

  I was floored. I needed to talk to this woman, and not over the phone. Fortunately, she agreed to meet Toni and me at her house in Medina later that same afternoon.

  The McKenzies lived in Medina on the eastern shore of Lake Washington. Medina is a small town with about three thousand residents, best known for being the home of Bill Gates. In addition, several other tech titans make the small community their home as well. Medina’s median family income is nearly $200,000, and the median home price over a million bucks. We oohed and ahhed at the impressive homes as I slowly drove us down Evergreen Point Road. Medina is small, though, and the ride didn’t take long. We scoped out the impressive grounds as I turned into the circular drive of the McKenzie home a couple of minutes before three.

  “Wow,” Toni said. “It looks like the widow McKenzie isn’t going to have to worry about making ends meet.”

  I nodded. “You got that right.” From my quick background study in the office before we left for the meeting, I’d learned that Leonard McKenzie left a senior position at Microsoft in 1999 to form an Internet travel agency. The company prospered, and in 2007 one of the industry giants made Leonard an offer he couldn’t refuse, so the McKenzies sold the business and walked away with $350,000,000—not too shabby for eight years of work. “I don’t see any ramen noodles in her future.”

  I parked the Jeep in the circular drive, and by the time we got out and made it to the front door, Gloria McKenzie had already opened it to greet us. Gloria was a pretty woman: she probably looked a few years younger than her actual age. She was short with auburn hair pulled loosely back into a knot, which Toni told me later was called a chignon. She wore navy slacks and a white blouse. My two-word label for the overall effect: understated elegance.

  We introduced ourselves and shook hands—her hand was small, but her grip was warm and firm. We spoke for a few minutes outside, explaining again our role in the Sophie Thoms investigation after which Gloria invited us to follow her inside. As we entered, I noticed that the home was furnished in what I think is called “modern” style. The walls were stark white, accented by a large, colorful painting of what looked to me like two boxes that one of her children probably did. The floors were shiny oak hardwood. Two rectangular white sofas in the living room faced each other, separated by a glass table with a few artsy coffee-table books. The overall effect was a little too stark for my taste, but clearly had been put together by someone with a keen eye for interior design—I don’t think an amateur could just run down to Pottery Barn and throw stuff together and accidentally end up with this Architectural Digest look. I sure as hell couldn’t.

  “Thank you for coming over,” Gloria said, as she gestured toward one of the sofas.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk with us on basically no advance notice.” I pulled out my notepad, and we all sat down. “We were surprised to find that you and your husband had any connection at all with Sophie Thoms—we had no idea. As a matter of fact, when you said that you and Leonard had actually worked with Sophie, I thought we needed to come talk to you as soon as we could.”

  Gloria nodded. “You know, based on the evidence the police found, they think that Leonard was killed by a random armed robber. They think he fought back and got killed.”

  I watched her as she spoke, wondering how emotional she might still be as she recounted the murder of her husband. God knows it would certainly have been understandable. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried: Gloria’s eyes were clear, and she spoke steadily and confidently, more like an investigator than a victim. “Leonard was killed on July sixth—it was a Friday night. We’d just opened an office for our foundation at Carillon Point in Kirkland, and Leonard was there late that night.” She shook her head. “He never made it home. He got into a confrontation in the parking lot. Single worst day of my life.” She paused for a second, then continued. “I think word went out that Sophie was missing a couple days later, but by then we were so distraught about Leonard that I’m not sure we noticed or, honestly, were even paying attention to the news, for that matter. By the time they found Sophie’s body and made the announcement that she’d been murdered, we’d finished Leonard’s funeral, and I’d already been gone with the girls for two weeks at my parents’ home in New York. I needed to get away, to go somewhere I could hide in a hole. My parents’ farm was perfect. We didn’t hear about Sophie until we got back.”

  “And that would have been . . . ?” Toni asked.

  Gloria said, “Let me see.” She reached for her iPhone and started scrolling backward on her calendar. “We left Seattle on July thirteenth, and we got back on the twenty-eighth.”

  I looked at my notebook. “And my notes say that the police made the announcement about finding Sophie on the seventeenth—eleven days before you got back.” I looked up. “By the time you got home, Sophie’s murder probably wasn’t even in the front section of the Times anymore.”

  “I can’t remember if it was front section or not,” Gloria said. “But I do remember reading about it, and seeing it on the news.” She pursed her lips in thought, then said, “I thought that it was a really tragic coincidence, but that’s as far as I went with it.” She shook her head slowly. “Honestly, I was just starting to come to grips with facing the rest of my life without Leonard.” She paused. “It’s not something I’d ever thought I’d have to do.”

  I nodded. “I understand, and like I said, we’re very grateful that you’re willing to talk to us today.”

  She smiled. “Maybe it will help.”

  “Let’s hope. It would help us out of you’d fill us in on how you and Leonard came to be involved with Sophie and the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation.”

  She nodded. “Do you know anything about our background?”

  I smiled. “Yes. I did some Internet research after we spoke on the phone.”

  “Good. Leonard worked hard to take advantage of the opportunity that was in front of us, and we were fortunate—in the right place at the right time. After we sold the company, we wanted to use some of the money to help other people.” She pursed her lips and stared at the window for a second, thinking. Then she said, “I don’t recall for certain how we chose the plight of the people in Africa.” She shrugged. “Anyway, we decided that we’d use our money to try and make a difference there. Even a small amount of money can make a big difference in people’s lives in eastern Africa. So we formed the McKenzie Foundation. Not long afterward, we heard of the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation. Th
ey were several orders of magnitude bigger than us, of course, and they were already established. In fact, several of Leonard’s friends were Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation donors. We called them and arranged a meeting.”

  “This would have been . . . ?” I asked.

  “Early 2011. Sophie said she’d only been there a couple of months.”

  “You were there at the meeting?” Toni asked.

  Gloria nodded. “I was.”

  “What’d you think?”

  Gloria smiled. “I was impressed—we both were. Leonard looked Sophie up on the Internet, and we saw that her father was the big money behind the Foundation. And I mean really big money. Sophie had a passion for the work. She’d actually been to east Africa two or three times, and she was able to relate firsthand her experiences with the people there. We were both completely enthralled. When Sophie showed us the kind of projects that the Foundation was investing in, we decided that rather than have the McKenzie Foundation duplicate the project management and administrative functions that BTMF was already good at, we’d just streamline our organization and start making donations to BTMF and others that were already established at that sort of thing. That way, Leonard could just focus on using his network to raise funds, along with our own money, of course.”

  I jotted a couple things in my notebook. “And this worked out pretty well?”

  “Yes, very. I think from the time we started until just a month or so ago, we probably made donations to twelve projects with the Foundation—I think on the order of twelve million dollars. I’m looking at a new project now, as a matter of fact.”