“Then they would’ve had to have found another way upstairs,” Mike reminded her.
“Right,” she agreed absently. She lost herself in thought for a minute as she tried to figure out their next move. “I wonder where they’re going to take her,” she mused out loud.
“Eames had the warrant, but the sheriff’s office has the jurisdiction,” Mike answered.
“Let me find Liz Sweet’s contact info. If Cherie doesn’t have counsel in there with her, it’s practically a guarantee she’ll incriminate herself, guilty or not.” Madeline shook her head at the thought. “Okay, here it is… I just forwarded it to Ross. So, let’s hit the streets, for whatever good it might yield. I’ll take downtown, you take Milpas.” Madeline could tell Mike would prefer to eat nails.
“If you’ve got a better game plan, I’d love to hear it,” she said, taking a handful of fliers from each pile and letting Mike close up shop behind her.
“I don’t like the idea of you out on the streets by yourself,” Mike said from the doorway. Madeline turned and gave him an annoyed look. “Usherwood could pick you off like a fly.”
“Thanks for the comforting visual.”
“I think we should stick together,” Mike urged. “You could take one side of the street and I’ll take the other.” Madeline didn’t even bother to reply. She gave him a backhanded wave and turned down the stairs.
“Call me if you learn anything,” Mike yelled after her. “And be on the lookout for Usherwood!”
Madeline checked her watch. She’d been on State Street for thirty-five minutes and still had most of her fliers. Her rudimentary Spanish seemed to confuse the Hispanic passersby and the rest took one look at Teresa’s photo and shook their heads. She hoped Mike was having better luck. At least he spoke the language and was in the right part of town.
Temporarily giving up, she caved in to her craving for caffeine and joined the line that stretched out onto the sidewalk in front of The Roasted Bean. She retrieved her phone from her pocket, as if somehow the device would focus her scattered thoughts. It didn’t.
As she inched her way forward, flashes of the previous night’s horrific events splashed across her mind’s eye, making her groan at the remembered terror. The young couple ahead of her turned around and she gave them an apologetic smile that came out more like a grimace.
She again turned her attention to her phone, willing it to come up with solutions to her myriad concerns. Her body ached from head to foot; she couldn’t tell which was more responsible, the lack of sleep or the accident. She tilted her head to the side, eliciting a loud, painful crunch.
As she rubbed her sore neck, she was able to grasp the most pressing matters as they flittered through her head and assign them some sort of priority. The job came first. Now that Cherie’s party had gone up in flames and the Campbell wedding was still days away, her assignment to investigate Teresa’s background and, if possible, locate the missing jewels, was her paramount concern.
Of course, staying alive should rate just as highly, but there was little she could do to assure that end. Unless she wanted to hire around-the-clock armed guards, there was nothing to stop Lionel Usherwood from carrying out his vendetta. Even that wouldn’t guarantee my safety, she amended glumly.
The crowd crept forward again, but she was still sixth in line. She closed her burning eyes for a moment, only to relive the frightening descent down Meigs Road. She opened them with a start as her Audi hit the first group of trash cans.
A muffled cry escaped her and she almost got out of line. But now she was aware of fierce hunger gnawing at her stomach. Changing lines wouldn’t do her any good, so she decided to make the most of her time by reporting the accident to her insurance company. As she scrolled through her client list, another fragment of memory registered, this time making her feel wide awake.
In a vivid flashback, she recalled Vivian as she placed a call to Teresa to tell her of the change in picking her up. With blinding clarity, it finally dawned on her that Teresa had some type of phone, though there wasn’t one in the clutch Helen brought back last night. This last detail struck her as rather curious.
Madeline parted the crowd standing behind her as she made a hasty exit and sprinted up State Street. She powered through a yellow light at Carrillo and didn’t slow her pace until she reached the stairs to her office. She let herself in and went straight to the file cabinet where Vivian’s file was stored.
The copy of Teresa’s W-4 was under the signed contract and her notes. There was a phone number listed, with the correct area code, but Madeline didn’t jump for joy. It was just as likely to be fictitious, like the rest of her information. The one thing that did give her a spark of hope was recognizing the prefix as a local cell number.
“Let’s see if we get lucky,” Madeline said to herself as she settled in front of her computer. She dialed the number and listened to it ring repeatedly before hanging up. She sat there, chin on her fist, as she wondered why the call hadn’t gone to voicemail. She wondered if there were still packages out there that didn’t offer such features for those on a tight budget. At least it was a working number. That triumph got her mental juices flowing.
There were five cell service providers in the Santa Barbara area. The only thing to do was start at the top of the list and work her way down. After forty minutes of speaking to one representative after another, giving out her credentials and jumping through all the necessary hoops, Madeline finally got her first real break.
“That number is registered to Enrique Alvarez,” the rep said.
“Can you give me his address?” Madeline wrote it down and thanked the man for his help. She grabbed her cell phone and called Mike.
“Have any luck?” she asked.
“Nada.”
“Well, I have. Come and get me. I’ve got a bona fide address.”
TWENTY-NINE
Mike pulled up to the curb across from the address on Voluntario Street. He and Madeline regarded the duplex, looking for signs of activity at 305 A. There were two young children on hard plastic trikes making a joyful racket on the driveway in front of 305 B. Nothing stirring on the other side. The curtains were closed and all was quiet. There was a car in the driveway—old, small and battered by the sun and stationary objects, by the looks of it.
That it was there was a promising sign, one that made Madeline’s heart race with anticipation. And hopefully Enrique Alvarez would be able to give them their first solid clues into Teresa Maria Gomez’s past. If they were really lucky, they might even find her there.
As they crossed the street, both became aware of the attention they and Mike’s fancy car were receiving. If they turned up nothing here, maybe the interested locals would know something about the mystery girl. That’s if they were inclined to speak to a couple of unfamiliar gringos. The two children in the adjoining yard stared silently as the strangers made their way up the front walk.
Mike knocked on the door and stood back behind Madeline. Within seconds, the door flew open, expectation written all over a young Latino’s worried features.
“Es Enrique Alvarez?” Mike asked. The man seemed nervous. He was holding a girl less than two years old on his hip, bouncing her lightly to pacify her.
“Si. I am Enrique Alvarez,” he said in nearly perfectly English. “Who are you and what do you want?” Madeline handed him one of their business cards.
“I’m Madeline Dawkins and this is my partner, Mike Delaney.” They each took out their wallets and showed him their P.I. licenses. “We’re doing a background check on a young lady named Teresa Maria Gomez. Do you know her?”
The detectives watched as Enrique’s eyes darted back and forth between them while he tried to assess the level of threat they presented.
“I do not know anyone with that name,” Enrique said, smiling politely as he started to close the door. Mike raised his arm to brace the
door open while taking another step forward.
“I can’t help you,” Enrique said matter-of-factly, jiggling the toddler, who had started to cry.
“The phone number used to contact Teresa by her former employer is registered to you,” Madeline said. Picking up on the man’s stress, the child began to wail. “Perhaps we can come inside for a moment? We’ll be as brief as possible.”
Enrique sensed he was cornered and grudgingly relented. He pulled the door open wide to let them in. He put the child down in the center of a pile of baby dolls and assorted toys, then stood back, his eyes still on the girl as Mike questioned him.
“Let’s try this again,” Mike said, removing a folded flier from his back pocket and handing it to him. Enrique took shallow breaths as he looked at the photocopy.
“What do you want with her?” he asked, licking his lips nervously.
“So you do know her?” Mike said.
“I’m not saying anything until you tell me why you are looking for this girl.”
“Her employer hired us to do a background check on her, since it was discovered that the address and Social Security numbers she listed on her application don’t actually exist,” Madeline said. Enrique shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the little girl, who was now playing happily on the floor.
“Enrique, I’m getting the feeling you’re worried about something, about Teresa…” Madeline said, leaning forward to break into his sightline. She could see his eyes moisten while he tried to control his trembling lips. “Perhaps we have information about her that could help you…”
Enrique met her eyes for the first time, revealing his frantic worry. “Do you know where she is?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Does she live here, Enrique?” He nodded, swallowing hard to keep his emotions in check.
“She didn’t come home last night?” Madeline asked gently. Enrique’s resolve crumbled as tears welled in his eyes.
“She called me about ten minutes before nine to tell me she would be home around nine-thirty. I called her cell phone all night. It just rings and rings. I don’t know what to do,” he said, wiping his eyes as he turned his attention back to the child. “No, no, mija—don’t put that in your mouth,” he said, taking away a slobbery snap bead.
“Is that her little girl?” Mike asked. Enrique nodded before bursting into tears.
“I’m sorry. I have this terrible feeling…here,” he said, his hand resting on his heart. “I fear something terrible has happened.” Enrique’s legs became shaky and he sank to the sofa, burying his head in his hands.
“Have you tried calling all her friends?” Madeline asked. Enrique steadied himself and wiped his nose with a faded bandana he pulled from his pocket.
“Teresa don’t have no friends. It’s just the three of us. We keep to ourselves.”
“What about her sister, Esmeralda?” Madeline asked. Enrique looked up sharply at her, his face hard, scared and distrustful all at once, as if Madeline was playing a cruel joke on him.
“Esmeralda died five years ago,” he replied.
“She told her employer, Miss Story, that Esmeralda cleans houses,” Madeline said. Enrique let out a melancholy wheeze.
“That was Teresa’s dream—to come to America with Esmeralda and clean houses for rich people and make lots of money to send back to El Salvador.”
“El Salvador? I thought she was from Mexico.” Enrique shook his head. Another lie, Madeline thought. So far, they had discovered many things about the missing girl that didn’t jibe with what any of her employers knew about her. Yet to look at her, you’ve never guess someone so innocent looking could be so duplicitous.
“Have you seen the news today?” Madeline asked. Enrique paused before shaking his head, as if he couldn’t understand what that had to do with Teresa. “After Teresa left with the housekeeper last night, Miss Story was found dead in her bedroom. She was strangled to death.” Enrique’s face turned ash-white.
“Dios mio,” he uttered, shocked by the news. “No, no—this can’t be true.” he wailed, getting up to pace.
“I’m sorry to say that it is,” Madeline said.
The toddler, disturbed by the outburst, began to cry. Mike walked over and picked her up. At first the child reached out for Enrique, who was so absorbed by his own troubles, he lost sight of the little girl’s distress. Madeline was about to intervene, but the child became suddenly fascinated by Mike, leaving her able to console and question Enrique.
“I’m sorry you had to hear about it like that,” Madeline said, laying a hand lightly on his arm. Instead of pulling away, as she was afraid he might, he looked up into her eyes.
“The police don’t think Teresa do this?” he asked, his accent growing heavier as true panic set in.
“They would like to ask her some questions, but from what was caught on the surveillance cameras, it would appear the housekeeper and Teresa left together. I would say it’s highly unlikely she was involved.” Enrique stared blankly at Madeline. “She’s not officially a suspect,” Madeline clarified.
“But maybe she is scared they think she did this thing to Miss Story?” Enrique speculated.
“We don’t know if she’s aware of what happened or not,” Madeline said. “Can you think of anyone she might know in Isla Vista?”
“Isla Vista? No,” Enrique said, shaking his head emphatically.
“Why did Teresa keep her address a secret?” Mike asked, still holding the now gurgling child.
“The nonexistent address she gave on her application was way over on the other side of town, not far from the fairgrounds,” Madeline said. “I tried to give her a ride home on Thursday. She had me take her toward San Pascual, on the other side of the freeway, then jumped out when I was stopped at a light.”
“The housekeeper for the Alexanders said Teresa had her drive out to Isla Vista, then pulled the same stunt,” Mike said.
“Why all the secrecy about where she lives?” Madeline asked. Enrique closed his eyes as he let out a defeated wheeze.
“Teresa is an illegal,” he said. “She is always afraid of La Migra sending her back to El Salvador. “I have my citizenship now. Isabella was born here. If Teresa is deported, what do we do? I have a good job here…” Enrique shook his head. “What would happen to us?”
“Well, let’s not assume the worst,” Mike said.
“But if the police talk to her, they will send her back,” Enrique worried.
“Maybe they’ll find out who killed Miss Story before they get around to questioning Teresa,” Madeline offered hopefully. “The main reason we were hired was to find some very valuable things of Miss Story’s that have gone missing. I’m going to ask you something and I need an honest answer from you. Has Teresa ever brought home any jewelry? Perhaps she said they were gifts from her employer…?”
Enrique shook his head, his face devoid of emotion. Madeline reached into her bag and produced copies of the photos she’d been given.
“Do you recognize any of these?” Enrique took the photos and looked at them carefully. He had probably never seen pictures of the woman Teresa had been working for all these months.
“Teresa did not have this jewelry. Miss Story was very generous with her, but she did not ever give her these things,” Enrique said, handing the photos back to Madeline.
“Is it possible Teresa took them without letting you know about it? Did she need money for something important? Is there anything or anyone you can think of that might have made her take the jewelry?” Enrique shook his head adamantly.
“Teresa would never do that. She would never steal. Never.”
Mike and Madeline exchanged glances. They had more background info about Teresa than they had started out with, but they were still at square one in the investigation.
“I want you to imagine a situation where someone blackm
ailed Teresa into stealing from Miss Story. Think. Is there anyone who might know of Teresa’s relationship with the actress who might use that knowledge to blackmail her? Do you understand what I’m saying?” Madeline asked.
“Blackmail?”
“If anyone knew or guessed Teresa was here illegally, they could have used that as a threat to get her to steal something of value from the Alexander estate,” Mike said.
The light of recognition shone in Enrique’s eyes for a moment before he gave himself up to serious concentration.
After a pensive moment, he shook his head. “Teresa never tell me about anyone other than the people she works for.”
“Did she speak specifically about any one person there? Maybe someone she had become friends with?” Mike asked. Enrique shook his head again.
“According to Miss Story, Teresa rode the bus to and from work every day. Is it possible she made friends with someone she met on the bus?” Madeline asked. Enrique held his hands palm-side up, as if to say he had no way of knowing about that. “She never spoke of anyone who’d become friendly with her on the bus route? Think hard, Enrique. This is very important.”
Enrique got up and paced. Little Isabella’s attention strayed to her daddy. Mike handed the child over, though she had a sudden change of heart at the end.
“Venga, mija,” Enrique said, prying her off Mike’s chest. Isabella let out an ear-piercing cry before giving into her father. Mike was quickly forgotten as she began playing with the medallion Enrique was wearing on a gold chain around his neck.
“Do you know which bus numbers Teresa takes to and from her job?” Madeline asked.
“She takes the number fourteen bus both ways.”
“Does she have a bus pass?” Mike asked.
“Yes,” Enrique replied. “I saw it on the table by our bed,” he said as he walked into the bedroom.
“What do you think?” Mike whispered to his partner.
Madeline shrugged. “We’re not getting the whole story,” she replied right before Enrique rejoined them.
Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay Page 21
