by Joanne Pence
“I wonder what she did all week,” Paavo said.
“Maybe contemplating suicide, she threw away everything personal,” Ramirez suggested, then returned to her team.
“I’ll be most curious as to what people at her work say about her,” Paavo said.
“Let’s hope they don’t find her as much a nobody as she felt herself to be,” Yosh said with a nod to the suicide note on the coffee table.
Paavo faced to Murphy. “Do you have the name and phone number of the person who called in the missing person report, and her place of business?”
“I do.” Murphy flipped through his papers. “A supervisor, Julio Sanchez, called us. The name of the company where she worked is Zygog Software in South City.”
Paavo could scarcely believe what heard.
Yosh’s mumbled comment was more to the point. “Holy shit!”
o0o
Paavo and Yosh returned to Zygog in South San Francisco. Now that two of its employees had been found dead, they spoke to the Chief Executive Officer to explain that their investigation at the company would be more wide-spread than it had been so far.
Yosh talked to Gaia Wyndom’s supervisor and co-workers. She had chosen to work ten hours a day Monday through Thursday, with Fridays off. No one knew her well, and everyone said she seemed perpetually sad and perpetually tired. She only perked up when Taylor Bedford walked by, although no one had ever seen them say anything more than “hello” to each other. And now both were gone.
One person remarked on the fact that she had cut and styled her hair about six months ago, and that the new style looked much more attractive on her. She hoped that meant Gaia would come out of her shell, but she didn’t. She never wore make-up, and her clothes were uniformly drab and matronly.
Paavo went to Taylor Bedford’s office, where he found the secretary, Otto Link. Link appeared to be in his mid-forties or fifties, with short Grecian-formula brown hair to match his brown eyes, and a slight build. Paavo had spoken to him once before, but the man was so broken up over Bedford’s death, he was scarcely coherent.
Link showed Paavo to Bedford’s office. There, Paavo hunted through paperwork, datebooks, and e-mails to try to find any kind of connection with Gaia Wyndom.
He also did a more in depth review of Bedford’s schedule, going back more than a year. He discovered that in the past six months Bedford’s schedule had become much more stable than previously—two weeks out of town, and then two weeks in the office. Prior to that time, he varied his schedule, although about fifty percent of his working hours were spent on the road.
“Why did Mr. Bedford change from a week or a few days away here and there, to this very strict schedule of two weeks here and two away?” Paavo asked Link.
“He said he liked having a more set schedule,” Link replied. “That way he’d always know if he would be in town or not.”
“His wife said he worked weekends when away, wining and dining his clients.”
“Oh?” Link smirked. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that.”
Link gave Paavo the addresses of every place Bedford visited over the six months prior to his death, as well as every hotel he stayed in. He saw that Bedford only charged the company for stays in Healdsburg every fourth weekend.
“Do you have any idea why Bedford would have been in the vicinity of Commercial and Kearney streets on Saturday night?” Paavo asked.
“None at all. It’s close to the office, but we’re closed on weekends.”
“Any clients near there? Any favorite restaurants or bars he might have mentioned?”
“I can’t say for sure.” Otto looked perplexed. “He went to a lot of places around here. He liked a drink or two or ten, as is typical among salesmen as I’m sure you know.”
“Do you know if Bedford knew Gaia Wyndom?” Paavo asked.
“I believe he did.” Otto’s mouth scrunched up as if he’d bitten into a lemon.
“Did they work together on projects or anything else?”
“She worked in the Records division where mail, e-mail, and telephone orders were maintained. She wasn’t a manager, but a ‘technical advisor’ to the clerks who filed the company’s paperwork. Mr. Bedford would only have reason to talk to her if had a problem, such as his clients not getting something on time or mistakes in billing. Salesmen almost never needed to go to Records.”
“I see,” Paavo said. That didn’t help much.
Otto swallowed a couple of times before he asked, “Rumor has it Gaia committed suicide. But that’s hard to believe. Do you think the two deaths are connected? Could the killer be someone here at work? Everyone’s talking about it. We’re all scared.”
“We don’t know that Ms. Wyndom was murdered,” Paavo said. “Why is her suicide hard to believe?”
“She was very quiet. Hardly spoke to anyone, just did her work. When she did talk, her conversation was all about her cats, how being a vegetarian was morally superior, and the TV shows she watched. I mean, with her life, what would make her want to commit suicide? Nothing, I’d say.”
“There were no cats in her house,” Paavo said.
“Really?” Otto looked perplexed. “Maybe they died. Maybe that’s why she killed herself! She was devoted to them.”
“If you think of anything at all about either of them, give me a call.” Paavo handed Otto his card.
Otto cocked his head then raised his eyebrows, and in a low voice asked, “How about over cocktails some evening?”
Paavo’s eyes narrowed. “Did you and Mr. Bedford go out for cocktails?”
Otto gave a knowing grin. “We certainly did.”
Paavo nodded. “Interesting. If you have something to discuss, you can find me at Homicide. Just call that number.” He headed toward and elevator and hit the up button.
“Oh, all right. You can’t get blame a guy for trying. These days, who knows?” Otto followed him, standing close as Paavo waited for the elevators. “The executive suites, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” Paavo said.
“You’ve met Greenburg then?” Otto referred to the company’s founder, Thomas Greenburg.
“He wasn’t in last time I was here.”
Link shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered. If you expect to find out anything from Mr. Greenburg, you’re going to be a very, very disappointed boy. Do come back and see me anytime.”
The elevator doors opened, and Paavo got on. Alone.
Thirty-five year old Thomas Greenburg was a computer genius who started Zygog Software seven years earlier. It was now worth hundreds of millions of dollars and remained privately owned. Considering the problems Facebook and a few other software companies had when they tried to go public, Greenburg planned to keep it that way. There were other differences between Zygog and better known software businesses. One, it wasn’t in Silicon Valley, and two, it made a huge profit based on a physical product, not simply advertising dollars.
A secretary directed Paavo down a long hall. She told him to knock on the door, and then as if to acknowledge that she knew that wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done, she tightened her lips and gave a small shrug of the shoulders before spinning on her heel and returning to her desk.
Paavo knocked twice more before he heard a mumbled, “Come in.”
Greenburg didn’t stand or otherwise acknowledge him, but kept staring at his computer screen and occasionally hitting one key, then staring some more. He sat on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees as he bent forward, eyeglasses just a few inches from the monitor. He wore a sweatshirt, Levis, and Nikes. The shoes seemed to be the most expensive thing in his office. His shaggy red hair looked uncombed and he looked unwashed.
Paavo waited a moment then moved closer, badge in hand. “Paavo Smith, Homicide. I’m here to talk to you about Taylor Bedford and Gaia Wyndom.”
Greenburg hit another button, then pushed his glasses up on his nose and frowned. “I heard they were killed.”
“Both are dead, yes
,” Paavo said.
“Terrible.” Greenburg hit about ten keys in rapid succession.
“What do you know about them personally? Were they involved in anything new or unique here at work?”
At Greenburg’s blank look, Paavo added, “Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Tell you?” Greenburg looked confused. “You can check with Personnel. Their evaluations are on record. Actually, everything’s online. I can look them up for you.” He immediately began pressing keys, paying no attention to Paavo who now stood right in front of him.
“No need,” Paavo said. “They weren’t killed because of their job performance. Were the two of them involved in anything together that you can think of? Any special programs, new products—anything at all tying them together?”
“No. I handle all new projects. They were Sales and Records, not the sort who work on R&D.”
“How did they get along with their supervisors? With other employees?”
Greenburg’s eyes darted from one side to the other, then back to his computer monitor. “I don’t know. I never heard of any problem with them.”
Paavo stared at Greenburg a moment, then took a photo of Gaia from his folder. “Do you know this woman?”
Greenburg took the photo and stared at it. “I don’t think so.”
“What about him?” He handed Greenburg a photo of Bedford.
“Sure. He works here. I’ve seen him around a few times. Oh, wait…that’s Bedford, isn’t it? And the woman…is she the one killed? What was her name again?” He looked up at Paavo and didn’t even seem embarrassed.
“Thank you, Mr. Greenburg.” Paavo put the photos back in his folder. “I’ll be in touch.”
As he left the office, he could only think that Otto was right.
Chapter 9
ANGIE WAS THRILLED when Paavo called to invite her to a quick dinner. He had managed to take a look at the record of the Sea Cliff murders and wanted to fill her in before he went back to Homicide. He knew he faced a long night there.
They met at an Indian restaurant. Over chicken vindalu, shrimp masala, vegetable samosas, and naan, he told her all he had learned. Angie took in every word.
Eric and Natalie Fleming had been married for only eight months and lived at 51 Clover Lane when they were found shot to death near the edge of the cliff overlooking China Beach.
The way the bodies were situated, it appeared Natalie had been running away from Eric when he shot and killed her. Supposedly, he then turned the gun on himself with a bullet to the temple.
They had been dead two days before their bodies were discovered. No one had reported hearing the gunshots because no one in that neighborhood believed that was what they heard—most assumed they had heard a car backfiring.
A trace of gunpowder residue had been found on Eric’s clothes, but it wasn’t enough to decide he had fired the gun, just that the gun had been near him when fired. They found no gunpowder on his hands, but a light rain had fallen and could have washed it away.
Everyone who knew them said they were a devoted couple with no hint of a rocky marriage. Natalie was beautiful, glamorous, and an heiress. Eric had made money moving from one Silicon Valley start-up to another, just as many young computer nerds did back in those halcyon days, and he stopped working altogether after his marriage to enjoy life with his rich wife. Eric was described as a lover, not a fighter. No one could believe he even owned a gun, let alone would use it on his wife. Also, no one believed anyone would want to kill them.
The gun found at the scene, the murder weapon, was unregistered. The investigating detectives, now both retired, had refused to state that Eric Fleming had murdered his wife. Instead, they put everything in the cold case files, meaning the murder remained unresolved to this day.
Angie shook her head. “Two young people, in love, newly married, no money worries, no employment issues, no known problems…and then they were dead. How horrible! I wonder what really happened to them.”
“I can’t tell you. The investigators could find no motive.”
“There’s got to be a reason. Even if it was a random shooting, there’s got to be some sign—other similar deaths, a madman in the area, something.”
“Their car’s disappearance adds to the mystery,” Paavo said. “Eric owned a two-seater Mercedes sports car. It didn’t turn up until a year later, half-in and half-out of the Russian River. Some kids were hiking in a rugged part of Sonoma County and found it. Other than that, no one found anything to explain what had happened to the couple.”
Angie pursed her lips. “Maybe the investigators simply weren’t looking in the right places.”
“There’s not much more to be done. Maybe they didn’t perform the most complete investigation, but it happened thirty years ago.” Just then his cell phone rang, and he took the call. He wasn’t on it long. “More forensics results are in. I’ve got to get going.”
She nodded. “Okay. I appreciate the information you found.”
He put money on the table for the bill and tip, then helped her with her coat. “Now that you know what happened, you’re going to decide about the house on its own merits, right?”
She didn’t look happy, but she agreed. “I can do that.”
o0o
“How is it you have a key to this place?” Stan asked Angie as they stood on the front porch of the 51 Clover Lane house. “Don’t you need to be a realtor to have one?”
After learning about the Flemings and their death, plus Paavo’s opinion that a murder near the house wasn’t a game changer as far as he was concerned, she wanted to see the house one more time. Since Paavo had to return to Homicide, she called Stan.
“My sister’s a realtor,” Angie said as she unlocked the front door.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Stan pointed out.
“Some things you don’t want to know,” Angie said as she slipped the original house key back into the lock box, then put the copy she had made into her purse. It took her all of a minute to have the front door key duplicated at a hardware store. If Angie told Cat what she had done, Cat would have thrown a fit. But that was just for show. She was sure Cat left her with the key so she could copy it. After all, Cat knew she wouldn’t steal anything from the house, and also knew she would want to visit it about three dozen times before making up her mind about the place. The last thing Cat wanted was to drive back and forth from Tiburon to escort her on all those visits.
“Anyway, Cat talked to the owner, and she’s so happy that someone is serious about possibly buying the house, she told Cat I should feel free to come and go as often as I like. She’s even willing to give me a lease-option if I wish. Here we go.” Angie swung open the door and let Stan enter.
“This place has style, doesn’t it?” he said as he wandered through the large living and dining room, inspecting the woodwork and hardwood floors. “An older home that has been beautifully remodeled to take advantage of the setting.”
Angie put the candy dish she’d bought to replace the broken one on the coffee table, then followed him as he strolled into the kitchen. “You’ll have to gut this,” he said with a frown.
“Not immediately. If I change out the old appliances, the rest can wait.”
He turned on a burner on the range. “At least it’s gas, not electric. That helps.”
Angie led him to the bedrooms, starting with the two upstairs, and ending with the master.
“Large. Nice view,” he said, then walked into the master bath. “It should be much more plush.”
Stan opened the sliding glass door in the master bedroom and stepped out to a private deck overlooking the ocean. “As much as I love my apartment, I miss being able to step outside and be surrounded by nature. This is quite nice, and in the back yard you have room to put in a little garden, maybe herbs, or even a few flowers. People always told me I have a green thumb.”
“I didn’t know that about you,” Angie said.
“Yes. I used to grow a
lot of houseplants. Talk to them and mist them daily, that’s the trick.” He leaned back against the banister surrounding the deck and looked at the house. “Pleasant house, this.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“A good deal, you said?”
“An excellent deal.”
“Well, if you don’t want it, let me know,” Stan said, his expression a portrait of sorrow. “My apartment won’t be the same without you living across the hall. And if you’re still there after you’re married, it’ll mean I’ve got that big cop watching my every step.” He reached out and took her hand. “I know he’s jealous of me because of our relationship, Angie. For that reason, I know I won’t be comfortable staying there.”
She could scarcely believe she heard right. Paavo, jealous of Stan? He was even more delusional than she imagined. She pulled her hand free and then patted his shoulder. “Stan, don’t be ridiculous. If I leave, I’ll make sure to tell my father to only rent to someone who’s a good cook.”
“You’re mocking me now.” He turned around to face the water and, bending at the waist, rested his forearms on the railing as he stared out at the ocean. “I can’t imagine living there without you nearby. I’ll have to move. If you don’t take this house, I may have to buy it.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic!” Angie mimicked his pose, enjoying the ocean view herself. “Did I tell you there’s something strange about this place? That many people have attempted to buy it, but the deal always fell through?”
“You never mentioned that. What’s the problem with it?”
“It might be…” Angie paused a beat, and then hit him with: “because there was a murder.”
“A what?” His eyes widened and he stood up straight.
Angie relayed all she had learned from Paavo.
“That story gives me goose bumps. I think I’ve just changed my mind about wanting to live here,” Stan said.
“Good, because I’ve decided I don’t care,” Angie announced. “I like this house, in fact, I love it! I mean, it’s not as if their ghosts are haunting the place.”
