I thought about Gurn and me using the “L” word. Now that we had, it seemed like we were being a little more honest with each other. I’d been flying in Gurn’s jet since I met him. This was the first time he called me on the eyes-closed approach I had to take-off and landing. Of course, I usually tried to be surreptitious about it, always facing away from
him. Maybe I was being more out there, too, more trusting. Boy, what love does to a person.
Less than ten-minutes later, I heard Gurn’s voice on the intercom. “Lee, I’ve got it on automatic pilot, not that I plan on leaving the cockpit, but I want to give you the bulk of my attention. So come on up and tell me what’s been going on from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out, just talk. We’re not going anywhere for over an hour, anyway.”
So up I went, and after numerous kisses by the cockpit door, talk I did, starting from my eight a.m. wakeup call Sunday morning to getting the menagerie and me to the airport Monday morning. I have a photographic memory, when I want one, and gave him verbatim conversations with Kelli, Nick, Flint, hell, even the cats. Wonderful man that he is, he didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions, and didn’t offer any comments even though some things went begging for them.
“And that’s it. Welcome to my world,” I said, letting out a sigh and leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat.
“This Kelli sounds like the ultimate lying machine,” commented Gurn. “Not too perfect. Throwing in a few quirks here and there. Sometimes acting a little selfish, a little weird, anything that makes the listener trust what she’s saying as real and gospel, no matter how improbable it may seem on the face of it. She has the knack of not coming across too good to be true. From transcripts I’ve read of double agents in the cold war, it’s the same gift they had.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but now that I did, I realized it was true. Kelli’s whole approach to things came off as scatty but sincere. I turned in my chair to face him. “Does that mean you’ll trust me to take care of Baba again?”
He looked over at me in surprise. “After what you went through to get her back? I don’t think most people would go through that much to get me back.”
“I would.”
He reached over and stroked my face with a tender touch. “And that’s why I trust you with my life and my cat.” I smiled, still wanting to jump his bones. While I wondered if I could be an honorary member of the mile-high club, Gurn released the automatic pilot and took the controls again.
“So once I turn over the microchip to Richard,” I said, thinking I had too much caffeine or an overactive libido, “we have to try to figure out what the list means, and why your name is on it. Meanwhile, no more races for you, mister.”
Before he could respond, my cellphone rang. Gurn has the latest of everything known to aviation, and one of them is a cell system allowing cellphones to work in the plane, no matter what the altitude.
“Beethoven’s calling,” Gurn teased. I looked at the incoming call and saw it was Flint.
“Flint, you’re on speakerphone. What’s happened?”
“Sorry to disturb your flight, but I’ve got bad news about Eddie Crackmeir.” Flint’s voice was loud and clear, sounding like any other normal call and not coming from forty-one thousand feet below. “Eddie was found this morning in his house, shot in the back of the head, hands tied behind his back.”
My stomach lurched more than it did during takeoff.
“Spaulding’s men?” I asked. I gave a quick look at Gurn, who was staring straight ahead with grim features.
“Possibly,” answered Flint. “There’s more. The police found Kelli’s Mercedes at McCarran Airport; empty, but traces of blood on the driver’s seat.”
“Dios mio!” Now Gurn and I turned and stared at each other. “Kelli’s missing?” I said.
“Apparently, but the cops are looking. Speaking of cops, that’s why I’m calling. My bowling buddy from LVPD phoned to say one of the neighbors reported my Jeep being outside of Eddie’s house last night around the time he was murdered.”
“The dog walker.”
“The very one. My license plate happens to be the same numbers as his wife’s birthday, so he remembered it and gave it to the police. Buddy said it would be good if I voluntarily came in and told them why I was there. I’m on my way. Am I using client confidentially? Or am I telling them everything I know? What do you want, Papoose?”
“Flint, tell them everything. D.I. will deal with the police in Palo Alto. I’ll alert Richard and Lila from my end.”
“The FBI is going to be in on this,” Gurn stated. “It’s just a matter of time. This has crossed state lines.”
“True,” I said, trying to mentally sort things out. “Whatever information is on the chip, they’re welcome to, once we make a copy of it. I think we can keep Stephen’s death and the foot races out of it for the time being. Although, Nick is probably going to have to tell them what he knows. Is he there with you?”
“We’re attached at the hip. Want to talk to him?”
“No. Just tell him to be as cooperative as possible, answer all their questions, but not to volunteer anything.”
“Got it. Are we supposed to say ‘over and out’ now?”
I looked at Gurn.
“Roger that.” Gurn said with a smile. I was glad to see his sense of humor wasn’t gone. Mine was sure flagging.
Chapter Ten
Sharing Information, D.I. Style
“Before I leave with these affidavits, let’s make sure we’re all on the same page,” Frank Thompson, Chief of Palo Alto Police Department, when in his official capacity—which was now—said. He looked around at the rest of us who had been sitting for over an hour in D.I.’s boardroom.
Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. lives on the top floor of a Spanish-style, three-story building on one of the loveliest corners of downtown Palo Alto. A designated landmark, the building is constructed of depleted Stanford limestone, its façade ornately carved in relief scenes depicting the settling of California, so detailed they often cause ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ from first time viewers. Late as usual, I’d rushed through the small courtyard, past the mosaic-tiled, burbling, tri-level water fountain, under the Tiffany ceilinged lobby, and up the three floors to the boardroom of D.I.
In accordance with Lila Hamilton Alvarez’s directives, the boardroom glowed in timeless, understated elegance. Once the library for executives of a long-time defunct bank, she’d had this dark wood-paneled room recently redecorated in navy and burgundy stripes. Drapes, cushions, and accessories had not been spared. Copper and brushed glass wall sconces and overhead, indirect lighting gave warmth to an otherwise gloomy, rainy afternoon. The long, oval Chippendale mahogany conference table, once enchanting a dining room in the home of a turn-of-the-century San Francisco mansion, now graced us with its presence, including its fourteen matching chairs. All luxuriated on a plush Persian carpet.
Frank looked at home in this setting at the head of the softly burnished conference table. At his left sat Richard. Next
to my brother, erect and alert, was surely the world’s oldest living attorney, Mr. James Talbot. Mr. Talbot, dressed in his usual charcoal pinstriped suit and flame red bowtie, arrived moments earlier to protect D.I.’s position with law enforcement. His snow-white hair was well coifed, unlike mine, which was pulled back in a fast, floppy ponytail.
Lila, composed and lovely in a heavy silk dress of a tan and gray swirling pattern, sat at the foot of the table facing Frank. Occasionally raising her head to flash appraising and watchful eyes, she made copious notes of everything said, even though we had a video recording running. Like Mr. Talbot, she’d come straight from the airport, arriving just before Frank started his official questioning.
I had yet to learn why Mom left Phoenix so abruptly and hoped on top of everything else, no harsh words between her and Jenn had been exchanged. Jenn, half Italian and a quarter Irish and French, has a shorter than normal fuse. Add Mom, who thinks the world woul
d be a better place if everyone did exactly what she said and when she said it. Pass the powder keg and matches, please. One thing I’ve discovered, the death of a loved one doesn’t always bring out the best in the living.
Gurn flanked Frank on his right. I sat next to Gurn, both of us freshly showered but tired. I wore a burnt-orange pantsuit, accented with a turquoise and coral studded silver jaguar pin. Gurn was in a peach dress shirt and gray slacks, unlike Richard, who has a get-out-of-jail pass in the clothing department.
Richard, wearing an aged and faded brown A Chorus Line T-shirt and ripped jeans on his scrunched over body, came to attention. He pulled a pomade-slathered clump of errant fine blond hair off his forehead, pomade doing pretty
much nada. Richard pulls on his hair when he’s bored, nervous or antsy, asleep or awake. So basically, it’s all the time.
Tío picked up Gurn and me at the airport four hours earlier in the van he uses to transport shelter animals. Richard had also been waiting in his car and dashed off to his friend at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center or SLAC with the microchip. We’d taken the two cats and Lady Gee back to my apartment, where for three hours we were fed, watered, and fussed over by my mother-hen of an uncle who has turned fussing into a fine art. Don’t get me wrong. Tío’s fussing is more than all right with me; I love it. However, Gurn and I never got any alone time, not that we wanted to do anything you couldn’t print on the cover of a Jughead comic book, but still.
Having proven his authority over the proceedings, Frank pulled an affidavit from the stack, his eyes resting on Richard.
“Very well. Just to clarify what’s been said here, and we all understand one another, let’s start with you, Richard.”
“As head researcher for Discretionary Inquiries, for about three hours, you were in possession of a missing or stolen microchip, given to you this morning by Lee Alvarez. Until hearing about it on the previous evening, you had no knowledge of its existence.”
“Right. The ID numbers on the chip match one reported missing by a lab in Las Vegas over a month ago.”
“The microchip, which I have in my hand, was examined by you—”
“I had it scanned not examined.” Richard interrupted, in a pleasant but corrective tone of voice.
“And your findings were?” Frank went on, as if Richard had not spoken.
“And my findings were,” Richard said, after clearing his throat, “the chip contained digital images of what appeared to be the contents of two separate accounting ledgers, plus a list of bank accounts.”
“What did you do then?”
“I printed out the pages of information. Gurn Hanson is a CPA, so around eleven thirty this morning, I asked him to look them over to see what they were.”
In reality, he barged into my apartment when Gurn and I were eating the delicious grilled skirt steak tacos Tío had set on the table not five minutes before. Not only did Richard insist Gurn leave the table and read the printout then and there, but he sat down and finished Gurn’s lunch. Which is a lot of fat nerve in my opinion, but that’s an ever-starving techie for you.
“Thereafter,” Frank went on, “when you learned what was on the microchip, you turned it and the printed out pages of material over to the Palo Alto Police Department. Is that correct?”
“Yes, to you about an hour ago.”
“Do you have any information regarding Eddie Crackmeir’s death or the disappearance of Kelli Papadopoulos?”
“None whatsoever. I never heard of either of them before yesterday.”
Frank nodded with approval and turned to Gurn. “Gurn Hanson, you are a Certified Public Accountant in the state of California, correct?”
“I am.”
“You examined the pages in question earlier today. What were your findings?”
“It contained images of two accounting ledgers and a directory of numbered bank accounts. The information in the ledgers seems to be deliberately obfuscated, almost in code. However, I could tell the ledgers contain details of the transfer
of huge amounts of money from one account to another, going into the hundreds of millions of dollars. I believe it will take several days to understand and verify this information, but the name Lou Spaulding comes up repeatedly within the two books as well as the directory.”
“Were there any other names besides the name Lou Spaulding?”
“No.”
“What can you tell me about these bank accounts?”
“Not much. But I recognize several numbers that appear to be Swiss bank accounts and one or two in the Cayman Islands. The numbers have a distinctive pattern.”
“Do you have any information regarding Eddie Crackmeir’s death?”
“None whatsoever.”
Okay, so the atmosphere was getting more and more like a rerun of a Perry Mason episode during cross-examination. This is what happens when you put Mr. Talbot and Frank in the same room for more than fifteen minutes.
“Everything you’ve stated is in this affidavit signed by you?” Frank held the affidavit in the air.
“Yes.”
Frank turned to me. “Lee Alvarez, yesterday you found this microchip on the dog tags of one Nick Papadopoulos and turned the microchip over to Richard earlier today?”
“Right.”
“Is this microchip what precipitated your visit to Las Vegas?”
“No. I flew to Vegas to precipitate the return of two very expensive, rare cats,” I said with a straight face. “I discovered the microchip by accident. It’s in my affidavit.”
Frank gave me a “stop-being-a-smart-ass” look, while I grinned at him. Mr. Talbot shifted uncomfortably in his chair and harrumphed before he spoke.
“And as a California licensed investigator representing Discretionary Inquiries,” inserted Mr. Talbot, “once she
ascertained the import of the information on the microchip, she and the other members of Discretionary Inquiries proceeded to inform the Palo Alto Police Department—you,
Chief Thompson. Due to the gravity of the situation, with one person dead and another missing, we are confident you will be taking the appropriate steps with this information, and you appreciate the cooperation Discretionary Inquiries is giving to all pertinent authorities in this investigation.”
Frank looked at Mr. Talbot and blinked. He’d been out Perry Masoned by a master.
“Thank you, Mr. Talbot. Your confidence in the law enforcement authorities and D.I.’s cooperation is noted.” He turned back to me. “Lee Alvarez, you have no information regarding Eddie Crackmeir or his death?”
“Never met the man,” I said.
“Why did you follow him to his home?”
“He was driving the vehicle carrying the stolen cats. I wanted to know where he was going.”
“The car was driven by Flint Tall Trees, and you were accompanied by Nick Papadopoulos, correct?” I nodded. “Please answer the question out loud.”
“Correct, Chief Thompson. The car contained the three of us, plus two cats and one goldfish.”
“None of you made contact at any time with Crackmeir?”
“Nope. Never left the car.”
“You didn’t see anything suspicious before you left Crackmeir’s address?”
“Not a thing. He went inside. One thing, though. He never turned on the lights once he went inside. Guess he was saving electricity.”
Frank shot me another “don’t-be-a-smart-ass” grimace before he turned away. With a hesitant cough, Frank focused on Mom, who gave him an obliging, if not aloof, stare. Frank tried to rise to the occasion but had a harried look in his eyes when he spoke.
“Mrs. Alvarez, as CEO for Discretionary Inquiries, do you have anything further to add?”
“I do not. I am satisfied with everything said.”
“In that case,” he said with nearly palpable relief, “we want to thank you for the contribution you and your staff have made to this inves
tigation. On behalf of the Las Vegas Police Department, the Palo Alto Police Department, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we have no further questions of you or your personnel at this time. However, we are requesting all of the parties remain in Palo Alto until further notice, in case there are any more questions.”
He turned off the video recorder and looked around the room. “Okay, so now we’ve got that crap out of the way, anyone here have anything off the record to say to me? Do it now while you are all still good guys.”
We all muttered or murmured in the negative, even Mr. Talbot. Frank looked over at me.
“And you, Miss Smarty Pants, had better stay out of trouble.”
“Me? What did I d—”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Liana Margaret Alvarez.”
“Margaret?” Gurn interjected under his breath.
Not hearing him, Frank went on. “You’re in this up to your eyeballs, Lee, don’t pretend you’re not.”
He turned to Richard. “And she’s got you in this one, too, I’m sure.”
“Not me. I’m just a computer geek.”
Frank made a scoffing noise, gathered his materials and left without looking back.
There was a moment’s silence, as we all studied the closed door.
“Margaret?” Gurn repeated. I chose to ignore him and turned to Richard.
“So how many copies did you make of the chip?”
“Two. One for the cops and one for us.”
“Oh, my God,” Mr. Talbot pushed his chair back and stood, as if he had been bitten on the butt by an alligator. “I cannot hear these things. As your legal counsel and an officer
of the court, I can only remind you your duty is to turn all evidence over to the police, copies included.”
“Which I did, Mr. Talbot. I am cooperating with the local authorities one hundred percent,” Richard said, his face taking on the innocence of a cherub.
“I am glad to hear it.” Mr. Talbot turned to Mom. “Lila, I must be going.”
My mother rose and extended her hand. “Once again, James, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 57
