Our firm puts out a personnel directory with everyone’s information, such as name, address, telephone number, and emergency contact. I had it on the table beside me. After checking Erica’s address, I looked it up on Google Maps. Erica lived on a cul-de-sac in Newport Beach just off Jamboree Road. I knew the area. It was a quiet housing development of nice homes near the Back Bay, not far from Fashion Island Mall. There was both a home phone and a cell phone listed on the sheet. Erica’s emergency contact was Connie Holt, Lily’s mother. There was no secondary contact. I circled the phone number for Connie, then did a reverse lookup.
A few years ago I had subscribed to an online search engine for finding people. There were some free services out there, but this one had proved to be worth the money and often gave me information most folks thought was unlisted, including things like household income, real estate values, and educational backgrounds. It was paying off right now. Connie’s number produced an address in Irvine and her husband’s name—Harrison—although I remembered Alyce referring to him as Hank. According to the website, Connie was in her late thirties, Hank in his early forties. The combined household income was just under two hundred thousand a year. It listed one child under five years of age—no name or gender.
“You having any luck?” Greg asked from his spot at the stove.
“A bit. At least I have addresses and telephone numbers, which is a good start.” I closed my laptop.
Greg had finished cooking supper and had lifted Lily down to the floor. In her outstretched hands he placed a dinner plate piled with grilled cheese sandwiches. Lily carried the plate with pride and care. When she reached me, I took it from her and placed it on the table.
“Thank you, Lily. What a good helper you are.” The child beamed and babbled about how she had cooked the “sand witches.”
I settled Lily on top of a couple of cushions placed in a kitchen chair, wrapped a dish towel around her neck for a bib, and pulled her close to the table. Greg rolled over with a large serving bowl of cream of tomato soup.
“How many sand witches are you planning on Lily eating?” I asked Greg, casting an eye to the pile on the plate.
“What? There’s only five—two each for us and one for Lily.” Greg put the soup on the table. “I made three with plain American cheese and two with cheddar and tomatoes.”
“And basil?” I asked hopefully.
“Fresh chopped basil, just like you love it.”
I got up and went to Greg, giving him a sound kiss on the mouth. He returned the kiss, taking a little longer with his. Next to us, Lily giggled and wiggled. “Me,” she insisted. “Kiss Lily, Cheesehead Squirrel.”
I leaned over and gave Lily a noisy smackaroo on her forehead. She squealed with delight. Maybe we shouldn’t have given up so easily on the adoption thing.
“What did she call you?” Greg asked as he dished soup into two thick mugs.
“Um, Cheesehead Squirrel.” I said the name in a quick, low, barely audible voice, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“Don’t give her very much,” I told him as he spooned soup into a small plastic bowl for Lily. “I don’t know if she’ll eat it. And let it cool a bit before giving it to her.”
Greg put the ladle down. “Cheesehead Squirrel? How did she come up with that?”
“Beats me.” I cut one of the American cheese sandwiches into quarters and put two of them on Lily’s plate. She grabbed one with the same gusto she’d attacked the chicken fingers with earlier in the day. I was two for two so far on food, thanks to a waitress and Zee.
“Did she say that in front of Steele at lunch today?” my husband asked with a wicked grin.
I sighed. “That’s where she came up with it, and totally on her own.”
“He must have loved it.”
“Yep.” I took a bite of my sandwich, letting the flavors of the sharp cheese, cool tomato, and peppery basil melt together in my mouth.
“Cheesehead Squirrel,” Greg repeated. “I love it.”
“Cheesehead Squirrel. Cheesehead Squirrel. Cheesehead Squirrel,” sang Lily, moving her fist with the sandwich like a baton.
I groaned. Greg laughed—far too long, in my opinion.
Wainwright sat at attention next to Lily, his eyes following the arc of the sandwich as it circled through the air. If Lily lost her grip, the sandwich would disappear before it ever hit the floor. I’m sure, if questioned, the dog would have voted for the adoption route, too.
“Wainwright,” Greg ordered, pointing away from the table. “Go lay down.”
The dog looked from the precarious sandwich to his master with sad, pleading eyes, measuring his training against the hope for buttery bread and cheese.
“Go on, boy,” Greg urged. “You know you’re not supposed to beg.”
Resigned to follow his training, Wainwright left the table and curled up on the floor by the sliding glass doors leading to the patio. He laid his head on his paws but never took his eyes from Lily and the sandwich.
“That’s just plain pathetic,” I said, trying not to laugh. “You’d think we never feed him.”
Lily polished off most of the two quarters of sandwich and managed a few sips of soup before making it perfectly clear she wasn’t having a drop more. The patient Wainwright got the other half of her sandwich. He was eyeing the American cheese one I didn’t eat with hope, but there was no way Greg was going to let him score that much people food.
“I think it’s time for bed, Lily.” I held out my hand to her. She’d been playing with Wainwright and Muffin while Greg and I cleaned up the kitchen.
“Nooooo!” She screwed up her face and shook her head back and forth. “No bed.” She took off, running into the living room area, coming to a halt in front of the TV. She pointed at it. “Cartoons.”
I followed her. “It’s too late for cartoons,” I told her. “We all have to go to bed. Even Wainwright and the kitties.”
Wainwright bumped into her, nudging her with his large head. Lily wrapped her little arms around his neck in a death grip similar to the one she’d given me earlier in the day. “No!” she cried with high-pitched determination. She stomped her little feet on the floor. “No. No. No.”
Maybe we’d made the right decision about kids, after all. Wainwright pulled away, obviously rethinking his stand on the issue, too.
I knelt in front of Lily. “Let’s get your jammies on, and then I’ll read you a story.” I felt her forehead. It still seemed a bit warm, so I dug out the medicine from the bag Zee had packed. Lily saw it and set her face in a scowl. I needed to divert her and fast or it might be a struggle getting her to take some.
“Wainwright loves stories. He’ll come with us.” I reached out a hand to the dog and he came to me. I petted him on top of his head. “How about it, Wainwright, you want a story?” He lashed out his tongue, catching me on the cheek. I was thankful he was playing along.
Lily considered her options. “Doggie read story.”
“Doggies can’t read, sweetie, but he loves bedtime stories.” I stood up and held out my hand. Lily looked from the dog to my hand several times before finally latching on.
“Sweetheart,” Greg said from the kitchen area. “Why don’t you get Lily ready for bed, and I’ll read her the story. That way you can do some more work before we hit the sack.”
I looked down at Lily. “You want Mr. Cheesehead Squirrel to read you a story?”
She jumped up and down, changing her mood as quickly as I change lunch options.
“Okay, but you’ll need to get into your jammies and take your medicine like a good girl.”
Bribery worked like magic. In short order, I had Lily in her pj’s, her face washed, her teeth brushed, and the medicine down her throat. By the time Greg came in, she was snug in her bed, clutching the baby doll Zee had given her. Muffin was curled next to her, and Wainwright sat next to the bed. Greg brought in the baby monitor and hooked it up while I went in search of something to keep Lily from falling off the queen-si
zed bed in the middle of the night. When I returned with two body pillows I’d used when I was injured a few years ago, Lily and Greg were discussing which book to read. While I buffered Lily into the bed, they came to an agreement on The Tale of Peter Rabbit.
When I kissed Lily goodnight, she wrapped her little arms around my neck and squeezed with delight, then eagerly hunkered down to hear about a bunny who’s naughty and disobeys his mother.
eight
With a final look back at the happy scene, I retired to the kitchen and fired up my laptop again. This time I did a map search for Mark Baker’s address. According to the address in the firm directory, he lived in Tustin. On the map it looked like Mark lived on top of a very busy intersection in a mostly commercial area. I knew the intersection in question and couldn’t remember any apartment buildings nearby. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, just that if there were, they would be old and small and probably not very nice.
As paralegals at Woobie, Mark and I make decent money. I have no idea what he makes exactly, but we certainly are paid enough to live in better quarters than this intersection suggested. Of course, Mark could be a miser with his money, choosing to live a frugal lifestyle so he could sock it away for the future. Then again, he might also be forced to live economically due to a secret gambling or drug problem. I didn’t wish the latter on him or anyone, but if he did have that type of monkey on his back and it came to light, it would make it easier for the partners to choose me over him in the race for continued employment.
I zoomed in, using the satellite feature on Google. Sure enough, the area around Mark’s address did indeed look commercial—almost entirely commercial. I enlarged the satellite picture but could not see any sign of residential property. That seemed odd. Switching to another window, I put his address into a reverse lookup program. Up popped a list of names at that address. My eyes widened as I noted not a single individual name, only a couple of business names. It seemed Mr. Baker’s neighbors included a massage place, dry cleaner, pizza joint, and mailbox/shipping business. Mark Baker lived at a small strip mall?
I was pondering what this meant when Greg came wheeling out from Lily’s room.
“She’s asleep,” he announced. “It didn’t take long. I didn’t even get to the end of the book.”
Without looking up from the computer screen, I said, “Farmer McGregor gets eaten by zombie bunnies from another planet.”
“Uh-huh. That must be the new modern edition. I don’t recall that ending from when I was a kid.”
“If it doesn’t end that way, it should.” I kept my eyes on the computer, studying the enlarged satellite photo.
I poked at the screen. “Mark Baker’s address is a strip mall. Probably this mailbox place.”
Greg scooted up next to me to check out the screen. “A lot of people use mailbox companies as their physical address.”
“True, but it makes you wonder where he lives, doesn’t it?”
“Not really, but I know it’s making you wonder about it.” Greg winked at me.
“I’m thinking he has something to hide. I’d almost bet on it. He’s just too slithery not to.”
“I’m bushed.” Greg gave my back a gentle, short rub. “I’m heading to bed to watch the news and do a little reading. You coming along soon?”
“Yes, honey. I’m right behind you. It’s been a killer of a day, and I have to get up and get Lily ready to go to Zee’s in the morning.” I dragged my eyes away from the computer to my husband. “By the way, Zee and Seth are going to keep Lily overnight tomorrow so we can go to Isaac’s birthday party.”
“As soon as this is over, let’s take them out for a special brunch or dinner to thank them for all their help.”
“Sounds good to me.” I blew Greg a kiss. “I’ll be in shortly. I promise.”
While Greg got ready for bed, I tried to find out as much as I could about Mark Baker. The problem was, the name was too common and I didn’t know enough about him to narrow down the possibilities. There were also quite a few on Facebook, but none of the profile photos matched his mug.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I crawled into bed beside Greg. He had the bedroom TV turned to the eleven o’clock news, keeping half an ear on it while his eyes were glued to a novel. On the nightstand next to him was the receiver for the baby monitor.
I did a quick count of noses. There were four—two dry and two wet. A wet one was missing. “Where’s Muffin?”
Without looking up from his book, Greg answered, “I think she’s bunking down with Lily tonight. When I left, the two of them were curled up asleep like long-lost littermates.”
“If I wasn’t so tired, I’d get up and take a photo of that.”
Greg cut his eyes to me and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of photo ops over the weekend, sweetheart.”
I cuddled next to Greg and threw one arm across his solid chest. “Are you sorry we didn’t pursue the adoption thing?”
He closed his book and put it on his night stand, then turned to face me, one of his hands stroking my arm. “Sometimes I am,” he answered honestly. “I think we would have made great parents.” He paused. “But we made the decision not to adopt after long and careful consideration, and I still think it was the right choice.” He looked into my eyes. “Don’t you?”
I thought about it a moment. “I did until tonight.”
“Yeah, tonight was tough. Having someone like Lily around would be great, but it’s also a lot of work and sacrifice.” He squeezed me tight. “You know, sweetheart, it’s not too late. We could probably still adopt.”
The snort came out of me unbidden. “They don’t just hand out kids to people of my age and with my body-count track record.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Odelia. We could adopt an older kid. Remember how great you were with Silas and Billy?”
Silas and Billy were young brothers who used to live in the neighborhood with their grandmother. At the time, their mother was in a drug rehabilitation program. The boys often spent time at our house playing with Wainwright. They’d since moved to a new city with their mother, who seemed to have her life back under control. Every now and then Greg received an e-mail from Silas, or the boys would drop by if they were visiting their grandmother. Silas had once stowed away in my car while I was on the trail of a possible murderer.
“Yeah, and I almost got Silas killed.”
“It’s not like you took him along for a joy ride, sweetheart.”
“Still…,” I let my voice trail off.
Before I could say more, Greg grabbed the TV remote from the night stand and aimed it at the TV, raising the volume a notch. On screen was a female field reporter wearing a blue rain slicker with a hood. Behind her were the remains of a brush fire.
“I heard about this on the news earlier,” Greg said. “Good thing we had this rain today or the fire might have gotten out of control.”
“Where is it?”
“Laguna Canyon.”
“Isn’t it odd to have brush fires this time of year?” I asked as I nestled against my hubby.
“They suspect arson or kids goofing around.” The disgust in Greg’s voice echoed how he felt about either situation.
Arson was exactly what the perky but wet reporter was telling her audience. With her pretty face furrowed to match the seriousness of the situation, she also informed viewers that the police had just released information that a body had been found near the suspected point of the fire’s origin.
Greg and I gave the news our full attention.
When the anchors back in the newsroom asked if there had been any identification of the body, the field reporter said the police did not have an ID yet and that it might be several days due to the condition of the corpse, but that the police believed it to be male. She added that it wasn’t clear if the body was the result of homicide or an accident when the fire was set.
I shuddered.
“What do you want to bet,” Greg said,
giving me a comforting squeeze, “that the fire was set to get rid of the body, or at least to hide its identity?”
“But she just said it could have been an accident. The dead guy could have been the one setting the fire or doing something stupid and it got out of control.”
Unconvinced, Greg shook his head. “My gut’s telling me it was murder and an attempted coverup.”
I raised myself up on one elbow. “Hey, it’s supposed to be my gut that talks like that, not yours.”
Greg gave me a quick peck on the mouth. His lips tasted of toothpaste. “Guess your gut’s rubbing off on mine.”
“Could be,” I commented, giving it more thought, “but if I was trying to hide a body, I wouldn’t light a fire. That only draws attention to the body dump, and it will be discovered right away. Without a fire, the body might not be discovered for a long time, especially if it’s buried.”
“Good point, sweetheart. But if someone wanted to make sure the identity wasn’t clear, burning might be the best way.”
I pointed to Greg’s cell phone, which was resting on the nightstand next to the baby monitor. “Should we call Dev and give him our theories? I’m sure he’d appreciate them.”
Greg let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, let’s do that. You know how much he loves it when we stick our noses where they don’t belong. Besides,” he added, “Laguna Canyon isn’t his territory. Didn’t you learn a while back that the county sheriff handles that area?”
“Parts of it,” I said, digging through my memory, “and some of it falls under the jurisdiction of the Laguna Beach police.”
“Guess Dev will get off easy this time, all the way around. He won’t pull this investigation, and he won’t have to listen to us play amateur detectives.”
I was about to say more when a high-pitched, blood-curdling screech came out of the baby monitor. Wainwright was the first one out the bedroom door. Scrambling to his feet, he took off like a shot towards the origin of the sound. I was second, my feet hitting the floor with such speed and agility, I astounded myself. I ran across the living room and down the hallway of the other half of the house to the guest bedroom.
Hide and Snoop (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) Page 7
