by J. A. Jance
Finally, shutting off his computer, Gil picked up his car keys and hurried out to the parking lot. When the motor of his Crown Vic turned over, Gil checked the gas gauge. It wasn’t quite on empty, but the needle showed there wasn’t enough gas for him to go to Sacramento and back. Rather than leaving right away, he stopped by the motor pool long enough to fill up. He’d be better off doing that than trying to be reimbursed for a credit card charge later on.
In Randy Jackman’s nickel-diming department, credit card charges—even justifiable credit card charges—had a way of being disallowed.
Same way with overtime, Gil thought grimly.
By the time this long weekend was over, he was sure to have a coming-to-God session with Chief Jackman. With any kind of luck, he’d be able to mark Richard Lowensdale’s murder closed before that happened.
San Diego, California
A distant rumble awakened Brenda from a restless, dream-ridden slumber. She had been caught in a nightmare, buried alive in horrible darkness, trapped under the rubble of some catastrophic earthquake. The waking darkness was even more complete than that in her dream. The rumble, she realized, wasn’t the arrival of another aftershock but the distant roar of an airplane.
Once she was fully awake, she realized that she needed to relieve herself. Desperately. Even though she’d had nothing to drink—even though she was thirsty beyond any hope of quenching—her kidneys were still trying to function. But there was no way to stand up. Her feet were still bound together. If she once left the rolling desk chair, she might never get back into it. Sitting in the chair was preferable to lying on the cold, hard floor.
Shameful as it was, she had no choice but to relieve herself. Right there. In the chair. As the pungent odor of urine filled the air, Brenda let out a strangled sob. But she didn’t let herself cry for long. She couldn’t afford to squander the tears.
31
Laguna Beach, California
The doorman from the lobby let Ali into a unit on the second floor. It was neat and clean, modestly furnished, and about a quarter of the size of Velma’s penthouse suite. The kitchen contained a coffeepot, toaster, and microwave. There were dishes, glassware, and silverware in the kitchen cupboards as well as clean linens on the bed and in the linen closet. Ali was standing by the westward-looking windows enjoying the view when a doorbell rang, startling her.
It was the doorman again, bearing a paper grocery bag. “Mrs. Trimble’s friend asked me to bring this down to you.”
Taking possession of the bag, Ali looked inside it, where she found a bag of English muffins, a stick of butter, a collection of nondairy coffee creamers, and some ground coffee.
“And if you want to go for a walk on the beach,” the doorman added, “Mrs. Watkins says that she and the dogs will be heading out about an hour from now. You can meet up with her down in the lobby.”
“Thanks,” Ali said. “I will.”
Once she had stowed her groceries, Ali went out onto the deck. The setting sun warmed it enough that it was pleasant to sit there to listen to messages and answer phone calls. The first message was from her mother. Everything at home was fine. No need to call back. No news in the baby department.
Ali erased that one. Second was a contrite call from B. saying he hoped he had been forgiven. Things were better on that score. She called him back. They were evidently doomed to playing phone tag for the duration, because B. didn’t answer. She left him a message telling him about Velma’s situation and the amazing donation the dying woman had made to the Askins Scholarship Fund.
The third message was from Stuart Ramey. “Call me,” he said.
Ali did so, immediately. “What’s up?” she asked when Stu came on the line.
“Have you had a chance to look at the material I dropped off?”
Evidently B. hadn’t mentioned to his second in command that there had been a big blowup between Ali and B. as a result of that so-called material.
“I skimmed through most of it,” Ali said. “Why?”
“I just got off the phone with a retired homicide detective named Jim Laughlin in Jefferson City, Missouri,” Stuart said. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with what your friend was looking for, but I thought it was intriguing. I mentioned in the background check that Ermina’s adopted parents, Sam and Lola Cunningham, died about three years after the adoption was finalized. Lola died of a heart attack. The father’s death is a lot more problematic.”
“What do you mean?” Ali asked.
“His cause of death was officially listed as suicide. Detective Laughlin doesn’t buy that. He thinks Ermina was responsible for the father’s death, but there was never enough evidence to charge her.”
“What else did he say?”
“When he found out I was just looking for background information, he clammed up. I told him you were an independent investigator who was looking into the matter. He said you should give him a call.”
Ali laughed aloud at that. “I’m independent, all right,” she said. “Give me his number.”
A few minutes later, she was talking on the phone with Detective Laughlin.
“Oh,” he said, when she said her name. “You’re the private investigator Mr. Ramey was telling me about.”
“Yes,” she said, letting his misconceptions rule the day. “I’m the one looking into Ermina Cunningham Blaylock’s background.”
“Some teenagers are gawky,” Detective Laughlin said. “Not Ermina. She was a looker and cool as can be—cool and calculating. When people hear about someone’s death, there’s a right way to react and a wrong way. She got it wrong, but I could never prove it.”
“The father’s death was ruled a suicide. Did he leave a note?” Ali asked.
“No note. According to his friends, he was despondent after his wife’s death.”
“How did he die?”
“Got himself good and drunk, then he put a plastic bag over his head. It happened on a Sunday night. Ermina was evidently home at the time. She got up the next morning and went to school. When Sam didn’t show up for work at his office that day and when he didn’t answer the phone, his secretary stopped by to check. She’s the one who found him.
“I personally went to the high school to let Ermina know what had happened. Called her out of her English class and took her to the guidance counselor’s office to give her the bad news. ‘Oh,’ she says just as calm as can be when I told her. ‘If he’s dead, what’s going to happen to me?’ Her reaction was totally out of kilter—as though I’d just given her a weather report for the next week.”
“What did happen to her?” Ali asked.
“Social services put her in a foster home for a while, but she ran away. As far as I know, she was her parents’ only heir. I know she received some money from their estates when she reached her majority, but I don’t know how much it was. Sam Cunningham was a well-respected attorney in town here. I suspect she picked up a fair piece of change.”
“I take it Stuart Ramey had to do some digging to come up with this,” Ali said.
“Ermina was never officially charged in relation to Cunningham’s death,” Laughlin said. “It happened a long time ago, but there are still enough people in town who are upset about what happened to him. One of them called to let me know that High Noon was making inquiries about Ermina Cunningham. I took it upon myself to call him back. Can you tell me what this is all about?”
“On Friday a friend named Brenda Riley sent me an e-mail asking me for help doing a background check on Ermina Cunningham Blaylock. Brenda disappeared shortly after sending that e-mail and she hasn’t been heard from since.”
“If your friend got crosswise with Ermina Cunningham,” Jim Laughlin said, “you have good reason to be worried. And if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. I still have a score to settle with that girl.”
Ali was still thinking about that disturbing phone call a few minutes later when her phone rang again.
“The dogs and I are d
ownstairs waiting,” Maddy Watkins said. “Care to join us?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “A brisk walk on the beach is just what the doctor ordered.”
32
Sacramento, California
When Gil parked in front of Camilla Gastellum’s house on P Street in the early evening, it looked as though he had made the trip for nothing. The house was dark. There was no flickering glow from a television set. Having come this far, however, he refused to give up without at least ringing the doorbell.
Once on the porch, though, he thought he heard the sound of classical music coming from somewhere inside the house. He found the doorbell and rang it. Moments later he heard a faint shuffle of footsteps approaching the front door. Two lights snapped on—one in the entryway and one on the porch. The door cracked open as far as the end of a brass security chain.
As far as Gil was concerned, those security chains were worse than useless. They gave the homeowner a false sense of security. If a bad guy wanted to get inside, he would.
“Who’s there?” a woman asked.
“My name is Detective Gilbert Morris,” he said, holding his ID wallet up to what he assumed was eye level. “I’m looking for Camilla Gastellum. It’s about her daughter.”
The security chain was disengaged with a snap, the door thrown open. A gray-haired woman, dressed in a robe and nightgown, stood exposed in the doorway. The way Camilla Gastellum squinted as she looked up at him made him think she couldn’t see very well.
“Don’t tell me!” she exclaimed. “Have you found Brenda? Is she all right? Come in. Please.”
She stepped back and motioned Gil into the house. “Are you saying your daughter is missing?”
“Well, of course she’s missing. She left on Friday morning and never came back. I’ve been trying since Friday night to get someone to take a missing persons report. The last person I talked to told me that since Brenda’s an adult, she doesn’t have to tell me where she’s going. I thought that was why you were here—that you had found her. Where did you say you’re from again?”
The fact that Brenda had disappeared the morning of Richard Lowensdale’s murder caused a rush of excitement to course through Gil’s veins, but he didn’t let on.
“Grass Valley,” Gil said noncommittally. “I’m with the Investigations Unit of the Grass Valley Police Department.”
“Oh, no,” Camilla said with a sigh. “Not again.”
Using both hands, she reattached the security chain, then she led the way into the house, turning on lights as she went. In a room that seemed more like a parlor than a real living room, she motioned him onto an old-fashioned and exceedingly uncomfortable horsehair couch while she settled in an wooden-armed easy chair. The source of the music was a CD player, which she muted by clicking a remote.
“When I’m here by myself, I generally sit in the dark and listen to music,” she explained. “I have macular degeneration. Sitting in the dark helps keep me from thinking about how much I can’t see. So tell me,” she added, sounding resigned, “what kind of trouble is Brenda in this time?”
“What can you tell me about Richard Lowensdale, Mrs. Gastellum?” Gil asked.
“Please,” she said, “call me Camilla. Richard and Brenda were supposedly engaged for a time, but he never actually gave her a ring. It turned out that he had other girlfriends—several other girlfriends. She found that out this past October.”
“That would be when she allegedly broke into his house?” Gil asked.
“She didn’t ‘allegedly’ break into his house,” Camilla said. “She really broke into his house. She started working on her book right after that—a book about something called cyberstalking. I don’t know much about it, but she claims that’s what Richard has been doing. And what he did to her personally really hurt her,” Camilla added. “She sort of went off the deep end for a while, but I thought she was finally pulling out of it. You know, that she was starting to recover. At least that’s what I was hoping. But you still haven’t told me what this is all about, Mr. . . .”
“Morris,” he supplied. “Detective Gilbert Morris.” He removed a business card from his wallet, placed it in her hand, and closed her fingers around it. “That has all my contact information on it.”
“But why are you here?”
He didn’t want to lower this boom on Camilla Gastellum. She was truly an innocent bystander. Still, he had no choice.
“I need to speak to your daughter,” he said. “I need to speak to Brenda.”
“Why?”
“A man was murdered in Grass Valley sometime over the weekend, possibly on Friday afternoon. When I left to come here, we still hadn’t established a positive ID, but indications are that our victim is Richard Lowensdale. Someone put a plastic bag over his head and taped it shut. He died of asphyxiation.”
“Oh,” she said. And then a moment later she added, “No, that’s not possible. My daughter could never do something like that. Ever.”
“Even so,” Gil began, “you can see why we’re interested in speaking to your daughter. She may know something.”
Camilla Gastellum stood up abruptly. “You aren’t here to talk to Brenda. You’re here to arrest her. You think she did it.”
“Mrs. Gastellum, please—”
“You need to go now,” she insisted. “You’re no longer welcome in this house. And the next time you come back, it had better be with a search warrant.”
Camilla escorted him back to the front door. He heard the security chain lock into place as the door closed behind him. Gil headed back to Grass Valley feeling like he was making real progress. He had a suspect. True, Brenda Riley might be among the missing. He didn’t for even a moment consider that Camilla Gastellum knew her daughter’s whereabouts, but someone did, and Gil was determined to find that person.
In his experience, most people didn’t disappear without a trace. Somewhere in Brenda’s mother’s house on P Street he would find a clue—an e-mail to a friend, a plane or hotel reservation—that would tell him what he needed to know. But in order to find that information and have it admissible in court, he would have to come back with a properly drawn search warrant. To get a warrant, Gil would need to have enough pieces of the puzzle in place to convince a judge that he had probable cause. Probable cause took work, sometimes a whole lot of work.
33
Grass Valley, California
On his way back to Grass Valley Gil called Fred Millhouse. “How are you doing on next of kin?” Gil asked.
“I’m getting nowhere fast,” Fred said. “As far as I can tell, Lowensdale is an only child. Both of his parents are deceased, which leaves me at a bit of a loss about what to do about getting a positive ID.”
“Maybe one of the neighbors will give us a hand.” Stopped briefly at a stoplight, Gil shuffled through his stack of three-by-five cards. “Try getting ahold of Harry Fulbright. He’s one of Lowensdale’s neighbors. He’s a grizzled old Vietnam War vet who clued us in on the presence of that second UPS delivery person. I’m about half an hour out,” Gil added. “I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
Harry Fulbright and Fred Millhouse were waiting in Fred’s office when Gil arrived. Once the formality of the positive ID was out of the way, Gil returned to his office and tackled the unpleasant duty of notifying both of Richard Lowensdale’s fiancées that the man they knew by another last name had been murdered. Passing along that kind of news to grieving friends and relations was always difficult. In this case it was even more complicated since, in the process, he would also be revealing the fact that their supposed loved one was also a cheat.
Gil dialed the East Coast number first. It was already the middle of the night in New York, but it had to be done. He tried to be kind, but ultimately there was no way to soften the blow.
Janet Silvie listened to what he said with utter mystification. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said. “Is Richard dead or isn’t he?”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain
,” Gil said patiently. “Officers went to the address you gave the nine-one-one operator, the house on Jan Road, to do a welfare check. Once they, they discovered the body of a man who has since been positively identified as Richard Lowensdale. We can find no record of anyone named Lydecker living there. Our assumption is that Richard Lowensdale and Richard Lydecker are one and the same.”
“You’re wrong,” Janet declared. “That’s just not possible.”
“If you happened to have a photo of Mr. Lydecker,” Gil suggested, “perhaps you could fax it to me.”
“I don’t have any photos of him,” Janet replied. “None at all. He’s so self-conscious about the scar.”
“What scar?” Gil asked.
“Richard was in a terrible car wreck when he was sixteen, just after he got his license. He was driving. His best friend was killed in the accident, and Richard was left with a terrible scar on his right cheek. He’s spent his whole adult life looking at his face in the mirror every morning, seeing the scar, and remembering what he did to his friend.”
“Then most likely the dead man isn’t Mr. Lydecker,” Gil said. “I was there at the morgue for the positive identification. There was definitely no scar visible.”
“Thank God,” Janet Silvie said. “I’m incredibly relieved, but if Richard—my Richard—isn’t dead, where is he? If you thought you’d found him and you were wrong, does that mean no one is looking for him?”
The truth was, Gil had been looking for Richard Lydecker with all the tools at his disposal, and he had come up empty.
“You should probably call in an official missing persons report.”
“But I already did that.”
“No,” Gil corrected. “The call you placed to the com center turned into a welfare check. I don’t think it was ever passed along as a missing persons report.”
“Can’t you do that much at least?” Janet demanded. She sounded angry.
