by Terry Odell
“I can’t help but feel I’m missing something,” Gordon said, and as he spoke the words, it came to him. “Her phone contacts. LAPD was going to notify her emergency contact, and there was another name that showed up a lot on her phone log. An old lady in Riverside, but I never got to her.”
“Given it’s unlikely she’s a suspect, I’d say wait until it’s a more acceptable hour for old-lady civilians before you call her. Start with LAPD.”
“I’ll do that. And if you pick up any hinky vibes with the movie people, let me know. The actors basically make their livings lying, so it was harder for me to read them.”
Colfax left, and Gordon went for the phone. At least this time he had an almost direct line to the person he needed at the Riverside police department.
“One minute,” the admin said. “I’ll see if I can access anything. Otherwise, unless it’s an emergency, the chaplain and the officer who did the death notification won’t be in until eight.”
Which was nine in Colorado.
“I’d appreciate anything you can find.” While Gordon waited, he went through the night reports. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could remotely be connected to either Marianna Spellman or Yolanda Orozco. One person carrying a large black bag had been stopped, but it was a discount store tote, not the bag Kathy Newberg had described. Gordon stepped out on a limb and figured Kathy would have known the difference when she described the bag to him.
Mr. Johnson had called four times, and Gordon groaned. Now that one of Johnson’s false alarms had panned out into something requiring actual police intervention, the man would be hearing—and reporting—every creaking branch, every dog-walker, and every tin can rolling down the alley. Gordon made a note to have Vicky McDermott pay him a visit and explain the difference between being cautious and a pain in the ass. She’d word it much more tactfully, of course.
The admin came back on the line. “I found the report. Would you like me to send you a copy?”
“Does it give any information about the relationship between Avis Fontenot and Marianna Spellman?” The woman was Marianna’s emergency contact, after all.
He waited again, not as long, before the admin spoke again. “They’ve noted Avis Fontenot was her aunt. Not much more. She was mildly distraught, but refused any assistance, didn’t want them to call a friend or neighbor for her.”
“Would it be possible to get the number of either the officer or the chaplain?” Gordon said. “We’re trying to put pieces together, and it helps if they’re all on the same table.”
She gave him the chaplain’s number. Gordon put the call through and explained what he needed.
“Avis Fontenot,” the chaplain said. “Closest living relative, but she said she didn’t have much contact with her niece anymore. They’d been close when they lived two blocks away from each other, but now it was down to birthday and Christmas cards. Marianna would call her every couple of months, but Avis always felt they were made out of a sense of duty, not because she wanted to know what was going on.”
“Yet Marianna gave her name as her lone emergency contact—at least the only one we could find.”
“Yes, I asked about that. Apparently Miss Fontenot had stepped in and taken care of things when Miss Spellman’s parents died. At the time, Miss Spellman, who was eighteen, had no clue what to do, or how to go about doing it. After Miss Fontenot took over and spared Miss Spellman having to deal with it on top of her grief, Miss Spellman went to great lengths to lay everything out as to what she wanted done when she died, down to picking out her own casket, and what kind of flowers she wanted, music, hymns, Bible passages. She left all the information with Miss Fontenot.”
“Thanks. That explains it. Were you able to ask any of the questions I left with your department?”
“We did touch upon them briefly. Miss Fontenot was unaware of any health problems, or any issues at work, but as I said earlier, they weren’t in communication very often, and these might not have been things Miss Spellman felt worth discussing with her aunt. The aunt couldn’t come up with a reason anyone would want to harm her. I didn’t want to press any harder than that, but I did ask if it would be all right if someone else got in touch with her. She agreed, although she said she’d be busy making funeral arrangements.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know whether Marianna had a will, and if she did, who she left it with?” Gordon asked. “If she was so meticulous about her own funeral arrangements at her age, it’s plausible she had everything else covered as well.”
“Makes sense, but sorry, I didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer.”
“I’ll give her a call.” Gordon thanked the chaplain and made a note to call Avis Fontenot later, when he called Edna Mae Withers. He wondered if they knew each other, and drew a large question mark and a line connecting their names on his notepad.
A knock on his door jamb interrupted. Gordon finished making his notes, glanced up to see Mayor McKenna in the doorway. “Come.”
What now?
The mayor strode inside. “I had a chat with Lionel Dawson. He was in touch with the studio, and he said they’re going to pay for a private lab to rush all the forensics in order to avoid the backlogs at the county facilities. Would you mind letting the right people know?”
“Not a problem.” Gordon checked the time. Not quite eight. “You on your way to the meeting at Daily Bread?”
The mayor shook his head. “Over and done. Since everyone was there, Lionel started early. The sooner he can get filming, the happier he’ll be.”
And you do love keeping people in Mapleton happy.
The mayor continued. “They’re setting things up for the street shots, and because all the necessary equipment was stored away from any of the off-limits areas, I said it was all right.”
“Detective Colfax gave his okay as well?”
The mayor’s hesitation told Gordon there had been some discussion of the topic. “Yes, he did. Since the studio lounge trailers are not accessible, Mick Finnegan is supplying food and beverages today—non-alcoholic, of course—so they can set up interiors at Daily Bread.”
Gordon made a note to let Connie and Titch know so they could make sure officers were covering Finnegan’s. They’d probably have to block off traffic along the side street as well, since Finnegan’s main entrance was around the corner from the shooting site. Chief Stuff.
“Anything else I can help you with, Mayor?”
The man hesitated, as though he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to word it. Probably Why haven’t you caught the killer yet?
We don’t even know we have a killer is reason number one.
“Officer Solomon’s on his way to observe the autopsy,” Gordon said, offering the only answer he could to the unasked question. “They’ve moved her to the top of the line, so we might have answers sooner than we expected.”
Tempted to show the mayor to the door, Gordon sat at his desk with what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face as he reached for the folder of night reports and opened it. Let the mayor think Gordon was busy with Chief Stuff, even though the folder was in his outbox for Laurie to file. When it came to dealing with bureaucrats, looking busy was more important than being busy.
Mayor McKenna took the hint, thanked Gordon again for something he really hadn’t done, and left.
Gordon shoved the file folder into his outbox. He went to Dispatch, updated Connie, and had her relay the information to Titch, who was already on patrol. The station seemed overly quiet, with everyone who could be spared out on assignment.
He called the emergency clinic and asked for an update on Yolanda Orozco’s status. More time being transferred, more time on hold. Sometimes he thought people enjoyed making him wait as their way of showing they were more powerful than the police. Eventually, he was put through to someone who said he’d help. Not the doctor who had treated Yolanda yesterday—he wasn’t on duty—but at least Gordon found a human being willing to talk to him. And after all tha
t, the only information he could garner was Yolanda Orozco had been deemed well enough to go home and had been discharged at seven p.m. last night. Nobody knew where she went, who she went with, or how she got there.
“Did you get the lab results?” Gordon asked, tamping back his irritation. It wasn’t the doctor’s job to know where a patient went when they left, so that information wasn’t in Yolanda’s records.
A silence, which Gordon hoped meant the doctor was consulting a chart before answering. “If the patient was discharged, the tests would have been cancelled,” the doctor said.
Gordon stepped into the deep end. “I know you don’t have the patient, but might your lab still have the sample you gave them? I know things often take a while to work their way through the proper channels, so maybe the lab hasn’t acted on that cancellation order yet. Would it be possible to send it somewhere else? To a private lab?”
A longer silence. “I suppose so.”
“Let me know what it will take. It could be a vital part of an ongoing police investigation.”
The doctor said he’d notify the lab to save the sample. “But you’ll have to have someone here no later than noon.”
“I’ll see that it happens.”
Gordon called Colfax and explained what he needed. “It’s outside our city limits. Can you get a tech to the clinic before noon, have him drop the sample at the lab?”
“You making demands, Hepler?”
“I believe I worded it as a request.”
“Words. Tone. They didn’t match.”
“Shit, Colfax, I can call myself. I thought you might have more clout.”
“Consider it done. Your buttons are so damn easy to push.”
Yes, they were, and Gordon knew he needed to get over it. But Colfax sure knew how to punch them. “Oh, and was Yolanda Orozco at the meeting?” Gordon described her.
“Pudgy Latina, mole on her cheek? Nope. Not there.”
Chapter 19
“You’re sure?” Gordon said. “Yolanda was given a clean bill of health from the doctors, and they discharged her last evening.”
“You doubting my powers of observation, Hepler? It’s not like I was running security at a Broncos game. There weren’t that many people at the meeting. Don’t suppose you tried her cell phone?”
Crap. “Hang on.” Gordon searched for her number, punched it in, and the call went straight to voicemail.
Where would Yolanda have gone? She didn’t live around here, did she? He’d assumed—stupid thing to do—she’d have gone to the hotel and rejoined the production people.
“I’m on my way. I want to talk to Dawson,” Gordon said.
But before he left he called the hotel. They should be able to tell if she’d used her room key. It took some schmoozing before the desk clerk was willing to agree, but when Gordon suggested she might be unconscious—or worse—in her room, they checked.
“No, sir, the key card hasn’t been used since yesterday morning.”
Great. Gordon let Laurie know where to reach him and hiked the short distance to the site. Easier than finding a place to park what with all the blocked streets and production paraphernalia.
He found Dawson shouting orders, pointing, and striding back and forth as the crew set up lights and cameras. Gordon approached. Dawson acknowledged his presence, but held up a hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon caught Colfax walking over. Did he think Gordon needed his help? Damn. The man was still pushing his buttons. Gordon ignored Dawson’s unspoken request to wait, and interrupted. “Mr. Dawson, I need to know the whereabouts of Yolanda Orozco. She was discharged from the hospital last evening, but according to the hotel, she didn’t use her key. Did she get on the bus this morning?”
Dawson scowled and hollered for someone to get one of the security clowns to report to him.
“I’m staying in Mapleton at a Bed and Breakfast,” Dawson said, “in case you weren’t aware. I don’t know who was at the hotel last night. Or whose room they stayed in. All I care about is the people I need are where I need them when I need them.”
“Understood. But since Yolanda is in charge of wardrobe, isn’t she one of the people you need?”
“Maybe you don’t remember we can’t get into Wardrobe yet. Maybe she knew that and decided to take the morning off. Maybe she went somewhere else last night. Given we’re working a contemporary setting with current weather conditions, this street scene will work with people wearing their own clothes. The two actors still have what they were wearing yesterday.”
A security guard came running up to join them—the porky one. Colfax stood, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene, but not inserting himself into the conversation.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Dawson?” the security guard asked, puffing out the words like a steam engine.
“Where is Yolanda Orozco?” Dawson demanded.
The guard looked around, as if he expected to see her, as if Dawson were testing him. “I don’t know, sir.” He straightened. “But she’s not in the Village. The police van just showed up and we’re keeping the area clear as the other cop instructed.”
So, the crime scene unit was here. Good. Gordon said, “Please inform me when Ms. Orozco shows up,” to the guard and Dawson, and headed for the Village.
Colfax, he noted, was about twenty yards ahead of him. Must have gotten the word the techs had arrived. Gordon pushed aside the why wasn’t I in the loop? thought and lengthened his stride.
When Gordon hit the Village, Colfax was talking with the techs. Giving them instructions or shooting the breeze?
Why the attitude change? A little while ago, Gordon had accepted that Colfax, despite his pain in the ass way of jerking Gordon around, wasn’t competing with him, and he could learn from the man’s vast wealth of experience. Gordon paused, took a deep breath, and joined them. “Morning,” he said.
Xander nodded and addressed Gordon. “What do you need?”
Gordon felt foolish for his previous thoughts about Colfax. At least he hadn’t said anything stupid and defensive. Or confrontational. He explained there was a possibility the coffee had been drugged. “Since no one was allowed into the trailers after we discovered the body and the break-in, if there’s any coffee in any of the units, it should be tested. The wrinkle is the studio wants things sent to a private lab with less of a backlog.”
“Not a problem. I’ll make sure we collect enough to share.”
The techs, Colfax, and Gordon went through the trailers collecting samples of the coffee, abandoned cups, and any other beverages.
“The studio’s paying, let them get their money’s worth,” Colfax said.
“Don’t you mean let them pay through the nose for things that might not have any bearing on the case?” Gordon said.
Colfax shrugged. “Being thorough.”
“You sure nobody’s been through here?” the tech said when they entered one of the lounge trailers.
“Shouldn’t have been,” Gordon said. The aroma of coffee hit him. “But—damn it to hell.” He glanced across the room to a coffee pot. Almost full. With a red light glowing from the base. “That doesn’t smell like it’s been on a burner since yesterday morning.”
Colfax stepped closer. “I know that model. It has an auto shutoff, which makes sense if there might be long periods of time with nobody in here.”
“And it reduces the fire hazard element,” Gordon added. “I’ll bet their insurance stipulates things like that.”
“All that notwithstanding,” the tech said, “there’s a coffee pot that appears to have fresh, hot coffee in it.”
Gordon walked over to one of the nearby tables. “Here’s a cardboard cup. With coffee. Still warm. I think I know one security guard who’s definitely finished working this gig.”
“Should I print the cup?” the tech asked. “Have your pricey private lab run DNA?”
“I think that might be overkill.” Gordon pulled out his phone and punched in Dawson’s number. “Wi
ll you send me the security guard we were talking to. Immediately.”
After Dawson said the man was on his way, Gordon turned to the tech. “Hang tight.”
Within a minute, the door burst open. “You wanted to see me?” the porky security guard said, more belligerent than defensive.
Gordon schooled his expression into the one he used when he caught high school kids testing the limits, usually after their team had won a football game. I’m bigger than you, I’m smarter than you, and I know what you’ve been doing. He pointed to the cup on the table. “That yours?” He read the man’s name tag. “Walt?”
The hint of belligerence disappeared, replaced by an attempt at innocence. “Yes. Is there a problem? I left it when I got the message to report to the diner.”
“You brew the pot, too?” Gordon asked.
“Yes. Since we have to stay here, we can’t get to the place where they said everyone could go to get food, coffee, whatever.”
“So you brewed this for yourself and your two partners?”
The man nodded. “We’re back and forth all day. You must know what it’s like—like patrolling a beat.”
Did this jerk really think they had anything in common? “Well, I do have one question for you, Walt. Was your assignment to make sure nobody came into the trailers because we were going to collect evidence?”
The man nodded, almost proudly. As if he finally knew the answer to a question posed by his teacher. “Yes, sir, and nobody’s come in here. I can guarantee that.”
“Nobody except you, you mean. What about your two partners? Were they here?”
“No, sir.”
“What about any of the other trailers? Did you or any of your partners go into any one of them? Or the RVs?” Gordon added, afraid the man might take trailer literally.
Gordon could almost see the light bulb illuminating above the man’s head as it dawned on him what Gordon was driving at. “None of the others, sir. Just this one. I was—”
