“So Steele and his ex-wife are friendly?”
He nodded. “Very. They were finalizing their divorce when I met Mike. Karen’s a very neat woman, probably better than he deserved, considering how he treats the ladies. I believe they met early in law school but after graduation had very different ideas about the practice of law. She’s a granola do-gooder type, and he’s a hardcore capitalist.”
Tim leaned back in his chair and thought a minute, then looked at me. “Funny thing: I don’t think Mike’s been in love since. Once in a while he brings Karen along on long weekends with my wife and me. Last winter we all went skiing in Vail.” I remembered the photo in Steele’s condo. “Roxanne and I—Roxanne’s my wife—we always thought they might get back together if they could find some common ground, but it’s plain now that’s not going to happen.”
Tim walked me to the front door of his firm and told me to please keep him in the loop on anything regarding Steele. By now, almost all the staff had gone for the night, and just a few attorneys lingered, still hard at work—just like at Woobie.
I was almost to my car when my cell phone rang. It was Walter Yamada returning my call.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Odelia, but you said it was about Mike Steele and an emergency.”
“No problem, Mr. Yamada, I’m glad you called.” I quickly gave him a sketch of what was going on.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be much help. I just returned from Chicago—was gone about ten days on a combination business and family trip. I haven’t spoken to Mike in almost two weeks.”
I remembered something I should have asked Tim Weber. “Mr. Yamada, you’ve known Mike Steele a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes, at least ten or twelve years.”
“I know his mother has passed away, and he has an ex-wife, but what about other family members—father, brothers, sisters—where can I reach them?”
“I’m afraid when Mike’s mother died, that was the last of the family. His father died in a car accident just before I met him, and his brother died tragically from a drug overdose a year later. I don’t believe he had any other siblings.”
“Thanks, anyway, Mr. Yamada. But if you hear from Steele, please let me or the firm know immediately.”
“You bet I will, and vice versa, okay? This isn’t like him at all.”
Everyone was in agreement—this disappearing act wasn’t something Steele would do under normal circumstances. I suddenly had an image of him sprawled dead in a ditch on the side of the road between Santa Barbara and Ojai, maybe thrown from his car when it spun out of control on a turn he took too fast. Driving fast and recklessly would be like Steele. I know, I’ve ridden with him in that land rocket he calls a car. But I also reminded myself that the Ojai police, as a favor to Dev, had search the main road to the inn and the area around it. Still, he could be anywhere, and maybe not dead. People have been known to survive crashes and crawl with broken limbs back to the road for help. Why not Steele?
I searched my recent calls on my cell phone. When I found what I was looking for, I hit dial. Soon Sally Kipman was on the other line.
“I’m heading to Santa Barbara tomorrow morning to meet with Mike Steele’s ex-wife, want to come?” Before she could answer,
I added, “I’m also going to comb the highway between Santa Barbara and Ojai for his body.”
“His body?”
“Well, for signs of a possible car accident. You know, broken shrubs and tire tracks, stuff like that.”
“What about Donny’s murder?”
“Bring what you have so far, and we’ll discuss that, too. Remember, we agreed to team up on both, and I’m on the move beginning now.”
As soon as Sally saw my ancient Toyota Camry, she insisted we take her Jeep Grand Cherokee. Sure, why not? I love my car—it runs well, looks fine, and is paid off—but any chance I get not to drive, I take it.
It’s about a two-hour drive to Santa Barbara from where I live, so we had agreed to leave my place no later than eight thirty to allow for unexpected traffic problems. If we arrived early, we could grab a cup of coffee somewhere.
We were on the 405 Freeway heading north, approaching the section of road where the Getty Center perches on a bluff overlooking the freeway, when my cell phone rang. It was Marvin Dodd.
“Thanks for calling back, Mr. Dodd.”
“What’s this about Mike Steele missing?”
“Seems that way. No one has seen him in several days. He went out of town for a few days, was due back in the office on Wednesday, but never showed.”
“Hmm, not like him at all.”
As with Tim Weber and Walter Yamada, I gave Marvin Dodd a quick rundown of events.
“Well, we played tennis last Thursday night at his place, and he grilled up some salmon after. I haven’t seen him since.”
Thursday was just two days before his trip and four days before he disappeared. “Did he say anything to you about his trip to Santa Barbara or Ojai?”
“Nothing you don’t already know. He was going to see Karen about some business, then spend a couple of days at the inn.” He chuckled.
“Something funny, Mr. Dodd?”
“It’s just … well, over dinner he showed us that picture of you in the Register—too funny.”
I stuck my tongue out at the phone, sorry he couldn’t see me do it. But Sally did see it.
“What was that about?” she asked once I ended the call. “Wasn’t he cooperative?”
I rolled my eyes and told her, making her laugh.
“Seems your boss was proud of you.”
I stuck my tongue out at her, but even as I did, something nagged at me, something that Marvin Dodd said about the incident in the grocery store. I mean, the whole idea that Steele was parading that photo around was annoying enough, but something that Mr. Dodd said gnawed at me like a hungry termite.
After smiling at my childish behavior, Sally reached up and retrieved something tucked under the visor, which she handed to me. It was several sheets of folded white paper—maps printed from the Internet, more specifically, Mapquest.
“There are two ways to get to Ojai from Santa Barbara,” she explained, nodding in the direction of the paper in my hands. “I printed out both of them.” I unfolded the sheets in my hand and looked at them while she explained. “One route retraces back down 101, then swings north again on 33. It’s not the most direct route, but it’s the fastest.”
The colorful map in my hand showed a path that looked like a big V. As she said, the road went south, back toward Los Angeles, before connecting with 33 in a sharp northward path to Ojai.
“The second way is shorter in mileage but longer in time. That route is along 150 by Lake Casitas. I’ve taken 150 before. It’s a beautiful drive but curves a lot.” She looked over at me. “Which do you think your boss, this Steele guy, would have taken?”
“Good question.” I studied the maps in my hands. Steele loves to drive, and I could picture him relishing the twisty scenic route, especially in his sports car. “Depends on how much of a rush he was in at the time.”
I refolded the maps and tucked them into my trusty tote bag. Maybe Karen Meek could shed some light on Steele’s mood and timetable when he left her.
Changing the subject, I asked Sally, “Have you had time to find out anything about Donny?”
She smiled and looked at me, her eyes hidden by stylish Ray-Bans. “You’re not the only one who’s been busy since Wednesday night.”
I smiled back, put on my own sunglasses, and settled in for her report. We had about another hour on the road, might as well get some work done.
“I called Cindy, Donny’s wife,” Sally began. “I told her in spite of everything, I was very sorry for her loss; after all, Donny was Lucas’s father. I asked about funeral arrangements—which, by the way, are on Tuesday.”
“That’s Halloween, isn’t it?”
Sally nodded. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
&
nbsp; “No time like Halloween to be in a cemetery.” I paused. “You going?”
She nodded again. “Yes, we all are—me, Jill, and Lucas and his wife and baby. Whether I like it or not, Donny was family.” She focused on her driving, deftly maneuvering around a slow-moving car in the fast lane. “When I asked Cindy why she wasn’t at the reunion, she said Donny didn’t want her there. Claims he told her she’d cramp his style.”
“His style? Being an ass and getting killed is a style these days?”
“That’s what she said.” Sally looked at me. “Honestly, she didn’t seem too upset that Donny was gone. In fact, she actually came out and told me she was glad he was gone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apparently Cindy felt comfortable enough with me to spill her guts. Guess she considers us sisters in some sort of I Hate Donny club now.”
“Hmm.” An association for women Donny Oliver had screwed and screwed over—could be fun.
“According to Cindy, she was planning on leaving Donny right after Christmas. Said she’d had enough, that there was no reason to stick around when he obviously didn’t want her.”
“Very interesting.”
“Yes, but here’s the kicker. She said whoever killed Donny did her a favor, because Donny told her recently that if she ever left him, he’d destroy her.”
“Maybe she did herself a favor.”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
Turning straight ahead, I looked out the window and watched the traffic, thinking about what Sally just told me. We both were quiet for several miles until I turned back to her.
“Sally, what do you say to paying Mrs. Oliver a little visit sometime this weekend?”
She turned, and a slow grin formed on her face. “I’m sure Jill would love to bake a bundt cake for the widow.”
The law office of Karen Meek was located in a Spanish-style single-story duplex on the corner of De la Guerra and Anacapa, just a block from State Street, the main shopping and dining area of Santa Barbara.
I love Santa Barbara. It’s one of the most charming places in all of California and a close weekend getaway for those of us who live south of it. Thoughts of Greg and the many weekends we’d spent here tried to crowd themselves into my mind, but I forced them back with a mental whip and chair as if they were wild animals.
Walking into Karen Meek’s office felt nothing like walking into Woobie or Tim Weber’s office. Instead of expensive floral arrangements, impressive artwork, and staid furniture, we were greeted by sweet and subdued Laura Ashley wallpaper, sheer curtains, and wood floors. A French country coffee table was positioned on an area rug in the middle of the large waiting room, and on it were various periodicals, including many children’s magazines, all stacked neatly. The chairs were a collection of wooden kitchen chairs, all painted in either white or rose lacquer, with some child-size chairs in a corner around a small pint-size table. Green plants were scattered about in various pots. It was absolutely charming and very suitable for Santa Barbara.
In one corner of the large room, near a door in the far wall, was a large desk on which sat a computer, phone, and various files. Like the chairs, the desk looked refinished to match the décor. We weren’t in the office long when a young woman came out of the far door carrying more files. She was in her twenties, tall and willowy, dressed in a lilac cardigan sweater and well-worn jeans. Her face was naturally pretty, and she wore her blond hair in two braids, with long bangs.
“Oh, hi,” she said to us. “Sorry I didn’t hear you come in. May I help you?”
“I’m Odelia Grey,” I told her. “I have an appointment with Ms. Meek at eleven thirty, and this is my friend, Sally Kipman.” She put the files down on a small credenza and looked at the appointment book open on the desk.
“We’re a little early,” I added.
The young woman smiled warmly. She could have been a model pushing fresh milk, good dental hygiene, and wholesome living. “Karen’s with a client right now, but she should be done shortly. Would you ladies like some coffee?”
“I’d love some coffee,” piped Sally. “Thank you.”
I nodded in agreement. As soon as the young woman left back through the far door, Sally and I each took chairs near the large coffee table.
“Cute place,” Sally said, looking around. “You sure she’s a lawyer?”
“That’s what I’m told; family law, works a lot with children.”
“Smart woman to leave the intimidating surroundings to the other guys.”
Sally was right. If Karen Meek worked with children and families, she was wise to give them a place where they at least had the illusion of warmth and safety, rather than a cold, impersonal waiting room. I had looked up Family Bond on the Internet. Its primary purpose was to heal children living in the midst of chaotic and troubled family situations, with issues ranging from child abuse to poverty, including helping families deal with raising a child with a mental or physical handicap. The organization also helped fund shelters for abused women and children.
The young woman returned with colorful mugs of hot, aromatic coffee. She told us her name was Tanya. We thanked her for the coffee. With a smile, she returned to her desk and began sorting through the files on the credenza.
We were halfway through our coffee when the door near Tanya’s desk opened, and out came two women, one holding a small boy by the hand. The woman without the child was the same woman in the photo with Steele—Karen Meek. As they walked to the front door, Karen spoke in low tones to the other woman, who was crying softly. The child walked alongside them, head down. He must have been only about five years old. He was neat and tidy, and dressed in jeans, red high-top sneakers, and a blue hooded Dodgers sweatshirt and Dodgers cap. When the three of them reached the door, he turned, and I could see that his other arm was in a sling and tucked under the sweatshirt, the empty sleeve hanging down like a windsock in dead air.
I was about to look away when the child lifted his head and glanced at Sally and me. I almost gasped. Even with the cap pulled down low on his head, I could see that one side of his young face, the same side as the injured arm, was bandaged. Sally must have noticed, too, because I felt her nudge me in my side.
Careful, I told myself, don’t jump to conclusions just because Karen works with dysfunctional families and traumatized children. The boy could have taken a nasty spill.
The woman thanked Karen, and Karen said she’d be in touch the next day. Before they left, Karen knelt down to the boy’s level, looked him in the face, and whispered something to him. She was smiling when she did. The boy, once again looking down at the floor, nodded.
Once the woman and boy left, Karen turned to us. “One of you must be Odelia Grey.”
“I am,” I said, holding out my hand. “And this is my friend, Sally Kipman.” Karen smiled, officially gave me her name, and shook my hand. She did the same with Sally. I was dying to know the story on the boy, but I knew better than to ask.
“Why don’t we go into my office?”
We followed Karen past Tanya and through the door, into a hallway with various rooms branching off from it. At one end of the hallway was a small kitchen. She directed us toward the other end. Along the way, we passed the bathroom, a room that served as a file and copy room, a small office, and finally into a large office at the end of the hall. Like the waiting room, Karen’s office was decorated in soothing prints and refinished antiques. In spite of the numerous files stacked on tables and the floor, the place seemed tidy and organized—much like Karen herself.
Karen Meek was dressed in tailored tweed wool trousers and a dove gray silk blouse. Her long hair was pulled back and held with a becoming clip. Around her neck was a strand of pearls, with matching pearl studs in her ears. She was trim and held herself very erect, almost in a pose, like classically trained dancers often do. Her face was attractive but not beautiful, and her brown, wide- set eyes snapped with kindness and energy. I quickly noted that on her left hand
was a large diamond ring. My heart ached for a fleeting second, and just as quickly I pulled myself together.
There was a small sitting area in one corner of the office, and she directed us to sit there. Sally and I perched side by side on a delicate settee; Karen sat stiffly in a matching chair.
“If you’re here, Odelia, I guess Mike hasn’t surfaced.”
“No, I’m afraid he hasn’t.” I put my tote bag down on the floor by my feet and folded my hands in my lap. “Our firm has filed a missing person report.”
“Good. I was beginning to wonder if I should do one myself.”
“No need. A friend of mine is with the Newport Beach police. He filed it and had a copy sent to the Santa Barbara, Ojai, and Laguna Beach police departments.” I swallowed. “The Ojai police even did a quick drive along the roads between here and the Ojai Valley Inn, but they turned up nothing.”
“That’s just not like Mike. Not at all.” Karen toyed with her necklace. “I’m starting to get very worried.”
I leaned slightly toward her. “Karen, what sort of mood was Steele in when he left—and exactly when did he leave here?”
She smiled at me. “I see you call him Steele, not Mike, and I’ll bet he calls you Grey. Am I right?”
I nodded. “He calls everyone by their last name at the office.”
“He called me Meek most of our marriage.”
Sally scoffed. “How romantic.”
Karen looked at each of us in turn before leaning back in her chair in a more relaxed position. “Actually, he could be, but most of the time he’s pretty intense.” She looked at me. “That’s why I made him shut off his cell while he was with me. We had business to discuss, true, but mostly I wanted him to relax.”
“He was here to discuss matters regarding Family Bond?”
“Yes.” Karen sat up straighter. “I asked him to come up so we could have a face-to-face meeting on some issues. He and I are the directors—the only directors since my uncle passed away about three months ago. Usually we handle all business by phone or e-mail, but I felt it was time to meet, go over year-end matters, and consider a new board member to replace Uncle Vince.”
Thugs and Kisses Page 10
