Chapter Twenty-Nine
BACK AT HER DESK and ready for the news broadcast, Jessica found the astounding orchid in an opalescent Murano glass vase at the side of her monitor, with a simple note from Michael Scores. “Welcome back.”
From the hall, he watched her open the card. He knew how to play the nice game. He knew how to hide his grinding teeth.
Scores fumbled inside the silk lining of his trousers and pulled out the vibrating phone.
He said, “I told you I would take care of it, but my prices are going up. Don’t call me here again.”
CARSON GREER HAD already taken a seat in the swank reception room at Casas Buenas. We would split up. She had reservations for a massage and a facial. I took the hair and nail appointments. Given that we were there to observe, listen ardently, and ask questions, I had the better deal. No one wants to do any of those things when receiving a hot stone massage.
The hustle and bustle of the popular salon veiled itself in an atmosphere of light lavender aromatherapy and soft instrumental music that would be soothing to even the best of the young rocker chicks. The individual stations were flooded with appropriate task lighting, but the reception light resembled the magical glow of twilight after a Tucson sunset.
Carson’s treatments would take longer, so I scheduled my hair first, with a long wait in the reception area, and then address my nails.
My stars. I hadn’t had a pedicure in years and my fingernails looked appropriate for any normal six-year old. Maybe that’s why I scheduled those for last.
A masseuse entered through a glass door and whispered out for Carson Greer. Carson gave me a knowing glance rimmed with confidence. She wore her head high as she followed her therapist, and for the first time I noticed, even with her butch-type haircut, she was a knockout.
Massage and facial therapists are trained to speak only when necessary. Carson had her work cut out for her. Hair stylists and nail artists loved to gab. I prepared myself to chat and listen as the perky young woman with platinum hair called me to her station.
Perfect. I seemed to be invisible to my hairdresser as she and the stylist next to her voraciously rambled out a stream of consciousness between them.
Gossip. Bad husbands and worse boyfriends. Back-stabbing girlfriends. Restaurant, music, and movie critiques.
“How late did you end up stuck here last night with the bitch?” My hairdresser asked the woman next to her.
“To call her a bitch is very generous. Two and one-half hours for a simple haircut, and the woman gave me a damn five dollar tip. I swear I’m going to tell the front desk not to schedule her with me again.”
“Don’t let them book her with me. Dragon lady on steroids. With all that money she gives you a five? How did a woman like her even make money?”
“She didn’t earn a dirty dime. Little Lordess Fauntleroy inherited her daddy’s chain of pool stores.”
The blow dryer began blasting and that was the last of the conversation. I had nothing new. I already knew that the she was Sandra, and Sandra was a bitch and a cheap heiress.
The nail treatments proved to be truly horrendous. My face reddened to crimson as I was told I was a very bad girl with my home beauty care. It dawned on me I had heard the same scolding from my dentist, my doctor, my lawyer, my accountant, and any Indian Chief that cared for me. It had probably been over a year that I had seen any of them.
Carson returned to the lobby like a relaxed beyond-al-dente noodle. She had nothing concrete—just a feeling. The same feeling that consumed me.
We were on to something and we had nothing.
Chapter Thirty
I MET THE CHIEF HEAD-ON, with my boxing gloves on.
“When are you going to ramp up your information to the public that we may have a serial rapist, kidnapper, or worse? They need more.”
“Not yet. I have pressure to keep it under wraps.”
“You promised me. Don’t tell me you’re talking about our dutiful presiding mayor?”
“That’s part of it. And by the way, he seems to know your name. Something about a case you have with Sandra Vickery, who is a personal friend of the mayor’s. He asked me, ever so politely, to ask you to back off.”
“You know that’s why I left the department. I can follow the big rules, and I do, but it’s not in my DNA to stomach the little ones—and for me that includes all politics.”
“Think about this, Cassidy. You have a loose connection between three of the missing women. We go public, and we’ll scare the guy, or guys, off. And going behind my back, to the press? We have too much history. I should think you would respect some of my decisions.
“Look what the press is doing with the FBI. High-profile case, high-profile special agents, and the news broadcasts are massacring the blue suits. Do you want to tag along?”
“The women of Tucson have a right to know.”
“They do. All of these cases have been mentioned in the news. It’s not my fault no one has connected the dots.”
“Good point. You get my respect. For now.”
JESSICA MET JAXON at his home for an early morning swim. Exercise. Maybe something else would come up.
“I want you, Jess,” Jaxon said after a few laps and a few romps.
“I always want you,” she teased as she collected water into the hollow of the pool noodle and blew it out on him like a water gun.
He shook off the water, then took her by the arm.
“You don’t get it. I want you, alive. You and Lizzie.”
“Lizzie?”
Call her. She already knows her name.
They did it in unison, and the vivacious puppy came running.
“See. It’s all good,” Jessica said.
Jaxon slid on to the top stair of the pool, lifting his feet and finding comfort as the sun reflected each and every droplet of water falling back into the pool.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I know you have. I think you should go to the police,” he said.
“Why? I think my viewers are steadfast and on my side. My station manager is okay. And if things get bad, I can always fall back on the hospital records.”
“Someone meant you real harm. That’s clear, and it scares me.”
“That someone being your ex-wife?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. The point is we don’t know.”
Jessica got out of the water and dropped into the nearby chaise. She pulled her straw hat down her face.
“You’re right. I’ll go to the police. File a useless report. And then we’ll get your private detective who is already following Sandra on the job. I have to wonder if she escaped the radar, once again. Maybe she got into my home with that poison.
“I’ll follow up with Cassidy Clark in the morning. You go to the police.”
“Fine.”
And it was fine. Jessica slid back on a pool float and looked up toward the astonishing Tucson morning blue skies, then back at the man she loved. The satisfaction of resolve set in.
It was just the beginning of the satisfaction, as Jaxon dived back in to the pool.
“You can’t make love to me on this float,” Jessica squealed. “Even if it is a double.”
“I know my floats. Just you watch my sex-pertise.”
MANNING CALLED ME IN. GREAT. One of his non-meeting meetings whereas mostly I had to provide my report and get nothing out of him.
“Holy crap. Who are you?’ he said.
“I’ve had a little work done. All part of the job.”
“My ass. New hair. War-paint makeup. You’re wearing something decent for a change.”
“Don’t chap my ass. Let’s get down to business and tell me why you called me in.”
“Still a potty mouth, but you look great. And I know you’re up to something.”
“Maybe something. You told me about the white van.”
“And we have the resources. We’re on it.”
“Yada. Yada. Yada. You have the resources, but not the manpower and a, shall we
say—tight rein around your neck. That’s why you love me.”
“Touché. But, I have a love-hate relationship with you, Cassie. Now, what’s up?”
“Maybe I’m exploring a maybe connection between a few of our missing women. Maybe.”
“Damn! I knew I could count on you. You’re my new best friend.”
“You don’t have any friends, Chief.”
“Touché, again.”
“We need to break this story. Big time. Pronto. You do it with a formal press conference or I will. A real story this time. Not some crap hearsay lines and lame reporters who are eager to run in print and on the air.”
I CALLED JESSICA SILVA late that evening. It was my best chance of catching her, even knowing she would be tired after one of her first broadcasts while back at the station.
“I have your basic information, Jessica. I have a copy of your police report and I know all about your trouble with Sandra Vickery. The restraining orders may have been violated. Maybe not. Why don’t you fill me in on any details regarding your visit to the hospital?”
Jessica filled me in, as best as she could. She was exhausted, but needed to spill her guts.
“Jessica, do you know long it might take for this particular drug, chloride hydrate, to impair you?”
Jessica had never asked the question of the doctor.
“I’ll call the hospitalist in the morning. I’ll get my records and courier them to you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
SCHLEP CALLED JAXON Giles. He knew Giles had received word that has dog had been poisoned. He wanted to know exactly what type of poison put down his dog. A hunch. A scientifically measured hunch.
I DID MY OWN DIGGING, if only pieces I picked up from my day at Cosas Buenas. Nine particular women went into a private room at the salon. That room designated for bridal parties or the occasional girl’s night out. Seemingly, unwittingly, they all wanted gussied up for some big Platinum Ball that evening. I didn’t get the invitation, but I now know it’s one of Tucson’s largest black-tie fundraising events.
“I didn’t get the invitation, either,” Schlep said, with a sheepish flush creeping across his face and his chest slightly caving.
“In my married days I would have received the invitation. Not anymore,” Carson said. “They weren’t worth the price of the marriage.”
“You’re both disappointed I beat you to this, but this is a team effort. And this puts direct contact between the hairdresser and our socialite, even though this hairdresser didn’t have her as a client. And we have one more.”
Schlep pulled up to the edge of his chair and licked his lips, saying, “I’m all ears.”
“It appears that our congresswoman was there, too. She uses her maiden name when making any reservations, in light of the tragedy with Gabrielle Giffords.
“And that, my good friend, brings us up to three victims, if not ambiguously, connected.”
ELEVEN AT NIGHT, and my phone rang. I should have turned it off, but I never did. Never will.
“Cassidy Clark.”
The timid voice whined, “I think I may know something.”
“It’s late. Who is this?”
“Ummm. Well, my name is Mandy. Mandy Palmer. I’m worried about my boss. She’s been gone.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Lori Shields. My boss. Shields Interior Design.”
“Hold on.” I turned on my table lamp, turned on the recorder, and put the call on speaker, all while mopping up the spilled water with nothing but scented facial tissues.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“Look, I don’t watch a lot of news. It’s against my principles.”
I could relate, though I never thought about it as a principle.
“I’ve been growing worried about her and I was talking to our mail carrier. She told me about all these missing women. It includes her. I think.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Kinda glad to find your name. I have a few minor problems with the police. Some weed, some public drunkenness. Maybe naked once. And a few outstanding tickets. Even if I did talk to them I don’t think they’d take me seriously and I’d have to pay some fines I can’t afford.”
It sounded like this girl didn’t think much.
“Mandy, how long has your boss been gone?”
“That’s the thing. She takes off on long trips all the time. Buying trips. She usually leaves for about a week, but she’s been gone over two. And I thought her husband reported her missing, but he’s gone way more than her. He’s not exactly a Prince Charming, but I guess he finally did go to the police. Like yesterday or something.”
“And you haven’t heard from her?”
I could hear Mandy yawn. I tried to muffle mine.
“That’s not unusual. She leaves on her trips. But not like this. Over two weeks. And I need my paycheck.”
“Where did she tell you she was going?”
“Guadalajara. We have a cheap client that designed his own kitchen and bath hardware, and he wants a mega-wad of them cast in bronze. Lori told him she’d get the job done in a foundry somewhere down there.”
“Mandy, is it okay if I come visit tomorrow?”
“That would be fun. We’re in the Lost Barrio district. You can’t miss it. A huge orange and blue awning. Lori’s a Bronco fan. I’m supposed to be there by nine, but can we make it after ten?”
When the cat’s away the mice play.
AS PROMISED, THE AWNING was hard to miss, and hard to imagine for an interior designer, even with the vivid desert colors. I brought coffees and muffins.
“Mandy?”
“In the back. I’ll be right out.”
Looking around, I saw nothing out of the ordinary but samples of everything from flooring to window décor, to a few random architectural pieces. Everything seemed normal except for Mandy’s desk. Three stacks of files. A candle. Several pairs of sunglasses and granola bars, half-eaten. A shriveled up teabag.
She slid up from behind me, wearing what I would call a pink tutu, over a full-body leotard in vivid green.
“Oh, those muffins smell divine. Thanks. Are they gluten free?”
No introductions needed, I guess. I told her I thought they likely had plenty of gluten. She grabbed one.
“Coffee?” I offered.
“Bad for you. Really. Would you like some cleansing juice?”
I didn’t respond. “May I sit down?”
“Sure. Let’s sit on the sofa.”
The desk opposite hers was large, and free of clutter, but I took the sofa with her.
“Mandy, do you have any idea as to why no one has heard from Ms. Sheilds’ family?”
“Oh, crap. None. She’s a loner if I’ve ever seen one. What do you call that when you never marry? She’s like that, but she’s married. It’s just that they never are together. I guess it’s a marriage of convenience. No one wants to file for divorce because they’re happy doing their own thing. I’m surprised it took her husband so long to report her missing, but like I said, it’s a weird relationship. Almost platonic, if you can imagine that.”
Sadly, I could imagine that.
“Do you happen to have a photo of her?”
“Not really. Her husband must have given the police one.”
I’d checked it out. A ridiculous head shot that might have been a selfie. And only one photo.
“How would you describe her, physically?” I asked.
“Old. Way old. I think she might even be forty. She has a pretty good body. Big boobs. Pretty face, but I think she’s had some work done. At least she’s always getting facials that end up looking like more than facials to me.”
“Can you help me create a specific timeline of when she left? Help me fill in some blanks?”
“I know I look flighty, but I can read a set of architectural plans like you read a Denny’s menu. I’m all in. Just no police. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Then I’ll
go print out our schedule.”
“Great, but Mandy. Can you find out where Mrs. Shields, Lori, went for all of those facials?”
I ENTERED OUR BOOKSTORE office, juggling a coffee, my laptop, and both dogs on leashes.
“You look different, Cass,” Schlep said.
“You don’t. Let’s get to work.”
“Damn. We aren’t getting anywhere. This Mandy girl is a friggin’ social butterfly with a wee bit of brain. She only uses it here and there. Still, we can confirm one more solid shared name to the list of missing people.”
“You’re kidding? Who?” I asked.
“I scoured the calendar Mandy gave us for the last six months. Cryptic, but it turns out Lori Shields is a fan of weekly facials, and she frequents the northwest Cosas Buenas Spa and Salon,” Schlep said.
“Manning is apprised of my updated information. I didn’t use the girl’s name. Just said I stumbled onto some information. She didn’t want the police to have her name.”
“That will fly,” Schlep added with a factitious tone.
“It flies because he wants us to win here. The department has cut us off, but he’s still cheering for our team.”
“And you’ll keep rolling on, without pay.”
“Get a list of all of the interior design clients. The big ones in the last few years. It’s a long shot, but maybe something we will connect more dots.”
“You want me to interact with that giddy girl?” Schlep asked.
“Opposites do attract.”
I MET WITH CHIEF MANNING. When did I start calling him that? I used to call him David. Or a sorry ass. Sheesh.
“Chief David,” I ended up addressing him, “These missing person reports are escalating. Women. Pretty women. It’s time. We need to go to the press. The public needs to know. Specific rumors needs to be affirmed or denied, and without pause.”
The chief looked down at a polished floor. And his not-so-polished shoes. “You know I can’t do this, and you know why.”
“Damn the politics. You know I don’t abide by that game. I follow my own weak scruples. We have family members that are now victims. They need to know what we have. They need to know that they may not be alone.”
Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) Page 11
