Seen through high-powered magnification—and before any cat pees on it—kitty litter has the texture of those uninhabited islands around Hawaii. Rocky. Porous. No biological material. I also saw tiny flecks of minerals.
My first guess was kaolinite. First because this grain had a blue-green hue. And second, because kaolinite was cheap, which was why it was among the most commercially used clays. I thought of that fact every time I downed a swig of Kaopectate—usually after one of my aunt’s tofu extravaganzas. Kaolinite clay absorbed whatever it came in contact with, including stomach acid.
I placed that single grain back in its baggie and took out the samples from the litter box at my aunt’s house. I dropped one grain on a greased slide and looked through the lens. Montmorillonite, I suspected. Darker than kaolinite, more brown than blue, with a slightly more open crystal structure. The mineral was also more rare than kaolinite, thus more expensive to mine. I also saw some black flecks within the brown grains. I’d bet my rock hammer that those black elements were added during the manufacturing process. Charcoal, probably. Because charcoal had an open-cell structure and absorbed all odors. Expensive to add it to kitty litter. But my aunt spoiled her cats; they peed on only the best.
Next I checked the nylon carpet fibers. But all I saw under the scope were wiry squiggles. My specialty was not hairs and fibers. Even specialists within that specialty had specialties. Cotton, hemp, silk, viscose, polyester, nylon, blends—not to mention the new fibers manufactured almost daily.
I picked up the phone and called the FBI’s materials analysis unit in DC. Once upon a time, that lab was my heaven—until my life became hell and heaven couldn’t hold me any longer.
The operator patched me through to Hairs and Fibers, where another operator connected me to Roman Douglas.
“I heard you got transferred,” Roman said, even before Hello.
Scientists. They didn’t exactly hone their social skills.
“Yes, I got transferred to Seattle.” I didn’t add that I’d also resigned from the Seattle field office before the bureau could fire me. Which was why I had this office in the Smith Tower, for private investigations. Eventually, news would reach Roman. No need to rush it there. “Got time for a couple questions?”
“For the fish that made it out of the pond? Always.”
An evolution joke. Among my forensic peers in the lab, I was the only one to get into Quantico, and survive. I thought of what these guys would think when they heard I’d quit. My heart skipped a beat. “I’ve got some automobile carpeting, dating way back to the sixties. It’s been cleaned, bleached. Fibers are mostly intact, but it appears there was some heavy scrubbing. Can I recover any evidence from it?”
“Depends. Oxygen bleach or chlorine bleach?”
“I smelled chlorine.”
And then, because this is what these guys do all the time as expert witnesses, Roman explained how chlorine bleach, even if used ten times, still left behind traces of hemoglobin and other proteins. Oxygen bleach, however, basically nuked everything. “Check the seams,” he said. “People overlook the seams when they’re cleaning. Treasure trove in there.”
I thanked him and promised to stop by next time I was in the DC area.
I cleaned up my work, and closed up my office for lunch.
An important lunch, even though it had nothing to do with my aunt’s car.
Yet.
*
“Disintermediation,” said Jack Stephanson.
“There’s another problem.” I stabbed a French fry into the mound of mayonnaise on my plate. “Work for the federal government, you end up talking like a bureaucrat.”
Jack picked up his Coke, and sent his blue-green gaze roaming over the greasy air of the burger joint. Twice a week we met at Jerry’s Juicy Burgers. Same table every time, with Jack’s back against the wall so he had a clear view of the entrance. Law enforcement habits never die, because they’re based on survival.
Jack and I had both survived working as Special Agents. We’d also survived my resignation. We’d even survived my habit of dipping French fries in mayonnaise. Which was more than I could say about my last relationship, which produced an ex-fiance.
“Disintermediation,” Jack continued, “is the word for ‘eliminating the middle man.’ Say you have an item, or a service. And I need that item or service. Instead of using some broker, you and I connect directly. That’s disintermediation. They’ve even developped apps for it.”
“Really?”
“For every imaginable form of disintermediation. Even for leftovers.”
My fry hovered over the mayonnaise.
“Some woman makes dinner, but doesn’t eat it all. She shoots out a message on the app to let people know they can come get her leftovers.” He sipped his Coke, eyed the room with suspicion. “Great way to poison someone.”
“No kidding.”
Here was another reason this relationship might work: paranoia, based on reality.
He said, “So, what, no men can rent these cars?”
“Right. Y chromosomes are not allowed at HERZ.”
He grinned. “Their collision insurance must be sky-high.”
“And this is why women go to places like HERZ—because men get all weirdly competitive about cars and driving.”
He shrugged and picked up his burger. Over the course of these lunches, I’d almost managed to get Jack hooked on my death row meal—cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake. Except Jack, who was so fit he looked like a medical anatomy chart, refused to order the shake. I couldn’t fault him. An icy Coke was my close second choice.
“Take me through it again,” he said.
For the second time, I described finding the cleaned spot on the Volvo’s carpet. How it meant somebody used serious amounts of chlorine bleach to clean one particular section of a surface that would’ve already been covered by layers of junk inside the car. “If they’d spilled something, or something tipped over, I don’t even think my aunt would notice. Who would clean that thing?”
“You’re thinking they removed all that stuff and put something else inside?”
“I can’t be sure. It’s not like her mess has a stratigraphic record.”
“And you say I use big words?”
“Stratigraphic. The order in which rocks and minerals are laid down. Think of the Grand Canyon. Older rocks on the bottom layer, younger rocks on top. The stuff in my aunt’s car has no layering. It’s just . . . chaos. Things come in, rattle around, and sometimes things go out. But not often.”
“You checked for contamination on any other items?”
“Yes. Everything else was clean. And the carpet was vacuumed. That hasn’t happened since Jimmy Carter was president. Meanwhile, the rest of the car is still dirty.”
He gazed at me for a long moment. His eyes shifted from green to blue and back again. “What do you need from me?” he asked.
“It’ll just take five minutes.”
“You always say that.”
“And has it ever taken less than five?”
He groaned.
*
Two and a half hours later, I was heading south on the car-choked I-5 and glancing over the printout Jack gave me on Lisa Allyn. Sure enough, the FBI’s Seattle field office had opened a file on her. Turns out, another reason HEY! CAN I BORROW THAT? went under was because a woman renting out her winter closet claimed that when she returned from wintering in Palm Springs, jewelry and other valuables were missing.
And people wonder how the FBI grows every year?
The whole “disintermediation” business alone was pure law enforcement fertilizer.
The woman whose jewelry was missing filed grand larceny charges against Lisa Allyn. Later, the charges were dropped.
I read that part twice. Then a third time, because the victim’s last name was also Allyn. That same Allyn I read about in my Google search. Jack had attached a very recent police report, too, from the wealthy Laurelhurst neighborhood of Seattle. Over the
weekend, a woman named Lila Allyn was reported missing.
I pulled into the HERZ parking lot just after 4:00 p.m. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but the pink neon sign glowed even brighter now, flaming against Seattle’s gray-flannel sky.
Another bubbly pink girl was behind the counter. I waited as she chirped though the rental agreement with the coiffed woman in line before me. The woman’s luggage tags said she was from Boston. No smoking in the car, the girl said. No alcohol. No hitchhikers. No driving over state lines. No duplicating keys . . . .
Forget law enforcement, this disintermediation stuff was a gold mine for lawyers.
The coiffed woman signed the contract, picked up her luggage, and turned around. She met my gaze, smiled, and said, “Sisters are doing it for themselves.”
I gave her my politest southern smile.
But another twist went thought my gut.
I stepped up to the counter.
The girl behind the counter said, “Ready to hit the road with HERZ?”
“I have a four o’clock appointment with Lisa Allyn.”
“Alrighty! Let me go see if she’s available.”
I didn’t wait. I followed her down a corridor of pink walls and blue indoor-outdoor carpeting. She stopped at a cheap balsa wood door with a thin brass sign that said OFFICE. The girl lifted her hand to knock.
“I can take it from here,” I said.
She startled. “What—what’re you doing back here?”
“You need to go back to the front desk. Some men are coming. They’ll be here very soon. And they’re not here to rent cars.”
All her forced cheerfulness was doing battle with brand-new confusion, a fight that sent her sweet face into tics and spasmodic smiles. I stepped around her and twisted the door knob.
I recognized Lisa Allyn from her picture in the Times. But her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and sweat dripped from her smooth face. She stared at me but continued to work out on the stair stepper. More drops of sweat splashed on the clear plastic mat placed under the machine. Plastic, nylon, sweat. Perfect for evidence collection.
“Ms. Allyn?”
Her face grew red. Not just from the oxygen deficit of the workout. “Do you have any—” She panted. “—idea where you are?”
“My aunt’s car was here over the weekend. Prehistoric Volvo? Black? Lots of junk in the back?”
Her face added another expression, darker than the others. “Britney, go back to the front desk.”
I watched the pink shirt disappear down the hall. When I looked back at Lisa Allyn, she was still pumping away on the stair stepper.
“Black Volvo?” I said.
“I don’t keep track of the vehicles—go talk to one of the girls.”
“You know exactly which car I’m talking about.” I listened, hoping to hear something beyond the drone of the stair stepper. “Your sister, Lila? She’s disappeared.”
“You’re with the police? Fine. I’ve already told them everyting I—”
“Lila made it as a stockbroker. Retired young. Charity work for the hospitals, humane society. She sure made a lot more money than you.”
Her gaze iced the room’s warm air. The stepper slowed. “I’m sorry—did you give me your name?”
“Raleigh Harmon.” I threw another glance down the hall. Sirens, I could hear them. “Lila’s jewelry wasn’t enough to cover all your losses? What else did she have, an insurance policy? Maybe she made you the beneficiary. Big mistake.”
Lisa Allyn pressed her index finger into the stair stepper. The machine came to a complete stop. And I noticed her fingernail was long and bright pink. And chipped in one corner. I made a mental note. Check the Volvo’s carpet seams. The pink nail chip was somewhere.
She lifted a small towel from the cheap metal desk beside the machine. “You’re trespassing on private property,” she said.
“It’s odd about my aunt’s car. It’s a mess but you sure took a lot of care cleaning it. At least, one spot.”
“You need to leave.” Her voice ran low between us, like a hissing rattlesnake.
“When’s the first payment due on this parking lot—next week? I’m guessing you don’t have the money.”
“Get out of here.” She came toward me, smooth as a panther. “Leave. Now.”
I stepped back, the sirens sounded closer. But when I looked into Lisa Allyn face, I saw nothing there that resembled fear. She was a woman who’d scraped through life, starting one business after another, crafty enough to stay a step ahead of the game. Now the game was over.
“You took your sister Lila’s jewelry, her clothes.” The sirens came loud enough that I had to raise my voice. “And then, you took her life.”
She raised her hand to strike me but I caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back until she doubled over. She cried out. I raised my voice again, making sure she heard every word.
“Those things didn’t belong to you, Lisa. Those things were hers.”
*
Thanks for reading!
Raleigh Harmon stars in a long-running mystery series—because the girl can’t stay out of trouble.
Her FBI agent years begin with The Stones Cry Out, available here: amzn.com/B004QGYURS
But Raleigh began solving cases as a teenager. You can read about her young-adult mysteries—written for adults, too—when her dad’s still alive and her mom’s still crazy. Stone and Spark, the first book in the series, is free: amzn.com/B017TBS9W8.
Lastly, come join the rockin’ Raleigh tribe newsletter. Subscribers receive more short stories—free—and get the first news about the next Raleigh Harmon mystery. Sign up on my website, www.sibellawrites.com. And drop me a line while you’re there.
Because don’t we all love a spunky girl who finds trouble, and turns it into something better?
Hers: A Raleigh Harmon mystery short story (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries) Page 2
