Dorothy Howell

by Haley Randolph 03 - Shoulder Bags; Shootings (v5)

  “Was he with anybody?” I asked.

  Virginia thought for a moment. “Not that I noticed. He walked with purpose, as if he knew where he was going and was in a hurry to get there.”

  If Virginia had spotted Ed twice—alone—within a couple of blocks, he wasn’t strolling along taking in the sights, so he probably wasn’t a tourist. He was there for another reason.

  “Did you talk to him?” I asked.

  “About what?” Virginia wondered. “Stop a total stranger on the street and tell him that he looked like a dead man I’d known from all the way across the country?”

  Yeah, okay, I guess that made sense.

  “I took his picture,” Virginia said.

  I gasped. “You did?”

  She nodded. “I had my camera in my hand so I just snapped his picture. I thought it might be interesting, an oddity, to show friends back home.”

  “You took a picture of him?”

  “I regretted it, though, after I took it. He saw me and I could tell he wasn’t happy about it. I suppose I should have asked first.” Virginia grew quiet for a moment, then said, “And given the way things turned out, I have more reason to regret it.”

  I didn’t need the Hubble to see where this was going. Virginia hadn’t killed Tiffany. She thought she was at fault for other reasons.

  “So you showed the picture to Tiffany when you got back home?” I asked.

  “As I said, I thought it was Ed’s brother, perhaps. But Tiffany knew Ed had no brother,” Virginia said.

  “Tiffany thought it was Ed?” I asked.

  I glanced toward the woman with the Sinful bag. She was gone. The guy in the golf shirt still had the phone to his ear. He cut his gaze at me, then turned away again.

  “Looking back, I believe she was always suspicious of Ed. I don’t think she believed his stories. She wasn’t taken in by him like her sister and everybody else,” Virginia said. “A few weeks later, Tiffany told me she was going to Los Angeles for an extended vacation.”

  I put myself in Tiffany’s place, mentally. She was a lawyer. She had contacts everywhere. I figured she’d made some calls, found out about the missing undercover special agent, and like the FBI and Charleston detectives, figured Ed had faked his own death. Or maybe one of those guys had told her that outright.

  “That wasn’t like her. Not at all,” Virginia said, looking troubled again. “She asked me for a copy of the picture of Ed and I knew—I knew—she suspected it really was him, that he was alive, and she was going to Los Angeles to find him.”

  “Why would she come out here herself? Why not hand everything over to the FBI?” I asked.

  “Tiffany had to be careful. She had her reputation to consider—and that of her family’s law firm,” Virginia said. “And there was her sister, of course, and her three little nieces. Insurance payouts, the estate settlement. Tiffany could hardly make the accusation that Ed was really alive, of all things, unless she knew for sure.”

  “And the only way to know for sure was to come out here herself,” I concluded.

  “Tiffany made me swear not to tell anyone what she was doing,” Virginia said. “I didn’t like it, but I gave her my word. A promise is a promise. Now, of course, I wish I hadn’t.”

  “You think it’s your fault Tiffany is dead?” I asked. “Because you didn’t stop her from coming out here, and you didn’t tell anybody what she was planning to do?”

  Tears filled Virginia’s eyes.

  “That’s how it looks, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Do the authorities have another theory? An explanation for her murder?”

  I wished I could say something to make Virginia feel better, but I couldn’t. In fact, I agreed with everything she’d said.

  Why would the FBI take the case away from LAPD, question me about the morning of Tiffany’s murder, and show me a picture of Ed if they didn’t believe he was still alive and responsible for Tiffany’s death?

  I figured that Tiffany had been in the Fashion District looking for Ed when she’d hooked up with Rita. She’d probably seen it as a good cover—I mean, really, why would anybody be friends with Rita if they didn’t have to? Tiffany could spend a lot of time shopping and buying purses for their business and not draw any undue attention to herself, while she looked for Ed.

  And, obviously, Tiffany had been looking in the right place. She found Ed or Ed had found her. Either way, he’d followed her or lured her to the Holt’s parking lot and shot her in the chest to shut her up and keep his secret safe.

  “Did you tell the police what you suspected? Did you show them his picture?” I asked.

  “No,” Virginia said. “You see, like Tiffany, I had no proof either. Just a photograph I’d snapped at a distance, in a crowd of people, of a man who looked a bit like Ed. How would that help anything?”

  Obviously, Virginia didn’t know everything that was happening with Tiffany’s murder investigation.

  “I know a homicide detective who can help you,” I told her. “Detective Shuman.”

  “Oh, yes, I met him. He came by and we spoke briefly.” Virginia clasped her hands together. “Oh, goodness, I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore. I don’t know what will help, or what might create more problems. I don’t want to send the authorities off on a wild goose chase after Ed if Tiffany’s death had nothing to do with him.”

  “You can trust Detective Shuman,” I told her. “Just tell him everything you told me. He’ll know how to handle things.”

  Virginia sighed with relief. “All right. I’ll do that.”

  My mind spun with what to do next: call Shuman, explain everything to him, have him speak with Virginia—

  “Would you like to see it?” Virginia asked.

  Lost in thought, I didn’t understand what she meant.

  “The picture of Ed,” Virginia said. “Would you like to see it?”

  “You have it with you?” I asked, a little stunned.

  She dug through her Fendi bag, came up with a photo, and handed it to me. It was a four by six color snapshot taken from a distance showing a group of people milling around on a crowded sidewalk. I recognized the Fashion District in the background.

  “That’s him,” Virginia said.

  She pointed. Slightly off center in the photo was Ed Buckley.

  My breath caught.

  I hadn’t recognized him from the color photo special agents Jordan and Paulson had showed me because Ed Buckley had changed his appearance since that photo was taken. His hair was now dark, he’d grown a mustache and goatee, his ear was pierced, and he looked like he’d dropped a few pounds. Ed looked nothing like the man I’d seen in photographs who’d lived the high life in Charleston.

  No, I hadn’t recognized Ed Buckley from the photo the FBI guys had showed me.

  I now recognized Ed from the Holt’s parking lot, the morning Tiffany was murdered.

  I walked Virginia up to her room on the fifth floor and made sure she was locked in safely for the night. I didn’t want to alarm her, but there was a definite possibility that she was in some danger.

  Ed Buckley had already killed an undercover FBI agent and Tiffany Markham. I doubted he’d have any reservations about doing the same to Virginia if he somehow figured out she was in L.A. and would soon be cooperating with law enforcement to bring him down.

  It was kind of a long shot, but it could happen. Kirk Keegan had learned all my personal info, followed me, sat down at my table at Starbucks, and threatened to ruin my life, starting with ruining Ty’s, so I had some experience with this sort of thing.

  The elevator doors opened and I walked down the hallway into the lobby. I dug my phone out of my bag—a fabulous Fossil tote—and punched in Shuman’s number.

  I probably should have called FBI special agents Paulson and Jordan with the news but, really, I didn’t especially like them. They hadn’t been all that nice to me, plus they’d made me look like a complete idiot the day I’d been questioned at the Federal Building.

&
nbsp; I wanted Shuman to know first. I wanted him to have first crack at the new info. I didn’t like that the FBI had taken the case away from him and Madison—well, Madison I didn’t care so much about—but they’d treated our LAPD guys like they were incompetent. I didn’t like that.

  I wasn’t sure the FBI would believe me, anyway. Even if they did, I might end up stuck in their conference room—going through major Snickers bar withdrawal—for days before they finally decided my info had merit. Or, they might twist it all around so that I looked like a suspect—then I’d never get another Snickers bar.

  I couldn’t take the chance.

  Shuman would know what to do with the info he got from Virginia. He was the professional, after all. He had training. He had a badge. He’d know how and when to turn it over to the FBI.

  Jeez, I can’t be expected to handle absolutely everything, can I?

  Shuman didn’t answer his phone, so I left him a message detailing everything I’d just learned from Virginia and telling him he ought to get to the Hyatt right away and talk to her.

  Satisfied I’d done all I could do—and knowing that the mall was just a few blocks away and there might be a Sinful handbag there at this very minute—I headed for the sliding doors on the other side of the lobby.

  Halfway there, it hit me that the lobby was totally empty.

  I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.

  Where were all the businessmen with their briefcases who’d been hanging around when Virginia and I were down here just a few minutes ago? The guy in the golf shirt who’d been talking on his cell phone? The woman with the Sinful purse?

  Had they really been who they appeared to be? Or were they really someone else?

  Kirk Keegan flashed in my head.

  Could one of those men have been Kirk? Had he followed me again, spied on me again?

  Or worse, was he outside the hotel right now, waiting for me?

  And what about Ed Buckley?

  I hadn’t recognized him in the old photo the FBI had showed me because he’d changed his appearance so much. Had he changed it yet again? Was he here, checking up on Virginia?

  Jeez, why hadn’t I paid more attention?

  All I’d really looked at was that woman carrying the Sinful purse—and even she’d gotten away before I could ask where she got it.

  Crap.

  CHAPTER 16

  “You’re never going to get a date if you keep dressing like that,” I said.

  Ben Oliver looked up from his laptop and saw me standing over him. He frowned.

  “Get away from me,” he said.

  He was seated at an umbrella table at Pacific Park, the amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier. The pier was one of the oldest in California and still had a hippodrome with a really great carousel in it. Everything else was for tourists. Lots of restaurants, shops, souvenir stands, a video arcade, rides, and all kinds of carnival games. The gorgeous California spring weather made this the perfect spot to spend an afternoon—or write a news story, as Ben seemed to be doing.

  After talking to Virginia at the Hyatt last night, I knew I needed more info on everything that happened back in Charleston with Tiffany and Ed. I decided Ben could help me. Since he seems really good at holding a grudge, I knew I couldn’t show up empty-handed, so this morning I’d hunted him down and was ready to trade favors.

  I sat down on the bench across from him. Just as I expected, Ben had on khaki pants and a polo shirt, the same sort of clothes I’d always seen him wear. At least the shirt wasn’t blue this time, but it was a little rumpled. His hair still looked a little shaggy and I’m pretty sure he hadn’t shaved this morning.

  Ben Oliver would be my reclamation project, and maybe he’d get laid in the process. Was that a deal or what?

  “I know things didn’t work out so great with us before, so let me make it up to you,” I offered. “I’ll give you a makeover. I’ll take you shopping, pick out a whole new look for you, get your hair styled. It will improve your love life. I promise.”

  “How did you find me here?” he asked, and started typing again.

  “I called your office. The girl who answered the phone seemed more than anxious to rat you out,” I told him.

  “I’m working,” he said. “I think better outside.”

  I doubted that was true today. Spring break had brought tourists and locals out in droves. Around us kids yelled, babies cried, barkers lured people to their games of chance with promises of a winner every time, the roller coaster swept by clacking on its tracks.

  “So how about it?” I asked. “A whole new you in one short afternoon. What do you say?”

  “I like myself the way I am,” he told me and kept his gaze glued to his laptop.

  Okay, so my makeover idea wasn’t working out as I planned—which I didn’t understand. I mean, really, who wouldn’t want a makeover?

  Anyway, I needed to try something different. I’d learned long ago that getting your way—some people call it negotiating—meant that you had to be ready to go with a different tactic on a moment’s notice. That’s how I roll.

  “What are you writing about?” I asked, and leaned around to get a peek at his laptop screen.

  He angled it away. “Something important. Something I have to finish. Go away.”

  “Is it your terrorism-espionage-aircraft-thingy story?” I asked.

  “Shh!” Ben growled and glanced around.

  I hadn’t told Ben that Doug—the subject of his story—was actually my ex-boyfriend. I didn’t want to get into the whole breakup thing with him and I didn’t want to tell Ben that Doug worked for my dad. I figured the less Ben knew, the better—for me, anyway.

  But now I needed more info on Tiffany’s murder and I was prepared to give something to get something in return. Not my favorite method of getting my way, but what choice did I have?

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” I said. “I’ll talk to that engineer you’re spying on and find out what’s really up.”

  Ben looked up, horrified.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I’ll be just like an undercover newspaper reporter. Wow, that will be so cool.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get close to him, gain his confidence.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get all the details,” I said. “And don’t worry. I’ll be really smooth. He’ll never suspect a thing. Don’t think for a minute that your story—your big, career changing, ticket-to-20/20 story—will be jeopardized in any way—”

  “No!”

  We sat there, locked in a stare-down, and I gave him my I’m-going-to-win smile. Ben read it immediately.

  He plowed his hands through his hair and sighed heavily. His bangs fell over his forehead. It made him look kind of hot.

  He closed his laptop. “What do you want?”

  “Just a little info and, you know, it isn’t like this won’t benefit you, too,” I pointed out.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Remember the woman I told you about who’d come to California and ended up shot—”

  “Tiffany Markham. Trunk of the Mercedes. Holt’s parking lot. Lawyer from Charleston. Old money, old family. Yes, I remember,” he said. “What about it?”

  “The FBI is investigating her murder. They think her brother-in-law Ed Buckley was smuggling something—drugs, maybe—and murdered an undercover FBI guy who was onto him, then faked his own death to cover it up. They think Ed’s alive and well, living in L.A. somewhere.”

  Ben stared at me. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. He didn’t jump on the story like I’d hoped, though.

  “It’s true,” I told him. “Ed’s here. I talked to a witness who saw him in L.A., and another witness who saw him in the parking lot the day Tiffany was murdered.”

  “Who?” Ben asked quickly. He’d grabbed hold of the story—I could see it in his face. He had that two-for-one-sale-price look in his eyes.

  I wasn’t ready to name names yet—even if one of them
was mine.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “Cops leak info to reporters all the time. So I figure a reporter in Charleston must have gotten wind that something was up when this whole thing with Ed Buckley went sideways.”

  Ben didn’t say anything, just kept staring. I hadn’t lost him, so that was good.

  “Ed was probably into drugs, but I need to know for sure,” I said.

  “Whatever he was doing in Charleston, he’s probably still doing here,” Ben added.

  And that would make it easier for him to be found.

  “Can you talk to somebody reporter-to-reporter?” I asked.

  Ben stewed for a moment, making faces like the idea intrigued him but he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit—sort of like when you’re considering buying a red handbag but don’t think you should carry it except during Christmas.

  You can carry it anytime, of course.

  Ben shifted his shoulders and leaned forward a little.

  “If I do this, you’ll give me the story—exclusively?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You’ll give up your witnesses?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “They’ll cooperate?”

  Okay, Ben was getting a little technical here, but what could I do but agree?

  “Yes, of course,” I told him.

  Still, he hesitated, no doubt having flashbacks of the disastrous—for him—way things had turned out a few weeks ago.

  Not that I blamed him, of course.

  And, really, I figured I did owe him. I’d gladly turn everything over to Ben and let him break the story.

  “You’ll stay away from Doug Eisner?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

  No way was I staying away from Doug—not after the way he’d told everybody at my dad’s office that I was stalking him. I intended to confront Doug—that’s what I did best—and set him straight once and for all, but only about the two of us.

  “You’re only pursuing this story because you want the truth to come out, right?” I said. I gestured to his laptop. “That’s why you haven’t broken the story yet, isn’t it? Because you don’t have all the facts yet?”