by Cook, Alan
“Yes, I did. Are you open twenty-four hours a day?”
“That we are. I like to work the night shift. It’s quieter and it’s fun to be up when most of the world is sleeping.”
“When did your shift start?”
“Eleven. Just a few minutes ago. Eleven to seven. Been doing it for years.”
“Does Thomas Kelly work here?”
“Tom? Sure and he’s the night manager. There he is now.” She nodded toward the aisle behind me as she placed my items in a bag. She turned up her already ample volume. “Tom. This young lady would like to speak to you.”
Actually, I didn’t want to speak to him. I was unprepared. I turned my head and saw a middle-aged man approach, wearing the official red market shirt. He wasn’t any taller than I was and could stand to lose a few pounds, but he wasn’t in bad shape. His body looked the same as that of the man at the Western Union stakeout, as nearly as I could remember.
His graying hair was short. I wouldn’t call him handsome, but he had all the normal facial features in a fairly symmetrical pattern. His nose was a little large. Then I saw the ring in his right ear. I remembered it from the description given by the Western Union clerk.
He walked up to me. It was too late to escape.
“Hi, I’m Tom Kelly.”
“Aiko Murakawa.”
The only one of my names he wouldn’t recognize. His voice could be that of the scammer I’d heard on the phone. I stuck out my hand, wanting to see his. We shook hands. Whatever had been wrong with his hands, it was gone, except perhaps for a residual red mark or two. I didn’t get that good a look at them, but the Western Union clerk would never be able to identify him. Officer Watson was right.
What now? Think fast, Carol. I started to babble. “I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I’m a bit nosy. I recently joined the California Genealogical Society, and when I was filling out the form I asked about members who were searching for Boyds. Your name was mentioned and it stood out because you live near me. One of the men said you worked for a supermarket. At least that’s where I think I heard that. I’m not really sure. Maybe it was someone—”
Tom’s laugh interrupted me. He had a high-pitched, grating laugh. “It doesn’t matter. At least you found me. Do you…need help carrying your stuff out?”
It was my turn to laugh. My “stuff” weighed no more than five pounds. My act as a ditsy woman had worked. He was coming on to me. Perhaps I could use this to my advantage.
I imitated my grandmother’s southern accent. “Why, yes sir, that would be mighty kind of you.”
Tom picked up my bag. I caught the checkout clerk rolling her eyes.
I suspected Tom, since he was the night manager, didn’t carry out bags for many customers. He followed me outside. I wondered whether he’d recognize my car from when I was following him. Was this a bad idea? I couldn’t really grab the bag away from him and take off. I decided to keep the conversation going.
“So, anyway, I gather you’re interested in genealogy, too. And that you’re looking for Boyds.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Uh, my roots go back to Northern Ireland.”
I spoke in an excited voice. “I have Irish ancestors, too.”
“You don’t look Irish.”
I unlocked the car doors with my remote.
“On my mother’s side. My father is half Japanese and half everything else.”
I didn’t want this to sound too much like the genealogy of Cynthia Sakai, or it might jog his memory. But since I was using a Japanese name, I couldn’t very well say I was Korean. I hoped his picture of Cynthia came from grainy newspaper photos, and that seeing me wouldn’t remind him of them.
He opened the back door and placed the bag of groceries on the backseat with exaggerated care while I opened the front door. I decided it wasn’t proper to tip someone you were trying to seduce. He closed the back door and stood, not quite looking at me.
“Since I’ve joined CGS I’ve found out a lot.”
“Ooh. I’d love to see what you’re doing. It might help me with my research.”
He didn’t answer immediately, and I thought he was going to walk away. Then he spoke in a tone that said he wasn’t sure of himself.
“You said you live close by?” I nodded. “Maybe we can meet someplace and I can show you. There’s a-a library not far from here.”
Tom was acting like a gentleman. As much as I appreciated this, it didn’t mesh with my aims. “Would it be easier for you if we met at your house? That is, if you don’t mind?”
He looked surprised. “I sleep during the day.”
“That makes sense if you’re working at night.” I tried to be humorous, keeping the conversation light. “I’m kind of a night owl, myself, as you see. What if we met before you come to work tomorrow?”
“Well…I don’t know.”
I shut up and tried to look demure and non-threatening.
Tom was quiet. He must be considering it. “How about seven tomorrow evening? Is that okay?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be out of work by then.” Might as well let him think I had a job. “Give me your address and telephone number.” Pretending I didn’t already know them.
He wrote them on a scrap of paper he took from his pocket, and then asked for my phone number, in case something came up. I was about to give him my cell phone number when I realized the 919 area code was a dead giveaway that I lived in North Carolina. I stalled by getting into my rental car and opening the window.
“I…I just moved into a new apartment, and it doesn’t have a phone yet. And I’m in the process of getting a new cell phone. Why don’t I call you before I come over, just to make sure everything’s good?”
I started the engine. He backed away from the car with a funny look on his face.
“I really need your number. What if—”
“I’ll call you.”
I backed the car out of the parking spot without giving him a chance to respond. When I drove away he was still standing there, looking as if he wanted to say something.
CHAPTER 21
The next day, Friday, I had lunch with Rigo. I hadn’t seen him the night before and wouldn’t be able to see him that night. I was trying to fit as much time in for him as I could. After lunch, he drove me back to my motel. As he pulled into the parking area I told him to park the car.
“Come in for a minute. I have dessert for you in my room.”
He looked surprised. “I have to get back to work.”
“You’ll like it. It’ll just take a minute.”
Rigo followed me to my room. I opened the door and we went inside. The housekeeper had made the bed. I pulled the covers off.
“Sit here. I don’t want to get the bedspread and blankets dirty.”
Rigo dutifully sat on the sheet. It was the only place to sit. The suitcase was on the one chair. I’d made an effort to tidy up the place. No T-shirts belonging to other men were visible.
Rigo looked around. “Where’s dessert?”
I stood facing him. I was wearing my black sweater. It fit me loosely, and he hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I whipped it over my head in one motion and threw it away.
“Dessert is strawberries. One hundred percent organic.”
I knelt on the bed with one knee on either side of him and inserted one of my strawberry nipples into his mouth. His eyes were wide. One thing I could say about Rigo: he never turned down a good offer.
When I’d awakened that morning I declared myself well enough for sex. Enough was enough. It was clear Rigo agreed with me, although he had his mouth full and couldn’t say anything.
***
“Where did you say you were going this evening?”
Rigo was putting on his clothes, much to my regret.
I chose my words carefully, trying to make it sound innocuous. “I’m meeting with a man I found out about at the California Genealogical Society. He’s interested in Boyds from Northern Ireland and so am
I.”
“I see.” Rigo bent to tie his shoe. “Is this the same man who scammed your grandmother?”
Honesty is the best policy. “I’m about seventy-two percent sure he is.”
“Hasn’t he threatened you several times?”
Yes, and he also tried to kill me. I hadn’t told Rigo that. Maybe honesty wasn’t always the best policy. “He doesn’t know who I am. I told him my name is Aiko Murakawa.”
“Are you planning to show him your swimsuit video?”
Which I’d made using that name.
“Yes, and then we’re going to have sex. I didn’t get enough with you.”
“Please be serious. If your theory is correct, he may also be a murderer.”
“Jason’s theory.” And mine. “But yes, there is at least that possibility. But even if it’s true, he has no reason to kill me.”
“Unless he finds out who you are. Which he well may do if you ask too many questions.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I realize I can’t keep you from going, short of tying you up—”
“Ooh, we haven’t done that yet.”
“Dammit, listen. But I can go with you.”
No, he couldn’t. For one thing, Rigo’s name was linked to mine in news stories, because he was the one who found me in the Dumpster in Southern California. His picture had been broadcast far and wide. Tom Kelly lived in Southern California and had undoubtedly read those stories, seen the photos. Even if he could disguise his appearance, I didn’t think Rigo was devious enough to use an assumed name.
I was quite sure I’d fooled Tom about my identity, but showing up with Rigo at my side might start his wheels turning. Besides that, I knew Rigo would be threatening to Tom and put a damper on my investigation because of his concern for my safety.
“I’ll tell you what.” Make a concession. “I admit I need backup. I’ve watched too many cop shows not to understand that. I’ll give you Tom’s address and telephone number, so you know where I am. In addition, if I don’t call you by ten-thirty, you can call me to see if I’m all right.”
“If I don’t get an answer, I’ll send in the dogs.”
***
I was a bit nervous when I rang Tom’s doorbell at seven o’clock.
I had something new in my purse—a Swiss Army Knife—courtesy of Rigo. He kept the knife at his office, for some reason, and he made me follow him there. I stayed outside while he went in to get it, because I didn’t want to see his parents. I knew whose side they’d be on. I didn’t know what I’d do with the knife. I was no knife fighter. I also had the gun, but I didn’t tell Rigo that.
After about thirty seconds I began to hope Tom wouldn’t answer the door. Then I could go running back to Rigo. At that moment he did. He had a surprised look on his face.
“Aiko. I-I thought you weren’t coming. You didn’t call me.”
I hit my head with the heel of my hand. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot. Well, I’m here now. Is there a problem?”
He’d acted unsure of himself last night. I was afraid if I called he might cancel.
“No. No, there isn’t. Come in.”
Tom was dressed in work clothes—decent pants and a red supermarket shirt with his name on it.
I walked in, not sure what to expect. I was almost positive he lived alone, and bachelor pads can be a mess. Tom’s wasn’t. It was immaculate. It occurred to me I was with a man who was much neater than I was.
A stairway led directly up from the landing. The living room, to the left, was small and furnished with inexpensive but serviceable items. The one concession to extravagance was a widescreen television set. There was a bookcase neatly filled with books, and a single book sat on a low table in front of a roomy couch, as did several magazines, stacked in an orderly manner.
Tom stood watching me, lacing and unlacing his fingers. He looked nervous. “Would you like the nickel tour?”
“Sure. May I ask, do you own this duplex?”
“I inherited it from my uncle.”
He didn’t act as if I were being nosy. He led me into the next room, which was the kitchen. Again, everything was in place, including the toaster and microwave. The counter was clean and not one dish was in the sink.
“This place is spotless. Do you hire out?”
He laughed his loud and grating laugh. “Would you…like something to drink?”
“Tea?” I wasn’t about to imbibe anything alcoholic.
He looked relieved. “Is iced tea all right? That’s what I drink because I can’t drink anything stronger before going to work.”
He must be a conscientious worker.
“Sure.”
Tom filled two glasses with ice cubes from an outlet on the freezer. A couple of cubes dropped to the floor. He immediately picked them up and threw them in the sink. He took a pitcher out of the refrigerator and filled the glasses with the dark liquid. He offered me sugar. I put a spoonful in my glass to take the edge off the tart taste.
That’s when I noticed he was in his sock feet. It fit in with the clean house. “Do you want me to take my shoes off?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” After I did that he said, “Would you like to go upstairs? That’s where my computer is.”
He acted surprised when I accepted. He wasn’t used to having company, at least not female company. We carried our glasses with us. I followed him up the narrow stairway next to the wall bordering the other half of the duplex.
The top floor seemed to consist of two rooms and a bathroom. I assumed the room with the closed door was Tom’s bedroom. He led me to the other room where he had a fairly elaborate computer setup. As with the downstairs, everything was exactly positioned. There were no odd pieces of paper or loose wires lying around.
In answer to his question, I told him I was a neophyte at researching family history. He carried a straight-backed chair over to the computer for me, and sat down at an old wooden swivel chair, himself. He brought up a program that showed the tree structure he had input. It contained all of the Boyd information Frances and I found.
After a few seconds of figuring out how the chart was structured, I picked out the four Jasons with their birth and death information. Even the death date of Jason III was recorded. Tom certainly was thorough. I pointed to it and expressed surprise.
“This Jason Boyd. He just died a few days ago?”
“He was murdered. It was in the Times and on TV news. He lived close to here. I wanted to get to know him. Now…it’s too late.”
He seemed to be genuinely distressed. He didn’t sound like a murderer.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I remember that, although I don’t think he’s related to me.” I looked at the boxes for the man Frances and I were calling Jason IV and his brother, Timothy, on the Northern Ireland line. There was a date of birth for Timothy but not a date of death. So Tom didn’t have the chart completely up-to-date. I decided not to mention it since I was pretending these weren’t my relatives. Instead, I asked him a question.
“Where do you fit in on this chart? Are you Jason’s cousin?”
“No. Genealogically, I don’t fit into the chart. But the story I heard from my father is that my grandfather was raised by his mother, a Jean Kelly. He never knew who his father was, but they lived near Jason Boyd and he apparently gave my grandfather presents from time to time. He may have helped out Jean Kelly, financially, too. I don’t have any siblings or close cousins, so I’ve sort of adopted the Boyds as my imaginary family.”
“Have you ever been to Ireland?”
He laughed his grating laugh. “On my salary?”
“Did you ever meet Jason?”
“Unfortunately, no. As I said, I wanted to introduce myself to Jason, but I never got up the courage to do it. Now it’s too late.”
We went over the various lines on the chart. Grandma was there and so were my parents. Then I saw my own box, with my correct date of birth. It was eerie looking at information about me while pretending to b
e someone else. My brother Michael’s birth and death dates were there. Eerier still since I was sitting next to a Michael impersonator.
It occurred to me if Tom had any notion I was Cynthia Sakai he wouldn’t be showing me this. At least my cover was safe for the moment. When Tom showed me the line that stayed in Northern Ireland, I asked him if the current generation was still living there.
He pointed to Timothy’s chart. “I just recently found out the Irish information with the help of the genealogy society. As far as I know, he’s still living near Belfast.”
Either he was a good liar or he really believed what he was saying. He pointed to the box of the Jason that Frances called Jason IV.
“This Jason is living in Edinburgh, Scotland.”
He didn’t say how he knew that. I continued to show interest.
“Would it be possible for me to get a copy of this chart? This is very interesting to me, but I’m new at it and would like to study it more.”
I wanted to compare it to the chart Frances printed, in case there were some differences I was missing. Tom was adept at using the computer. He printed a number of pages, showing all of the Boyd information. I folded them and put them in my lap. I didn’t want to open my purse, containing the gun and the knife.
I had an idea. “Have you ever taken a DNA test?”
Tom shook his head. “I’ve never been able to afford one.”
“Someone gave me one I haven’t used. It’s in my purse.”
As soon as I said that, I had second thoughts. I turned my body away from Tom and carefully opened the purse, hoping he wouldn’t notice my odd behavior. I had to feel around in the purse for endless seconds before I found the test kit I’d purchased from Frances. The hard reality of the gun against my fingers comforted me. I pulled out the kit and quickly closed the purse before turning back to face Tom.
I explained how the Y-DNA was passed down from father to son. “It might help you figure out what your paternal family name really is.”
“Uh, how much does it cost?”
“I’ll let you have it. I really don’t have a use for it.”
He told me he couldn’t accept it. Not wanting to bruise his male ego, I smiled sweetly and told him if he didn’t take the kit it would go to waste. I could tell he wanted to do it. When he accepted it he was very appreciative. I showed him how to take the test. He immediately took the small brush and gave his cheek the first of three scrapings. Then he turned to me.
