by Cook, Alan
“You’ll have to excuse me. I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing I forget about everyone else. You said you were interested in Boyds, too. Do you think these people are your cousins?”
I shook my head, quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No, I didn’t recognize any of the names. I suspect I come from a different line of Boyds. It was interesting to see your Boyds, however. Every piece of information helps. I don’t want to take up your time looking for my Boyds. I know you have to get to work soon.”
“Not for a while yet. Can you stay?”
He sounded lonely. “It must be strange working at night. Do you ever get a day off?”
Tom laughed. His laugh could become tiresome.
“I’m supposed to get two days off a week, but I have to fight for them. My last day off was Monday.”
The latest scam attempt occurred on Monday. He’d told Officer Watson he was sleeping on Monday. Was this a slip?
“What do you do on your days off?”
“Work on my computer. Go to movies or watch them here. I have the capability to download them.”
My thoughts about how lonely he must be seemed to be verified. I almost felt sorry for him. I wanted to ask him more questions, such as “Why did you scam my grandmother?” and “Did you kill Jason III and Timothy?” I needed to remember he was potentially dangerous and keep my guard up.
Tom took a sip of his iced tea, and then turned to the computer. He spoke shyly.
“I Googled you.”
A shockwave went through me. “You what?”
His voice got stronger. “I know who you are.”
Another shockwave. Did he know I was Cynthia? I clutched my purse, again feeling the hardness of the gun through the fabric.
“I Googled ‘Aiko Murakawa.’ This is what I found.”
He brought up a page on the screen. It was the damned YouTube video of me in a swimsuit. Fear oozed out of me, leaving me perspiring and limp. He’d almost given me a heart attack. The video didn’t give me away. My hair was long in it, not short as it was when I was in the news. Tom appeared to be entranced. Well, it wasn’t much of a swimsuit. “Not enough material to wad a shotgun,” as I’d heard Grandma say about what some teenybopper was wearing.
“I was a lot younger then.”
“You were beautiful. That is…you-you still are.”
It was a good exit line. “I have to go now. I can find my own way out.” I stood and took a step toward the door.
“Wait! Sit down.”
It wasn’t a request; it was a command. It was the voice on the telephone when he was demanding that Grandma send him the money. Tom was suddenly standing between me and the door. I sat and clutched my purse. Maybe he did know.
He picked up a camera sitting beside the computer. “I-I just want to take a couple of pictures of you—to prove to my friends you were really here. I’ve never had a model in my house…” His voice trailed off. The commanding tone was gone.
The video continued to play with a musical background someone had added. I watched a younger version of me I didn’t remember, smiling and showing off her body. Did I ever look that good?
Tom snapped a shot of me. “Uh, could you take off your sweater?”
He sounded nervous. I was still wearing my black sweater I’d worn against the evening chill. Unlike with Rigo earlier today, I was wearing something underneath it—actually another sweater, blue in color, but form fitting. It was a reasonable request. I was also wearing a short skirt for the first time since I’d been in L.A., celebrating my abating poison oak.
Thinking about the poison oak put my brain in gear. “I wish I still looked like I did in the video, but I’m just getting over a terrible case of poison oak. I pulled up the blue sweater and showed him my stomach where some of the rash was still evident. “Rash, blisters, itching, scratching. Did you ever have anything like that?”
Tom had a funny expression on his face. Had I hit the proverbial sore spot? I’d better not press it. If I came too close to the truth, he might get suspicious. His hands seemed to have cleared up, especially the palms, but he was clearly startled by my question. And since he was nervous about photographing me, perhaps I could gain the upper hand.
“If I can use your bathroom to fix myself up, I’ll let you take some nice pictures of me.” Boxes of games sat on a shelf in the corner. “Then I’ll play backgammon with you until you have to leave for work.”
“You play backgammon? Nobody seems to play anymore. I never get a chance…”
I took that as a positive sign and walked to the bathroom, unimpeded. After I did some primping, I posed for him but I was in control. He’d obviously never worked with a model before. He didn’t ask to take anything sexy. Perhaps he was too nervous. His hands shook a little. In any case, he really wanted a record that I’d been there, just as he said. The results wouldn’t faze Grandma. The swimsuit video was another story. She’d never seen that and never would.
Tom and I played backgammon. Tom got lucky and beat me a few times. When I began to win I gave him some pointers on improving his game. He took them better than Rigo did when I gave him suggestions. He really wanted to learn.
A phone rang and it took me a few seconds to realize it was the cell phone in my purse. I muttered an excuse, turned my back to Tom, and pulled it out. I had too many things in my purse. Rigo was on the line. It was ten twenty-five. I pressed the talk button.
“Hi, I’m just leaving. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
I disconnected before Rigo could say anything. I figured this was my ticket out of there. Tom had to go to work, anyway. I put the phone back in the purse, closed, it, and stood up.
“I almost forgot. I have to meet a friend. I’ll concede the game to you.”
“You told me you didn’t have a phone.”
Lies come back to haunt you. I spoke breezily. “Oh, I just got it today.” I picked up my black sweater and the empty iced tea glasses. “I’ll take these downstairs.”
“Give me the number so I know how to get hold of you. I-I’d like to see you again.”
I couldn’t do that. It was the North Carolina phone. I turned at the doorway. “I’ll call you. I had a lovely time. I can find my own way out.”
I scampered down the stairs. Tom, apparently stunned by my fast exit, didn’t follow me. I took the glasses into the kitchen and placed them on the counter. I’d looked at the window above the kitchen sink when he was showing me around. It had a simple lock. I unlocked it.
I turned off the kitchen light and went to the front door, remembering to slip on my shoes. Tom was just coming down the stairs. Before he could speak I said a quick good-bye to him and exited the house into the moonlit night.
CHAPTER 22
My car was parked on Tom’s street. I got in it and drove around the corner, re-parking on a side street facing Tom’s street. He would take it to go to work. Several cars were between me and the intersection, so he wouldn’t see my car.
I called Rigo and apologized for being so short with him. I told him I’d left Tom’s house. I thanked him for covering my back and said I’d see him tomorrow. I didn’t tell him I wasn’t returning directly to my motel. Then I disconnected and watched for Tom’s car. He drove past a few minutes later. I planned to wait an additional ten minutes, just to be sure he wasn’t coming back.
It was a good thing I did. Seven minutes later his car turned right onto my street, having come from the direction that led to the market. When I recognized his car I panicked and quickly ducked my head, hoping he hadn’t recognized my car. After he went past I raised my head and looked through my outside mirror in time to see Tom’s car turn down the alley toward his garage. Apparently, he wasn’t after me. I was thankful I wasn’t still driving the red Porsche. Since the garage was at the other end of the alley, I hadn’t expected to see him come this way, even if he did return.
Should I move my car? A moving car is much easier to spot than one parked in a line of parked cars. I was proba
bly safe here in the dark. I decided to stay put, although I was nervous about it. A few minutes later, Tom’s car again went past the intersection on the street that led toward the market. He’d driven in a circle. Apparently, he’d forgotten something. He was going to be late for work.
I waited until eleven before moving, which was the time his shift started. I drove to the same side street I’d parked on the night before when I’d followed him to the market. I parked near the alley that led to Tom’s garage, and changed into my running shoes. I checked my mirrors to make sure nobody was lurking nearby, and then got out of the car, leaving my purse under the seat.
I hid the car key behind the left front tire, since my sweater and skirt didn’t give me a secure pocket. I carried a small flashlight I’d purchased earlier. I walked along the alley to Tom’s garage. Beside it was a white picket fence with a gate.
The gate had a latch but no lock. I’d noticed that the night before. I unlatched it and stepped into the tiny backyard, containing more dirt than grass and a few scraggly plants. As I went around the garage I saw a light on in the tenants’ side of the duplex. I could see into the kitchen window. It was cracked open. They must like the cool night air. I’d have to be careful.
I didn’t see anybody through the window, so I quickly ran to the back of Tom’s side of the duplex. I was now out of sight of the tenants’ window, unless one of the tenants stuck a head out. I had to work quietly. Tom’s kitchen window was about six feet off the ground. I hadn’t noticed that when I’d been inside.
I reached up and felt the screen covering the window. I was pretty sure I had to slide it sideways to get it out of the track in the frame around the window. I couldn’t get a grip on the screen. I needed to be taller. Which meant I needed something to stand on. I glanced around the yard, seeing by a sliver of light from the tenants’ window. The only possible object I spotted that might help was an empty ceramic flowerpot.
Would it be sturdy enough? It was located where it was visible from the tenants’ window. I carefully went over to it, keeping an eye on that window, and picked it up. It was quite heavy but not wide. I lugged it back to Tom’s window, set it on the ground, and examined it in the dim light. If I didn’t jump on it, it shouldn’t break.
I placed the flowerpot face down on the ground below Tom’s window, and gingerly stepped on it while holding onto the windowsill. There was no handle with which to grip the screen, so I held the flashlight in my mouth, turned off, and tried to use pressure to slide the screen out of the track. As I applied more pressure, a corner of the screen pulled out of its frame.
Shit. However, this gave me the grip I needed to slide the screen out of the track. While doing this I damaged the screen a bit more. I would try to repair it before I left. I lifted the screen off the window, stepped carefully down from the flowerpot, set the screen on the ground, and leaned it against the house.
The kitchen was dark. I remounted the flowerpot and shone the flashlight on the sink area just inside the window. Avoid the faucets and the spout when going through the window. Easier said than done. At least there weren’t any dishes on the counter or in the sink, thanks to Tom and his compulsion for neatness. He’d even cleaned up the glasses I’d left in the sink.
I slid the window open, feeling glad I’d unlocked it before I left the house, placed the flashlight inside on the kitchen counter, took a grip on the windowsill, and pulled myself up toward the opening. I promptly hit my head on the bottom of the open window sash.
I slid back down and tried to get my feet on the pot again, but I managed to kick it over. I lowered myself to the ground and held my breath as I listened for sounds from the other half of the duplex. Silence reigned except for a low-level hum that could be somebody speaking. Hopefully, the tenants were watching television and that drowned out my noises.
I replaced the pot, climbed back on top of it, and this time managed to get my upper body through the window headfirst without making much noise. I placed my hands on the counter and carefully worked my legs inside, avoiding the faucets. I dropped to the floor, retrieved the flashlight, and turned it on.
I’d scraped my knee on the side of the house. A thin stream of blood trickled down my leg. I tore off a piece of paper towel from a holder and stanched the flow. Then I placed it in Tom’s covered trash container. My head hurt, too, and might be bleeding, but I decided not to touch that unless blood started streaming down my face.
It’s time to get to work. Then I remembered I should take off my running shoes. I unlaced them and set them on the kitchen floor. Now, what was I looking for? Evidence that Tom was a scammer and/or a killer. I didn’t think I’d find anything downstairs. Using the flashlight to guide me, I went through the house to the stairs and climbed them quickly and quietly, remembering they were next to the wall between the halves of the duplex.
I opened the door to Tom’s bedroom and shone the light inside. He had one of those old double beds that wasn’t king or queen-size. Quaint. It was neatly made, of course, and the room was immaculate. I opened the closet door and peeked inside. His clothes were hung on hangers with care, all facing the same way. Several pairs of shoes were lined up on the floor. Nothing of interest.
I opened each drawer of his small dresser. Socks, underwear, all in place. It occurred to me Tom was so neat he was helping me with my search. There was nothing hidden. I closed the drawers, exited the bedroom, and shut the door.
I went into the bathroom. I’d been in here earlier and seen a soap dispenser, an electric toothbrush, and a tube of fluoride toothpaste on the sink. I hadn’t opened the cabinet. I did now. Again his penchant for order helped me. I quickly spotted the bottle of prescription pills. I read the label. It was a form of penicillin and the date was recent. Here was evidence Tom was treating a problem. His hand problem, perhaps syphilis. Score one for Dr. Kemp. Nothing else caught my attention.
Next I went into the computer room. The computer was turned off. A two-drawer filing cabinet I’d spotted earlier stood against one wall. I opened the top drawer. It contained neatly labeled file folders. The tab of the first one said “Bank Statements.” Maybe I was getting lucky. At least he hadn’t gone paperless.
The newest statement was in front. Tom was into electronic banking. His paycheck was deposited automatically, every two weeks. His utility bills and cable bill were paid electronically. So was his credit card bill. I checked the manual deposits, looking for transactions in the five or ten thousand dollar range. There were several deposits of from one to several hundred dollars, but nothing larger. He’d only written a few checks, and those were relatively small.
I leafed through three other statements. They were almost identical to the first one. Tom was Mr. Bland, living a completely predictable life. If he’d paid for a plane ticket to Northern Ireland, he’d done it by credit card. I needed to find his credit card statements.
I didn’t have to search any further than the next file folder, which had “Credit Card Statements” printed on the tab. I opened it and looked at Tom’s most recent three statements. He hadn’t purchased any airline tickets, or anything else very expensive. He was living on a shoestring, just as he’d said.
If he didn’t deposit the ten thousand dollars, what had he done with the money? Hidden it? He was so neat, it would be difficult for him to hide anything. I went through the file folders to see if he’d slipped the bills into one of them. Nope. I was about to close the drawer when something jogged my memory. A piece of paper had looked familiar.
I went back through the folders until I found one labeled “Tickets.” I hadn’t been looking at the labels. Inside was the sheet of paper that had caught my eye. It was an e-ticket. Since I’d been flying a lot, recently, that’s why it looked familiar. I pulled it out. It was a reservation to fly roundtrip from Los Angeles to Edinburgh in about a week.
Jason IV lived in Edinburgh. Excited now, I tore a sheet of scratch paper off a pad beside the computer, and with a pencil also sitting there I copied t
he flight information and shoved it in my bra.
I still hadn’t found any proof of wrongdoing. The best bet was to find the money, or the cell phone he used—or a gun. I did a frenzied search of the whole house, looking in drawers, under furniture, and in all the cracks I could find. I even checked the kitchen cabinets and peered inside Tom’s cooking pots. After a lot of frantic but wasted effort I stopped and tried to get control of myself. I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. I’d been here too long. I needed to leave.
I shone the flashlight on the kitchen counter and window to plan my escape when I saw footprints on the counter made by the dirt from the backyard that had stuck to my shoes. I checked the floor. There were prints where I’d landed on the floor before taking my shoes off. Tom would certainly notice the mess.
I picked up the shoes and dropped them out the window. Then I found a sponge and hastily cleaned the prints from the counter and floor and wiped them dry with a paper towel. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. With my flashlight in my mouth I climbed onto the counter and worked my legs out the window.
Everything went well until I tried to put my feet on the flowerpot. One foot hit the corner of it and while I was struggling for a foothold I knocked the unstable pot over again. This time it landed on some small rocks that formed the edge of a flowerbed, making a distinct crack. I dropped to the ground, landing on my feet but twisting an ankle, and then fell on my side.
“Who’s there?”
I looked at the window of the other half of the duplex and saw the head of a man sticking out and looking in my direction. I was in almost total darkness, so he probably couldn’t see me. However, I wasn’t going to stick around. I got up and limped toward the side of the garage as fast as I could go. I was visible for a few seconds, but only dimly.
