The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  I beamed at Jordan. I wanted to leap from the jury box and embrace her.

  “Now that the court has your attention, Mr. West,” Jordan said, “will you please answer whether you have any prior knowledge of this case?”

  Her cold, official tone rocked me.

  “Yeah, um, yes,” I stammered.

  “Is that, yes, you have prior knowledge, or, yes, you will answer the question?”

  I tried not to look wounded, but failed. The harder I tried, the more my face flushed.

  “Yes, I’ll answer the question,” I said. “No, I have no prior knowledge of this case.”

  Jordan continued to play it straight.

  “Will you follow the law as given, even if you disagree with it?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. My mouth went dry. How could Jordan so convincingly mask her knowledge of all that we once shared.

  “Do you have any feelings that might make it hard to remain impartial?” she said.

  “No,” I said, my leg shaking.

  “One last question, Mr. West,” Jordan said. “Are you acquainted with anyone involved on either side of these proceedings?”

  What did she expect me to say? That I once had a personal relationship with the deputy district attorney? That I once pledged my heart to her forever? That she remains, to this day, my one true love?

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Answer the question, please, Mr. West,” Judge Weinberg said.

  I stared at Jordan. She offered me nothing.

  I was under oath. Did she really want me to tell the truth? Why was she playing this game of courtroom chicken? Would she risk a reprimand from the judge, just to see me squirm?

  “I, uh, I—”

  Jordan cut me off. “The People thank and excuse Mr. West.”

  “You are excused, Mr. West,” Judge Weinberg said.

  I stood and wobbled. I was so numb, I could barely feel my feet.

  “And, Mr. West,” the judge added, “please try to stay awake for the remainder of your day.”

  There were a few chuckles from the jury pool.

  I stepped down from the jury box. To reach the aisle leading out of the courtroom, I had to walk by the prosecution table. Jordan was now seated, eyes on her notepad.

  As I passed near her, I could smell her familiar scent. My knees trembled. My heart ached.

  I silently begged her to make eye contact.

  Jordan looked up from the notepad.

  I smiled at her.

  She looked past me and called the name of her next prospective juror.

  CHAPTER 21

  I paced the corridor, waiting for court to recess.

  I didn’t know what I would say to Jordan, but I had to say something.

  At noon, the courtroom doors swung open and the jurors filed out. The defense attorney, the court reporter and the bailiff followed them.

  For a moment, I wondered if Jordan had slipped out through Judge Weinberg’s chambers in an effort to avoid me. But that wasn’t her style. I was the one who had slipped out on her.

  I was standing by the water fountain when she whisked out the door. She strode briskly down the hallway, briefcase swinging at her side, her heels clicking purposefully across the polished floor.

  I fell into step with her.

  “Jury duty, huh?” she said. “I thought you might be here on a stalking charge.”

  I stopped in my tracks. My face burned.

  Jordan pulled up, her hand on her hip. I thought of all the times I had wrapped my arms around that perfect waist and tugged her close to me.

  “You know, Ty, calls and letters are one thing, but cruising my house?”

  She resumed walking, and I hurried to keep up.

  “Jordan, sorry, but I just wanted—I—how have you been?”

  “You mean recently, or for the last twelve years?”

  We reached the elevator. Jordan pressed the DOWN button.

  “About that…”

  The elevator doors opened, and Jordan stepped in.

  “Forget it,” she said. “It all turned out for the best. For you, too. The Pulitzer Prize. All your dreams came true.”

  “Not all of them,” I said.

  But the elevator doors had already closed.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Museum of Medieval History was packed with tourists when I arrived. The new museum had vaulted onto the list of the city’s must-see attractions, up there with SeaWorld and the San Diego Zoo.

  Everyone wanted a look at the machine that had slaughtered Mayor Stanton. The notorious Iron Maiden.

  I spotted Merrill Addison talking to a docent in the annex where the Iron Maiden stood. He looked pleased, relaxed. His gamble to leave New York had paid off. He now headed the most popular museum in America.

  When he saw me approach, his expression soured.

  “I was just wondering,” I said, gesturing to the Maiden. “What would she say about her embrace with Mayor Stanton if she could talk?”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Addison replied.

  “Meaning I don’t think the mayor’s death was an accident.”

  He snickered. “That’s preposterous.”

  “You said you had removed this thing’s trigger mechanism,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, the springs.”

  “Where did you put them?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but the basement.”

  “The basement?”

  Addison sighed theatrically. “There is a large storage room in the museum basement where the shipping containers and packing materials are kept. Each artifact has its own shelf, where background literature, photos, assembly instructions, and the like are placed. It’s all very organized so that the assistant curator in charge of writing the exhibit guide, say, can quickly locate reference materials on any piece in the museum. Or an exhibit installer can easily find an assembly diagram he needs. I set the two springs on the shelf in the area assigned to the Maiden, space D-4.”

  “I assume this storage room is kept locked?” I said.

  “Not during working hours.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” Addison said. “You’re trying to turn this into something criminal. The truth is, nobody else on my staff knew that the museum’s insurance carrier had insisted that the Maiden’s triggering mechanism be disengaged. So some medieval art expert—versed in the operation of the Iron Maiden, yet ignorant of the insurance edict—went down to the basement looking for something, happened upon the two springs, then replaced them in the Maiden, thinking they were doing his or her job. It was just a tragic mistake.”

  “So who replaced the springs?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “Ask the police. They’ve interviewed the staff. The authorities are quite satisfied that the mayor died in an accident, as am I. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

  I nodded at the throng packed six-deep around the Iron Maiden. “I see business is booming. I guess this tragic accident wasn’t such a tragedy for you.”

  “I resent that implication!” Addison said, then turned and left.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jordan was a married woman. Despite my many faults, I wasn’t about to mess with another man’s wife—even if I was in love with her.

  The right thing to do would be to forget Jordan Sinclair and move on with my life. But I couldn’t forget her.

  I needed Jordan in my life, not on the edge of it. I needed her in my life, even if only as a friend.

  But why would Jordan want to have anything to do with me? Even if she could consider me a friend, where did that leave her husband? What did I expect? For Mr. Sinclair and I to become golf buddies?

  The more I thought about making friends with Jordan and her husband, the crazier it sounded. But I tried anyway.

  Over the next few days, I left several messages for Jordan at the District Attorney’s office. None of them were returned.

  Whenever I call
ed, Jordan’s secretary said she was “in court.” Maybe Jordan hated me. Or maybe she saw the impracticality of even an innocent relationship.

  I thought of turning up at the courthouse and “accidentally” bumping into her. But I knew that would make me the creepy ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t let go. The stalker.

  One evening I drove along the ocean, brooding. My phone sat on the empty seat, mocking me.

  I snatched it up and dialed the DA’s office.

  “Sinclair.”

  I was startled when Jordan answered her own phone.

  “You’re in.”

  “And you’re persistent,” Jordan said. “But you always were. What’s going on here, Ty?”

  “I just want to make things right.”

  “Don’t go all contrite on me now,” she said. “I liked you better as a careless cad.”

  “I want us to be friends,” I said. “At least friendly. Living in the same town and not speaking is dumb.”

  “It’s worked for years,” she said breezily.

  “Jordan,” I said, hoping I sounded more sincere than desperate.

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Are you still there?” I said.

  “Come to the house for lunch on Sunday,” she finally said. “I’m sure you know the way. We will expect you around noon.”

  She hung up before I could reply.

  I turned on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard. The sun dipped beneath the vast blue horizon. Surfers loaded their boards into cars before stepping from their wet suits to towel off. I had the top down. The air smelled fresh. The dreamy sounds of Yo La Tengo’s I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One played on the stereo as I rounded the curves.

  The moment was bittersweet. Jordan was letting me back into her life, but at a steep price. Reality was intruding on my fantasy

  “We will expect you around noon,” she had said.

  We.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tiffany Samples drove her Jaguar XK8 convertible to the HomeMart world headquarters in the Golden Triangle.

  The upscale commercial district—bordered by three freeways—was ten miles north of downtown. From her office, she could see her seven-acre hilltop estate above the tony seaside village of La Jolla. The Spanish Revival-style mansion had a vanishing-edge pool that appeared to flow directly into the Pacific Ocean.

  Tiffany was the CEO of the home improvement chain founded by her late husband Roy Samples. But hardware bored her. The only nails she cared about were the carefully manicured ones on her own two hands.

  She left the day-to-day duties to Bennett Ridley, HomeMart’s chief operations officer. Tiffany found him a snooze, but liked the profits the workaholic generated. She only stopped by once a week to sign the financial papers needed to keep the HomeMart behemoth chugging.

  The former Penthouse Pet spent the rest of her week shopping, staying in shape and riding horses at her stables in Fairbanks Ranch.

  After her visits to the HomeMart headquarters, Tiffany always went to Sporting Club One, a luxury fitness and spa facility.

  Tiffany had a gym at home, as well as a personal trainer. But what was the point of maintaining a rock-solid body if it couldn’t be seen?

  Sporting Club One was in the Aventine, a landmark building designed by the renowned architect Michael Graves. It offered the latest in cardiovascular and strength training equipment.

  On this day, Tiffany worked on her upper body. As she did three sets on the pectoral fly machine, she knew that her 36-D’s were the focus of attention. They were firm, symmetrical and absolutely natural.

  The men looked for obvious reasons. The women stared out of jealousy. Tiffany was gifted with something they failed to attain even with repeated visits to the plastic surgeons on Prospect Street.

  The only artificial thing about her was the color of her eyes. She had been born with brown eyes, but tired of the endless suitors serenading her with “Brown-Eyed Girl.” Although she had perfect vision, she wore uncorrected colored contact lenses. Her eyes were now sapphire, matching the five-carat rock on her finger.

  Tiffany finished with the pectoral fly machine and moved to the StairMaster. The console had a TV. She watched The Real Housewives of San Diego and made snarky comments to herself about the women. During commercials, she gazed out the tinted window at the sea.

  She followed her workout with an hour-long Swedish massage with Carlo. She added a hundred-dollar tip to the bill, even though she knew the masseuse would gladly have done the job for free.

  On her way home, Tiffany always dropped by the Jamba Juice in the La Jolla Village Square shopping center.

  She usually bought a large Jamba Powerboost smoothie. But today she felt a slight case of the sniffles, so she went with the Coldbuster. The citrus smoothie contained 2000 percent of the recommended daily intake of Vitamin C, and a dose of Echinacea.

  Tiffany was too busy having fun to get sick.

  The HomeMart heiress sipped her drink as she crossed the parking lot. She wore tight jeans and a Juicy Couture scoop-neck tank top.

  She pointed the key fob at her car. The Jag’s doors unlocked. She started to get into the car, then stopped.

  A white panel van was backed into the parking space diagonal to hers. The van’s back doors were open. A wad of keys sat on the asphalt, below the van’s bumper.

  Tiffany circled the hood of her Jag. She peered inside the back of the van. Cardboard boxes filled much of the space.

  “Anybody in here?” she said. “You dropped your keys.”

  No answer.

  Tiffany picked up the keys from the asphalt. She noticed the van’s vanity license plate—AUTODFE—and wondered what it meant. She turned her back to the van. She scanned the parking lot, hoping to spot the van’s owner.

  Suddenly, she was grabbed from behind and pulled into the van.

  The cup fell from her hand and landed on the asphalt. Smoothie splattered the spokes of the Jag’s wheel.

  The van’s back doors slammed shut.

  CHAPTER 25

  Tiffany flailed in the arms of her abductor, kicking at the boxes he had hidden behind. She couldn’t see his face.

  “Boy, you’re strong, Ms. Samples,” Friar Tom said. “I bet you work out.”

  He stifled her screams with a strip of duct tape. He tied her hands and kicking feet with nylon rope. He placed a black velvet hood over her head.

  The smell of Tiffany’s fear had mixed with her Marc Jacobs perfume. Friar Tom inhaled deeply. The scent was intoxicating.

  He scrambled between the bucket seats and started the engine.

  He drove a couple miles an hour over the speed limit. The only people who drove sixty-five in Southern California were senior citizens and criminals. He didn’t want to attract any attention.

  Tiffany writhed on her side in the back of the van, her ear pressed to the metal floorboard. She could tell from the vibration that they were moving fast—probably along the I-5—but she didn’t know if they were going north or south.

  Tiffany was petrified, yet relieved that her kidnapper knew who she was. This had to be a ransom deal. HomeMart COO Bennett Ridley would pay whatever the man wanted, and she would soon be back shopping at Neiman Marcus.

  Bennett had often urged her to get a bodyguard. He said that a woman of her wealth was a target. Why hadn’t she listened to him?

  After ten minutes, Tiffany felt the van slow and veer slightly right, as if exiting a freeway. The van stopped and started repeatedly, perhaps at traffic lights or stop signs. She still had no idea where she was.

  She heard the roar of a jet overhead. It sounded like it might land on them. The airport! They had to be heading south on Pacific Highway.

  The excitement of recognizing her location was soon replaced by the doubt that it would do her any good. Still, she tried to pay attention to little details. They might help someone find her.

  The van made a left. Tiffany knew they were now driving east.

  Her head slammed on the pane
l van’s metal floorboard as they bounced over a set of railroad tracks. She heard pedestrians talking outside. Trolley passengers!

  Were they on Vine Street? Sassafras? Laurel? Grape? She didn’t know where the trolley stopped. She never rode it.

  Tiffany heard the van decelerate. She felt it head up a hilly street. Boxes began to slide down the floorboard. Tiffany did, too. She didn’t stop until her feet hit the back doors.

  She knew the van was climbing a very steep hill. The grade was so pitched that the van stopped and rolled back a little before it dropped into low gear and lumbered up the incline.

  The van turned left while still heading uphill and came to a stop. Tiffany lay in complete darkness, but the rest of her senses were humming.

  She heard the driver’s side window roll down, then the sound of her captor pressing something outside. It sounded like a touch-tone telephone.

  When she heard a gate start to automatically open, she knew the man had been punching in the security code on a keypad.

  With a lurch, the van started slowly up a driveway.

  Tiffany figured they had to be somewhere on Bankers Hill, an affluent neighborhood of imposing houses, a couple miles north of downtown.

  She formed a mental picture as the van continued up the hill. She imagined they were climbing a private driveway. They were approaching a large manor. Nothing the scale of her ocean-view estate, of course. But grand, nonetheless.

  She realized that didn’t make sense. Why would a rich person want to kidnap her for ransom?

  The van stopped and she heard the man step out.

  Tiffany listened to what sounded like a garage door rolling open.

  The man returned and pulled the van forward.

  Tiffany heard the garage door close. From the sound of it, she assumed they were parked in a large garage.

  The van’s back doors opened. The man grabbed her under her arms and dragged her from the van. The Dolce & Gabbana leopard thong sandals slipped from her feet and her heels pounded on the cement floor. She screamed in pain, but the sock taped in her mouth muffled the noise.