Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  I drove to the high school next. It was a sprawling campus of single-story buildings bustling with afterschool activity. I’d intended to start at the office but knowing how protective such institutions are of student privacy, I decided to talk to students instead. It didn’t take long to learn that Danny Alvarez was a sophomore with a reputation for being quiet and studious. People knew who he was, but he appeared to have few close friends. No one was able to tell me where he lived.

  I’d made as much progress as I was going to make for the moment, and headed home.

  Bryce had gone back at his place, and while I knew we’d chat by phone later that evening, the house felt empty. Time alone, I reminded myself. Wasn’t wariness about too much togetherness one reason I was hesitant about marriage? But logic takes you only so far where emotions are concerned. And it wasn’t taking me far at all right then.

  I tapped out a quick text—Miss you—and sent it before I could change my mind.

  I took Loretta for a walk, then called Warren’s sister, Nora, to ask about his step-daughter, Juliet.

  “I don’t know her well,” Nora said. “I got along well with her mother, but Juliet had a chip on her shoulder. She was downright rude sometimes. I had as little to do with her as possible.”

  “So you haven’t talked to her recently?”

  “Not since her mother died. Last I heard she was marrying some guy in Pennsylvania. She contacted Warren over the summer. She wanted to borrow money, if you can believe it.”

  “Did he lend it to her?”

  “I have no idea, My advice was that he tell her to go pound sand.”

  I had to chuckle. “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  “I suppose I should be more charitable, but you’re right, I don’t particularly like her.”

  “Will Juliet inherit anything from Warren?”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  So Juliet was self-centered and snarky, but would being denied a loan drive her to murder? It seemed farfetched, not to mention pointless, unless she would inherit from him. Or thought she would.

  “By the way, did Warren ever talk about someone named Danny?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “Just following up on some loose ends. I suppose you saw the paper this morning?”

  A beat of silence. “The story on Warren’s death? Yeah, I saw it.”

  “They really went after Ariel, despite the dearth of facts. She’s had the press on her doorstep all day.”

  “I’m afraid it could get a lot worse,” Nora said. “A whole lot worse if she actually killed him.”

  ~*~

  I raided the fridge for the last bites of leftover steak and then called Margot.

  “Want to come over for a glass of wine?”

  “You read my mind. Now?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  Margot is a flamboyant redhead who favors bright lipstick and chunky bracelets. She struck me as being a bit over the top when I first met her but I’ve gotten used to the splashy style. Or maybe she’d toned it down some in the four years I’ve known her.

  She brought a plate of homemade fudge and set it on the counter while I poured our wine, and then we moved to more comfortable chairs in the living room.

  “Too bad it’s not warm enough to sit outside,” she said. “Your view never fails to enchant me.”

  My house, high in the Berkeley hills, has a wall of windows facing west over the bay and San Francisco beyond. It is a stunning view, sunshine or fog, but except for nice afternoons and rare summer evenings it’s best appreciated from inside. The Bay Area can be chilly no matter what the season.

  “How was dinner with your ex-wife?” I asked.

  “Very nice. Did Bryce finally get home?”

  “Yesterday. He was here last night.”

  “Lucky you.” Margot calls Bryce a stud-muffin, a term that makes him uncomfortable coming from her. “I miss being married,” she said wistfully.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. “You wish you were still with your wife?”

  “No. I mean, I’m glad we’re friends but that’s all. It’s just that marriage is really nice. You’ve got a ready companion, someone who’s there for you and has your back. And if you’re lucky, a soul mate.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “And on a practical level, it’s easier to share chores and expenses than to go it alone.”

  I hadn’t actually thought of marriage in those terms. “You may find someone yet.”

  “Maybe but not likely, all things considered. And this dating stuff isn’t much fun.”

  That, too. All the first dates that went nowhere, the awful evenings spent with someone whose values and interests were nothing like your own. If I didn’t give Bryce an answer soon would he leave me? I didn’t relish the idea of starting over. In fact, it depressed the heck out of me. Besides, he was the person I wanted to be with.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Have you seen any good movies lately?”

  She shook her head. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re a sorry lot. I think we need more wine.”

  We eventually finished off the bottle, and Margot left. But her comments about marriage echoed in my head into the night. Bryce and I were a good match. We got along. We had fun. We wanted the same things in life. We watched out for each other. We were in love.

  So why was I afraid to just say ‘Yes?’

  FIFTEEN

  Bill Chasen’s son, Andy, lived in Antioch, roughly an hour east of Berkeley. He worked at a carpet warehouse there and had agreed to meet us on his lunch hour.

  “What did you tell him?” I asked Jared on our way see him.

  “That we were interested in the effects of white collar crime on families. It seemed better than letting on that we were kicking around the possibility his father arranged Warren Larson’s murder.”

  “I can see I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

  “Hardly. I’ve been devious my whole life. Besides, I really am interested in crime and families.”

  “You didn’t mention Warren at all?”

  “Not directly,” Jared said. “Just that we know his father is serving time for embezzlement.”

  Jared pulled out to pass the car ahead of us, and I gripped the armrest.

  I’d taken him up on his offer to drive, but I was remembering now why I preferred to be the one behind the wheel. He was a young man who loved speed and power.

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself that he hadn’t had an accident yet. That I knew of, anyway.

  ~*~

  Andy Chasen met us in the warehouse parking lot, where I noted a handful of white panel trucks used by the installers. Barbara Boyd had reported seeing a white van the night Warren was killed. Would Andy Chasen have access to one of the company trucks after hours?

  Andy was a hulking young man in his early twenties with a ruddy complexion and lumbering gait. He leaned against the warehouse wall and crossed his arms.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” I told him.

  “Yeah, sure. You’re interested in knowing what it’s like when your family gets shafted by the system, right? It sucks. I’ll tell you that straight off.”

  Shafted by the system was an interesting take on doing time for embezzlement. But I nodded encouragingly.

  “You must have been in your teens when your dad went to prison. I can understand how that would be rough.”

  Andy pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the match onto the asphalt. “Rough, yeah, and that’s putting a sanitized spin on it. My dad was sent away, my mom died, and I got booted into the foster care system. That really sucks.”

  “That’s a lot for a kid to handle,” I said with genuine sympathy.

  “You all are writers or reporters or something, right? You should look into foster care, too. It’s child abuse.”

&
nbsp; “Tell us about your dad,” Jared prompted.

  “He was a hard-working guy. A real family man, you know?” Andy paused and looked away into the distance before continuing. “He taught me to ride a bike, took me fishing, put food on the table and kept a roof over our heads. Then my mom got sick and the bills piled up. My dad was desperate. I know he broke the law, but what was he supposed to do? He was just trying to help his family.”

  “He must be really bitter.”

  “Not half as bitter as me. My mom died during the trial, and after that my dad pretty much just gave up. It’s like he didn’t care about anything anymore. Including me.” Andy took a long drag on his cigarette and blew it out slowly. “I finally stopped visiting him in prison because it was too painful and depressing to see him so broken.”

  “I can see how that would be difficult.”

  “If he’d just show some backbone. Some resolve. Something.”

  “Surely, he must feel some resentment toward the people who turned him in,” I noted.

  Andy’s face hardened. “Maybe he does but he doesn’t dwell on it. He worked at that company for twenty years. Worked hard for them. You’d think they’d have been a bit more understanding.”

  I nodded, acknowledging the sentiment. “And wasn’t there an accountant who discovered the missing money initially?”

  “Yeah. A stuffy old guy. He testified at the trial. A real stickler for details.” Andy snuffed out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. “Listen, I got to get going. All this rehashing what happened just makes me mad all over again.”

  I could see that. His face was flushed and the veins in his neck were livid ridges.

  “So what’s this for?” he asked. “You two writing a book or something?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we’re lawyers.”

  “Lawyers?” He spat the words out with disgust. “The system is rigged, you know. The rich and powerful walk all over everyone else like we’re garbage. And the lawyers help them.”

  “Some do,” I agreed. “But some fight for the little guy.”

  “Not going to change anything,” he said caustically. “The little guy gets screwed every time. But it’s nice to know someone’s keeping an eye out for us. Good luck.”

  When we were safely out of earshot, I turned to Jared. “I think he took your effects-of-prison-on-families story to heart. He assumed we were white hat lawyers fighting the corrupt system.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  I liked to think so, but doubted Andy would agree. “It’s all a matter of perspective, I guess.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “If he’s telling the truth, his dad doesn’t sound like someone who’d call for Warren’s murder.”

  Jared nodded. “But Andy himself, he’s an angry guy.”

  An angry guy with access to a panel truck. But his anger was directed at the construction company that had pressed charges and called in the authorities. They were the ones who’d thrown a long-time, hardworking employee under the bus. So why would he take it out on Warren?

  I felt a sort of glaring bleakness bearing down on me.

  Ariel was going to be arrested. Her case was going to go to trial.

  I’d been hoping to muddy the waters, to toss enough other possibilities into the mix that the District Attorney’s office would decline to prosecute. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  The evidence pointing to Ariel was persuasive, if not compelling, and there was no slam-dunk alternative suspect or theory to dangle before the prosecution. Or the jury down the line. Nor were there obvious holes in the prosecution’s arguments. The pills belonged to Ariel. She had access to the house. There was no sign of a break-in, and no identifiable prints on the pill bottles. A case could be made for motive, too, although it wasn’t necessary. Money and financial gain were at the root of many a murder.

  There you had it. Motive, means, and opportunity.

  Even if I could make the case for an alternate killer at trial, how would I explain his knowing that Warren would be alone that night? Or knowing about Ariel’s medications? I could point to the throw pillows being left on the floor rather than the chair, as was Warren’s habit. But that merely underscored the point that Warren hadn’t removed them from the bed himself. It didn’t rule Ariel out. And while I could offer a handful of people who might have had reason to kill him, I’d need a lot more in the way of evidence to make a convincing argument.

  All in all it did not look good for Ariel.

  ~*~

  Jared dropped me off at the office and went to meet with a client. I returned a few calls, then headed back to Glenwood High School in hopes of learning more about Danny Alvarez. The threatening note in Warren’s jacket pocket seemed like our last hope for fending off an arrest.

  I was pretty sure that if I simply asked school officials for Danny’s address I’d be roundly rejected, and maybe even tossed out on my ear. Instead, I headed for the school library and asked the librarian where the old yearbooks were located.

  “Are you an alum?” she asked with a wide smile.

  “A friend of mine is. We’re planning a surprise party for her.” The answer made little sense and the librarian was wise enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “We’re making a list of old friends and stuff,” I explained.

  “How nice.” The smile was gone but the dubious expression remained. She directed me to a shelf at the back of the library.

  I located last year’s yearbook, thumbed through it, and found Danny’s freshman class photo. He was a slender, clean-cut kid with dark hair and a solemn expression. I looked back at the librarian, who was busy with a student, then pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of Danny’s photo. Then I went through the yearbook page by page, scanning the group photos of clubs and extracurricular activities, searching for Danny’s name. I learned that he was on the JV track team and a member of the Chess Club. It gave me a clearer picture of Danny, but it didn’t get me any closer to finding an address or contact information.

  The dismissal bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. I thought about walking the halls looking for Danny, and then had a better idea. I hurried outside and asked a passing student where the JV track team practiced. He gave me directions to the field at the rear of the campus.

  Over the next half hour students from various teams gathered for practice, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like Danny Alvarez.

  I wandered over to a group of cheerleaders gathered by the football field. They were decked out in purple and white skirts, and purple tops. All wore their hair pulled back in ponytails. Short-haired girls need not try-out.

  “Is your son on the team?” the blonde asked me. She had a friendly smile and braces.

  I was taken aback to realize that I was actually old enough to have a son in his early teens. I tucked that thought away to dwell on at another time.

  “I’m looking for Danny Alvarez,” I said. “I thought he had track practice today.”

  “Track practices on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Oh,” I said, momentarily stymied. “Would you happen to know where he lives? Maybe I can catch him at home.”

  “Somewhere on Maple,” the tallest of the girls offered. “My friend Jocelyn lives on the same court.” She clearly had forgotten the beware-of-strangers lesson.

  “Thanks.”

  Court was good. There would be a limited number of houses to canvass.

  I found Maple Court with the help of my navigation app, chose a house at random, and rang the bell. A woman answered.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong house. Theirs is about three houses down.” She stepped on onto the porch and pointed. “The one with the large tree in the yard.”

  I thanked her and moved on.

  The Alvarez house looked almost unlived in. Closed drapes darkened every window, and the lawn was overgrown and mottled with weeds. I rang the bell and was surprised when a woman answered. She was th
in and pale, and her dark hair hung lank around her face. She stood behind the screen door.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for your husband. Is he around?”

  “No.”

  “Is he at work? Maybe I can catch him there.”

  She stood as still and silent as a statue.

  “It’s important I talk to him.”

  “Is this about the loan?”

  I couldn’t decide how best to answer so I opted for the truth. “No, it’s . . . I’d like to talk to him about a mutual friend. Can you tell me where he works?”

  “At the BMW dealership.”

  She closed the door before I could thank her, or learn the location.

  I pulled out my handy-dandy, all-purpose smartphone and looked up BMW dealerships. The closest one was in Concord, about twenty minutes away. I called, verified that Alvarez did indeed work at that location, then drove out to shop for a new car.

  I hadn’t been in the showroom thirty seconds when I was approached by a smiling and very upbeat salesman. I could see by his name tag that he wasn’t Alvarez.

  “Actually,” I told him, “a friend recommended I talk to Mr. Alvarez. Is he around?”

  The man’s smile was gone in an instant. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  A stocky, middle-aged man in a neon-blue suit emerged from a back office and introduced himself as Leo Alvarez.

  “Which model were you interested in?” he asked in a booming voice. His eyes were close set, his face fleshy. He reeked of cologne.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure. Maybe you can give me an overview of what’s available.”

  Alvarez walked me around the showroom, highlighting the selling points of each model, suggesting I step in and see how it felt, then describing for me in detail all the features I should appreciate. He was a pushy, slick-talking salesman, the sort I’d have nothing to do with if I were actually shopping for a car.

  “Wow,” I said after slipping into and out of several cars, “there’s a lot to think about. Can you make a list of the cars I’ve seen today?”