Elliot offered a last chance. Reentering the courtyard, he scanned the entire area. Some guests sat eating their desserts at various tables, others stood talking in groups, while several more milled around the silent auction tables. When he spotted Eleanor McBride, standing to the right of her husband and conversing with someone blocked from his view, he peered through the narrow space between their bodies and identified Elliot’s distinguishable light gray suit. On his way there, he saw Elliot’s boyfriend, Martin, walking toward them carrying a dessert plate. As Sean arrived, he detected an immediate look of displeasure on Eleanor’s face.
“Well,” she said, her face a narrow-eyed mask of indignation and conviction, “in John, chapter eight, verse seven, Jesus said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ so who am I to call that man a liar. I just wish he wouldn’t have doubted my husband’s word. If Adam says he’s sure all the cards were there, then he should believe him!”
“Stan can be a bit temperamental at times, Eleanor,” Elliot said solemnly. “I’m sorry that he upset you.”
Adam remained silent, reaching for Eleanor’s hand while using an up-and-down calming gesture with the other.
“I’ve helped out here a few times, and believe me, Stan is a good man,” Martin said. “But he’s admitted to me that he gets a bit scatterbrained sometimes because he’s always running through tricks in his head.”
“Hello, Sean,” Elliot said, turning away from Eleanor with an apparent smile of relief.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said, “but I was in the parking lot saying goodbye to the Michaels family, and on my way back, I saw a woman walk outside in tears. I asked her if I could help, and she said she wanted to talk to you but was too upset to come back in here. She’s waiting in her car now but I need to show you where she’s parked.”
Elliot’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion and surprise. “I wonder what happened?” he replied, looking from Sean to Martin.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Martin asked.
“No, that’s okay,” he said, grasping Martin’s shoulder and smiling before moving past the McBrides. “Whatever it’s about, it’s better that I talk with her alone.”
Sean led Elliot toward the flashing lights. Maldonado exited his car and waited by the hood as the two of them approached.
Elliot slowed and looked at Sean in confusion. “What’s this about?” he asked.
“This is Detective Ray Maldonado of the LAPD,” Sean replied.
Holding a notepad in his left hand, Maldonado stepped forward and extended the other. “Now that you know who I am,” he said, “I’ll tell you why I’m here.” Removing a pen from his pants pocket, he took a step back and continued. “A woman named Jenny donated items here this week, and I need to know if you can get me her address right now. Her life may be in danger, but we don’t know where she lives.”
“It’s Stephanie Michaels’s sister,” Sean explained.
“Oh, my God, that sweetheart’s life is in danger? I can’t believe it!” He glanced at Sean, then at Maldonado. “How can I help?”
“Do you know her last name?” Maldonado asked.
“McCauley,” he answered. “Jenny McCauley.”
“Sean told me you might have her address on file. We need that address and we need it fast.”
“All I know is that Jenny moved to a new apartment,” Sean said, “and Stan told her it would take twenty to thirty minutes to get there.”
“Stan?” Elliot replied, leaning his upper body back in surprise. “Does this have something to do with him?”
Sean looked at a glowering Maldonado.
“Right now he’s just a suspect,” Maldonado explained, maintaining his eye contact with Sean. “No matter what my assistant here may be inferring. Now would you please get us that address?”
They followed Elliot to the darkened store. Unlocking the door, he turned on the room light and told them to sit in the two chairs by the window while he searched the computer’s records. Within a few minutes after disappearing through the curtained divider, the sound of a printing machine emanated throughout the quiet of the room.
Clutching a piece of white paper, Elliot rushed back in and handed Maldonado a copy of the invoice with Jenny’s address.
***
Sitting in the same clothes from the fund-raiser, unmoved from the same spot on the couch he’d taken when he arrived home, Sean answered Maldonado’s call on the first guitar sound.
“Miss McCauley’s fine and Stan’s pissed off at you.”
Muting the television, he said, “What happened?”
“When my men arrived, nobody answered the door. We got in touch with the management company who sent someone over with a set of keys to her place. Once we saw everything was okay in there, the officers waited in the street until they saw Stan’s car pull up to the front. He got out with Miss McCauley and started walking with her. This is where we had a choice to make. Either we could watch it play out and see if he returned to his car, or follow them and question Stan before they went inside if that was his intention. At that point, we started to surmise Stan wasn’t our guy. The Beatles’ Song Murderer wouldn’t have left his car in front and walked with Miss McCauley where he could be seen by anyone. He probably just walked her to the door because he returned a few minutes later.”
At that moment, Sean realized he felt more than just a sense of relief about Jenny’s well-being. He also liked knowing Stan hadn’t spent the night.
“But that doesn’t necessarily tell you he isn’t the killer,” Sean said. “Maybe it would be the next time, or the time after that.”
“And how many more people would be able to link him with her?” Maldonado asked. “Plenty, and that’s not the clumsy way the Beatles’ Song Murderer operates. The guy is shrewd and understands how to avoid detection.”
Sean hung his head in the semi-darkened room, the light from the television offering a clear view of a sleeping Hendrix on the cushion to his right. He thought of Merissa, realizing for the first time how her image from the night of the murder seemed less defined.
“After he returned to his car, we did question him about where he was the night of Miss Franklin’s murder,” Maldonado told him. “He claimed he spent the night by himself at the Comedy Store until it closed. Our men asked him who performed that night and he named a couple of guys who were there. We can’t prove he didn’t go, so there’s nothing more we can do with that one.”
“Did you ask him why he didn’t attend Merissa’s funeral?”
“Hired to work a business convention at the Hilton near LAX. We always knew there could be a logical explanation but we verified it anyway.”
“So maybe Adam or Roger is the one,” Sean said. “Don’t forget the things I told you earlier.”
A loud sigh preceded a long pause.
“We’ve got handcuffs found in a bowling bag and a missing Jack of Hearts from a deck of cards; two miscellaneous items that are relevant to the case. Coincidence, maybe, but certainly worth remembering.”
Staring into the darkened portion of the room, Sean gripped the phone, feeling overwhelmed by helplessness again.
“I want this guy found,” he muttered. “For Merissa, and for all the others. But I feel we’re back where we started.”
Maldonado didn’t respond for several moments.
“Listen to me, Sean,” he said, his voice low and calm. “This case is a priority not just for you and me, but for the entire department. And we feel we’re getting closer. But solving cases like this isn’t a sprint--it’s a step-by-step process, and nights like tonight leave us as disappointed as you, believe me.”
Sean ran his hand along Hendrix’s back before placing him on the floor. He sat up and with frustrated aggression rubbed his face with his hand.
“I understand,” Sean replied.
“I’ve been in blind alley moments like this more times than I care to remember, and sometimes it’s best to find a healthy distraction,
something to take your mind off it for a while. You didn’t ask, but as for me, I’m going to pour myself a scotch, listen to some Tito Puente, and remind myself what’s good in life.”
Sean nodded in quiet acknowledgment. “Looking at the positive, Stan’s now a person you can cross off your list. That’s good for something, I guess.”
“What it does,” Maldonado said, “is possibly eliminate one of the suspects off the list, leaving us closer.”
“Assuming your hunch is right, and it’s someone Merissa and I knew.”
“Tragically, Sean, the past tense applies to Miss Franklin, but, yes, my hunch still tells me The Beatles’ Song Murderer is someone you know.”
Chapter 25
“Did you have a good time last night?” Sean asked, tuning the G string as he sat on his couch with Kayleigh.
“Yeah,” she said, her head nodding like a bobble head doll. “You play guitar like a rock star!”
Sean chuckled. “Did you know any of the songs?”
Kayleigh squinted in concentration, showing the familiar expression observed before--where her left eye turned into a quarter moon, while the folds of her right cheek surrounded and sealed her closed eye like a slow motion camera shutter. “I don’t remember.”
Sean laughed. “That’s okay,” he said, handing her the guitar, “they’re not worth remembering anyway.”
His cell phone rang from the table near the kitchen where he left it.
“Start practicing your chords,” he told her, rising from the couch.
He glanced at the ID screen, hesitating at first before answering the call.
“Hi, Elliot.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing your Sunday, but I’m calling for a couple of reasons. Got a few minutes?”
“I’m just starting Kayleigh’s guitar lesson,” he replied. “Can it wait?”
“I’m sorry,” Elliot said, “but just tell me if Jenny’s all right. I was very upset after our meeting and had a hard time making it through the rest of the night. Have you heard anything? And what’s going on with Stan?”
Sean glanced at Kayleigh and held up a finger to signify he wouldn’t be much longer before turning his back. “She’s fine, Elliot. Detective Maldonado had reason to believe she was in trouble and that Stan had something to do with it, but I guess he didn’t and everything’s okay now.”
“That’s great news!” Elliot said. “About her and Stan. What a relief.”
“What’s the other thing you called about?”
“Martin and I are going to a movie this afternoon. If you’d be home around four-thirty we’d stop off so you could show him those electrical problems you mentioned.”
“On a Sunday?” Sean asked.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, “but with his workload and your job, it’s hard for him to meet you during the week. He could send an assistant, but he’s grateful for your help last night so he’s insisting on seeing it for himself.”
Sean thought back to the night before last when his power went out in his bedroom after turning on his hair blower--the second time in two weeks. Stubbing his toe walking toward the fuse box pissed him off even more.
“Sounds good, Elliot. Call me when you’re on your way.”
He sat down with Kayleigh and helped place her fingers properly for the G chord. “I listened to you play while I was on that phone call,” he said, watching her strum. “I can tell you’ve been practicing, just like your mom told me.”
“Is Elliot coming over?”
“Yep,” he told her, “with Martin. But not until after your lesson.”
“Okay,” she said, offering a single nod of acceptance. “When Mama and Daddy and Randy walked around the school with Elliot, Martin stayed with me and let me go on the Internet.”
“I forgot about you and computers. The first time I met you, you told me that your brother taught you how to use one.”
Kayleigh smiled, her partially closed eye working hard to match the excited look from the other.
“Uh-huh! That’s when I told you that Mr. Marine used to be Mr. Computer. And you became Mr. Music!”
“Uh-huh!” Sean replied, laughing. “Now let’s get back to your lesson.”
“Hey,” she said, bouncing on the couch, “did you see the tickets on the wall?”
“Tickets on the wall?”
“Yeah,” she said, “Martin showed them to me.”
“You mean that framed board near the office?”
Kayleigh repeated more bobble-headed exuberance.
“That was so cool! And you know what’s the most-coolest thing of all?”
“No,” he replied, although he knew what her answer would be. “What’s the most-coolest thing?”
“The Lakers tickets!” she shouted. “Martin’s Lakers ticket is on there with Elliot’s, and it’s the same game Coby scored six points and the Lakers won one hundred-nineteen to eighty-two!”
“Lucky Martin, huh?” Sean replied, nodding and opening his eyes wide to feign excitement. “Coby was The Man that night.”
“And he told me he could see Coby’s face the whole time, even when he was sitting on the bench.” Kayleigh took a quick breath as her frail shoulders sagged and her thin, colorless lips tightened into a dreamy, schoolgirl smile. “I wish I coulda been there.”
Sean recalled the first time Kayleigh mentioned this game, explaining about her ability to remember numbers, and today that innocent boast proved true again with her recitation of the final score. But her reminder of the tickets elicited a flood of darkness within him. He planned to kill himself that day he met her, and although the conviction of suicide dissipated to a nonexistent idea relegated to the past, the pain of Merissa’s unimaginable final night still lingered, buried alive within the confines of his heart. The conversation with Kayleigh about the Lakers tickets needed to stop before his unhealed emotions got the best of him.
Sean pointed to the guitar. “No more Lakers talk for now,” he told her. “Play me that G chord again.”
***
Elliot and Martin weren’t due to arrive for another half hour, so taking his dog for a fifteen-minute walk before they arrived seemed like a good idea. But returning home, Hendrix caught Sean by surprise, pulling the leash from his hand attempting to catch a squirrel running up a tree, resulting in a fur full of sticky leaves from whatever plants he ran into.
“Dammit, Hendrix!” he muttered, grabbing the loose end of the leash. “Now I have to hose you down, you crazy mutt!”
As he approached his house, gratified to see they hadn’t arrived yet, Sean called Elliot.
“My stupid dog ran into some plants and now he’s full of sticky shit,” he explained. “I need to run a hose over him for a few minutes. How close are you?”
“Maybe another five or six minutes,” he answered. “If you want, we can wait in the car until you’re ready.”
“You don’t need to do that. Just come around the side of the house and open the gate to my backyard.”
When Elliot and Martin entered the backyard, droplets of water flew from Hendrix’s shaking body as Sean turned off the spigot and reached for a towel draped over a nearby chair. “Almost finished, guys,” he said.
“No problem,” Martin replied, observing the scene.
“Is that a store catalog?” Sean asked, pointing his chin toward the dark green booklet in Martin’s hand.
“Yeah, but it’s not a homework assignment so don’t worry about the size. It describes all the services we offer, but pages twenty-six and twenty-seven are all you need to look at.”
“I swear, the man doesn’t know how to do anything half-way,” Elliot remarked.
Martin grinned. “Are you complaining?”
Sean caught Martin’s wink and smiled to himself as he squatted down to dry his dog. Placing the towel over Hendrix’s body, he rubbed his hands vigorously back and forth, under and over, until he deemed him ready to reenter the house.
“Okay,” he said, looking up, “now we�
��re ready.”
Elliot and Martin started walking toward the side gate but Sean called them back.
“We’ll go inside from here,” he said.
Leading them to a door on the far end of the yard, blocked from view by a large shrub in the corner planter, Sean reached under a small terra cotta pot containing an unhealthy, droopy green plant. Grasping the hidden key, he inserted it in the lock before returning it to its original location.
“Your agapanthus looks like it could use some TLC,” Martin said.
“My what?” he asked. Turning back, he saw Martin pointing toward the plant in the pot. “Oh, that. Yeah, I know. I don’t use this door much and I forget to water it.”
“Before I met Elliot, I wouldn’t have noticed, and for sure I wouldn’t have known the name, but this dear man loves his garden and now I’m his horticulturist in training.”
Placing his hand on the side of Martin’s head, Elliot leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I think you finally learned your agapanthus from your anigozanthus.”
After Martin inspected the meter and fuse box, and examined the wires running through his garage, they returned to the kitchen.
“Anybody else want a cup of coffee besides me?” Sean asked.
The two men looked at each other for a few moments before nodding simultaneously.
“Why don’t you guys wait out there and relax,” he told them, pointing toward the front room. “I’ll brew the coffee.”
As the machine started percolating, Sean called the dealership to inquire about some information on the current and incoming inventory. Waiting on hold to speak to Olivia in the order department, he overheard snippets of conversation from the two men and realized they must be looking at the framed photo on the corner table of Merissa and him. The words “beautiful” and “tragedy” drifted through, as well as parts of sentences such as “So sad,” and “Still hard to believe.”
He also heard a comment from one of them that surprised him--something about a resemblance to Lady Di. Lady Di? Sure, they both had that same brownish-blonde hair coloring, and slightly hawkish nose and big eyes on a small face, yet he still considered the observation a strange one. But after hearing another remark about her “smile lighting up the room,” something he agreed with 100 percent, he started rubbing his eyes to avoid the advent of tears before looking around for a distraction. Spotting Hendrix sleeping with his back against the wall, Sean focused on his tiny furry belly moving ever so slightly in calm, canine bliss. The sound of Olivia's voice coming on the line offered a welcome penetration to his somber haze, and after several minutes, his conversation, and the brewing cycle, both ended.
You Say Goodbye Page 17
