Grimaldi threw back his head, his jaw opening wide with laughter. The remnants of the green fish stuck to his dentures. “Who doesn’t?”
JB shrugged. “The man’s not wrong.”
“Why didn’t you tell us her husband worked for you?”
“You didn’t ask. And besides, Reid was one of those artsy-fartsy stoners who thought he could be the next Scorsese. No one took him seriously. Frankly, I still don’t know what Victoria saw in him.”
“Did he help you recruit Brenda for the film?”
“Not that I recall.” Grimaldi’s eyes wandered to the window, where a bluebird had landed on the sill. “Come to think of it, he might’ve been in the car when we drove up to Fog Harbor to film. I think I asked him along, just in case Brenda got feisty. Didn’t trust her one bit. My daddy always told me streetwalkers are known to keep shivs in their garters.”
“And guns in their bras,” JB quipped, with a sage nod at Grimaldi.
“You know, after you left last time, I saw the whole thing on that morning show. Heather Hoffman is a real looker. She’s got a face for the movies.” Grimaldi selected another candy fish and spoke while he chomped. “The girl’s name was Shelby, right? Shelby Mayfield.”
Will reached into his pants pocket and produced the photo Trish had given him two days ago. He’d been carrying it with him ever since, paper-thin but weighty as an albatross. “Did you know her?”
Grimaldi glanced at Shelby’s picture, then away. “I was just gettin’ to that. It hit me halfway through my scrambled eggs the next morning. Patricia Mayfield used to clean my house. She had a daughter, looked just like that.” He placed a gnarled finger on the picture, and Will resisted the urge to yank it away. “The girl came with her a few times.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. I certainly didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re getting at, Detective.”
The condescension in his voice got under Will’s skin. “You admit you knew her. And she turned up in your barrel on your property. So that’s exactly what I’m getting at.”
Grimaldi seemed unbothered, gulping down another fish. It seemed like the perfect time to pose the question that had been lingering at the back of his brain since Olivia called.
“What about Drea Marsh? Did you ever follow her?”
“Who?”
“Shelby’s childhood friend was killed last night. Someone had been following her. Someone who liked Swedish fish. Remind you of anybody?”
Grimaldi scrunched his wrinkled face in indignation. “That’s rich. You think I left Knotted Pines and committed a murder? Why don’t you check the log? I haven’t left this place in years. Now, unless you’re going to arrest me, I don’t have anything else to say to you and I’d like to get back to my crossword.”
Frustrated, Will huffed out a breath and nodded at JB. They couldn’t prove a damn thing. A candy wrapper was no smoking gun. And Grimaldi was right. It seemed damn near impossible to imagine him chasing Heather down in the woods outside the cabin.
Grimaldi gave them a stiff wave and reached over to the nightstand, the bag of gummy fish balancing precariously on his midsection. When he grabbed the newspaper, an ink pen slipped from its fold and clattered to the floor.
“I need an eight-letter word for ‘a scoundrel’s specialty’ that starts with a ‘v’.”
Will picked up the pen and examined it, disbelieving his eyes. On its barrel, the Ratcliffe Chemicals logo. He placed it in Grimaldi’s outstretched hand, as JB spouted the answer.
“Villainy.”
Now that Will had seen it, he spotted it everywhere. That same logo, a swirling atom, on the nurses’ station paperweight. Another RATCLIFFE CHEMICALS pen tucked into the pocket of a doctor in the hallway.
“Do you still have the Knotted Pines brochure?” he asked JB. “The one Nurse Thornton gave you.”
“Hold up. Not even a comment on my crossword skills? I never told you my first wife was a crossword whiz. Too bad she—”
Will stopped and held up the pen he’d swiped from the front desk. He watched JB’s jaw drop as he realized.
“What the—”
“Exactly.” Walking faster now, Will called over his shoulder. “Brochure?”
“In the glove box.”
JB unlocked his Camaro, retrieved the fancy brochure from beneath an unopened Twinkies package, and passed it to Will. Leaning against the car, Will flipped through the photos of the manicured grounds and the breathtaking sea view, past the smiling faces of models dressed as nurses and the assurances that every patient was treated like family. To the back, where they stuck the stuff nobody cared to read.
“Holy shit.” He squinted at the fine print, read it aloud. “Knotted Pines, a Ratcliffe Chemicals property.”
JB gave a woeful shake of his head. “This case just keeps getting weirder.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” JB’s eyes narrowed, serious as a heart attack.
“That Grimaldi killed Shelby? Maybe. Him or Winters. But no way a man as old and feeble as Grimaldi chased Heather down. And I have no clue what this means.” He tossed the brochure back onto the seat. “I think we need to talk to Victoria’s husband, Reid. He’s been holding out on us for way too long. Maybe I’ll put in a call to Victoria and see if she can nudge him in the right direction. She’s been cooperative so far.”
JB reached around Will, snatched the Twinkies, and ripped into the plastic, the processed cake poised on his lips. “C’mon, City Boy. You know me better than that. I’m thinkin’ if this is a relapse I might as well do it big.”
Fifty-Nine
Olivia waited until Sergeant Weber had unlocked the door and ushered Brandon Simpkins back onto the mainline, where he’d have to put on his tough guy mask and pretend he didn’t care his girlfriend had taken two bullets to the chest. These domestic violence perps were all the same; they were stone-hearted until you scratched the surface, dug down to the brittle insides where the ego was as fragile as an eggshell. How many times had he backhanded Drea and choked her till her face turned red? Told her if he couldn’t have her no one would? But in a world without her, he didn’t make sense. He was a straw man.
When Brandon had disappeared from view, she returned to her computer with renewed focus, mulling over what he’d confided. She opened a blank document and typed the same questions she’d asked herself that first day when she’d sorted through Shelby’s photographs. The same questions she always asked, knowing that victims could speak if you knew how to listen. Shelby, her father. Even Tina Solomon.
Who are you? How did you end up dead?
She understood Shelby now. A pregnant teen, overwhelmed and alone, she’d considered getting rid of the baby but changed her mind. Drea had seen Shelby talking to someone she knew at the clinic. Maybe he’d encouraged her to keep the baby or shamed her into running away. Even with all she’d been through, the pictures she’d taken spoke of a resilient girl who could find the daisy among the weeds. But something unexpected had happened in Fog Harbor. Something bad. Shelby had been afraid. She’d wanted to come home. So desperately that she’d reached out to slimeball Simpkins for help. But she’d never made it to the bus station. The ticket had gathered dust in the duffel bag for the last thirty-five years.
While Olivia racked her brain, she gave her hands something to do, typing the names of the whole sordid cast of characters—Max Grimaldi, Reid Vance and Victoria Ratcliffe, Donald Eggerton, Chuck Winters, Brandon Simpkins, Trish Mayfield, Drea Marsh, and Brenda Samson—and placing an X beside everyone Deck and JB had talked to so far. She stared at the name she’d left unmarked until her eyes glazed over and the screensaver kicked in. Until the clock’s predictable ticking had faded into the background. Until she knew exactly what she had to do next. For Shelby, for her father. For herself.
Olivia dialed the number on the list she’d printed from her online search and listened to the shrill ringing. She’d all but given
up—he hadn’t returned any of Will or JB’s messages—her office phone poised above the receiver, when a man’s voice interrupted, taking a hammer to her ear.
“Who’s calling me at this hour?”
Olivia winced, holding the phone a few inches away. She checked the clock, wondering if she’d stumbled into a wormhole. But no, still nearly two in the afternoon. “Is this Earl Samson?”
“Who’s asking? That newfangled caller ID says unknown number.”
“My name is…” She hadn’t thought this far ahead. Rookie mistake. Searching her desk, her eyes landed on a package of file labels. “Avery.”
“Avery what?”
Then, her computer. “Avery Dell.”
“Well, Avery Dell, you don’t sound like a cop. At least, not the two bulldogs who’ve been hounding me.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
“Then what the hell do you want to sell me?”
She laughed a little. “Absolutely nothing. But I’d like to ask you a question.”
“If it’s something to do with who I’m voting for or whether I’ve found Jesus, save it for the next guy.”
“Jesus is not involved. And I don’t care who you vote for.”
He sighed. “Alrighty, then. Shoot. But make it snappy. The Price is Right comes on in ten minutes.”
“Do you know a girl named Brenda? Brenda Samson.”
The sharp intake of breath told her he did, and she matched it with a steady exhale, trying to sound the exact opposite of how she felt. Excited. “Please don’t hang up.”
“Are you with that reporter chick? I swear that lady left about ten messages on my machine. Nobody leaves messages anymore, ya know? Unless they want something real bad. She’s got her nose in everybody’s business, showing that disgraceful film on her TV show. I’m not surprised she got herself shot.”
“I’m not a reporter. Or a cop. I’d just like to talk to Brenda, if you know how to reach her. I’m an old friend of hers.”
“Good luck with that. You ain’t gonna find her. Nobody’s heard from my kid sister since the spring of ’86.”
“She disappeared?” Olivia’s heartbeat pounded in her ears like footsteps approaching from behind her.
“Ran away is more like it. At least that’s what she said in that cockamamie letter she sent.”
“Letter?”
“It arrived about a year after she’d gone. But I didn’t believe a word of it. Something about traveling the world with a nice boy. Hell, Brenda wouldn’t have known a nice boy if one bit her in the ass. I thought once she had the baby she’d get her life together. Maybe stop sticking a needle in her arm and spreading her legs for money. But no dice. Some folks just ain’t meant for this world. They spend their whole lives trying to escape. It’s a pity, though. Wherever she went, she took Jamie with her. I wish she’d have left that little girl with me. She was such a pretty thing, with her mama’s green eyes. But hell, what would I have done with a one-year-old?”
“Brenda had a baby?”
A pause. A click. Olivia cursed herself. She’d pushed too hard, too fast. Her words hung in the air, unanswered.
“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”
And that’s exactly what she did, dialing another number this time. One she’d known by heart as a kid and dialed anytime things in Apartment E went to hell. Which was a regular occurrence. Right now, Olivia desperately needed a listening ear and a soft place to fall. Miss Pearl answered on the first ring.
Ten minutes later and already Olivia felt better. Miss Pearl’s soothing tone had a way of ironing out the wrinkles in her soul.
“Oh dear. Those poor young women, both just starting out on the adventure of a lifetime. Motherhood. What had they ever done to anyone?”
Olivia let Miss Pearl’s words resonate. Brenda had disappeared around the same time Shelby had been murdered. It seemed more and more likely that they’d met the same terrible fate.
Miss Pearl cleared her throat softly, preparing the way for something unpleasant. “Have you heard from Termite?”
“Not since he showed up at Dad’s funeral uninvited.”
“I tried to tell him not to go. But you know Termite. He always did march to the beat of his own drum. I thought you might’ve run into him since he’s been holed up there at Rocky’s.”
Olivia heard the hitch in her breath. “Rocky’s Salvage Yard?”
“That’s right.”
She’d never imagined Termite had stayed close. That the answers she needed about her father’s death were only a few miles away.
Miss Pearl seemed to sense her intentions. Be careful, dear, she’d said. Something’s up with him. He told me he might need to go away for a while.
Olivia returned her alarm to the desk, ignoring the judgmental look Dr. Stanley cast from her own open doorway, where she stood watching Olivia.
“I’m taking a late lunch,” Olivia told Sergeant Weber, speaking louder than was necessary. “I’ll be back for my three o’clock client.” Never mind that her three o’clock had been transferred to another prison two weeks ago.
Without an ounce of guilt, Olivia booked it down the long hallway back toward the control booth. As she neared the warden’s office, she spotted a familiar pair of broad shoulders, clad in the standard white SNY jumpsuit. His escort busy chatting up a female officer, Ben waited alone outside the administrative office.
When she got close enough to whisper, she joined him at the door. “Thanks for the intel.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Doc.” He looked straight ahead, grinning. “How’s my little brother?”
“What’s a Radovsky?”
“You heard that, huh?” He snickered. “Did you ask Deck?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Phil Radovsky was—”
The door swung open, Warden Blevins on the other side. “Mr. Decker, you’re right on time. I would expect nothing less on your first day on the job.”
Confused, Olivia’s eyes darted between them. The warden ushered Ben inside, pointing to his office at the end of the hall. After Ben had slunk past him, Blevins turned back to Olivia.
“Job?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ve hired Ben to work as a clerk in my office. You’ll have to thank Detective Decker for me. It was his idea.”
Sixty
With one hand, Will shoveled in a slice of cold pizza he’d scrounged from the wasteland otherwise known as the break room refrigerator. The other pecked REID VANCE into the Fog Harbor PD database. Across the divider, he’d put Jessie to work mining the Internet for Reid’s buried secrets and ferreting out the connection between Ratcliffe Chemicals and Knotted Pines Nursing Home. Thankfully, Graham hadn’t put up a fight when Will told him to stay at the hospital to keep an eye on Heather.
Will’s phone buzzed on the desk. Olivia had finally responded to his text about the Greyhound bus ticket, but not in the way he’d hoped.
Ben working for Blevins was your idea? Have you lost your mind?
He nearly choked on a slice of pepperoni.
“Anything good?” JB asked over his shoulder.
“Maybe.” Will took a swig of water, swallowing his anger—Ben and Blevins?—and flipped his phone face down. No time for that now, he gestured to the ancient mug shot on his screen. At age twenty-five, ponytailed Reid bore little resemblance to the kind of too-slick guy who’d get his assistant to call you back. He’d even worn a single hoop in his right ear. “Check out Reid Vance, circa 1984.”
“You mean Mr. City Councilman’s got a record? That might be why he lawyered up.”
Will scanned the rap sheet. It began with a DUI at age twenty-one and ended with a citation for misdemeanor trespassing five years later. “I doubt it. It’s pretty minor stuff.”
A frown furrowed JB’s caterpillar brows. “Disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, DUI, possession of marijuana, trespassing. I’ll bet his father-in-law was
n’t too happy about all that.”
Lieutenant Wheeler rounded the corner, giving them a wave. “I thought I heard you knuckleheads. While you were out, we got a call from the lab about that bus ticket. Turns out those other prints on it are a match for your guy, Winters.”
“Perfect,” Will said, burying his face in his hands for a moment. “Just perfect. We’ve got one suspect in the wind. Another in a nursing home. And the third referring us to his lawyer.”
“Hey, at least you’ve got options.” The lieutenant patted him on the shoulder.
“Which would be great if we were stockbrokers, LT.”
Jessie poked her head up, peering uncertainly into Will’s cubicle. “Uh, I found something, I think. It’s probably nothing though.”
“Well, don’t oversell it,” JB chuckled, while he and Will made their way to Jessie’s desk where Lieutenant Wheeler had already posted up, reading an article on her screen.
San Francisco Post
“City councilman bails out local protestors”
by Angela Nguyen
A small group of protestors received an unexpected surprise yesterday evening when city councilman Reid Vance, husband of Ratcliffe Chemicals public relations manager Victoria Ratcliffe, paid $3,000 to bail them out of jail, following a sit-in demonstration at City Hall in San Francisco. The group of ten young adults, which included nineteen-year-old Amanda Murphy, were protesting for stricter gun laws in the wake of the June 2019 shooting inside the Cherrywood Mall, which left five dead and dozens more injured. Murphy said she was surprised and humbled by Vance’s gesture, especially since Vance is widely known for his conservative views on gun control. “He really cares about the issues facing youth. I wish all politicians would follow his example.”
Vance, who was elected to his first term on the Board of Supervisors in November 2018, said he was simply doing what was right, no matter the politics. “Believe it or not, I was a young man once, and I got arrested a few times. Even if we’re on different sides of the issue, I support the youth of San Francisco getting into the right kind of trouble, speaking out and making their voices heard.”
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