"She tried to commit suicide? Oh dear . . ."
"Wait," Nikki says, thumbing through the papers. "It gets worse."
So Denise served time in prison, followed by a stint in a psych ward, after the suicide attempt. She also owns the business where Erin works. Despite the questions swirling around in my mind about the nature of Denise’s crime, I find myself afraid for Erin’s safety.
"Do you think Denise had a breakdown? I think I would have."
"Newp," Nikki says, passing over the next document, and it hits me like a stick in the spokes.
COUNT 1: MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE
My hands are shaking. This is big. This is terrible. "Denise murdered someone, Gia. But here’s the strange part." She gives me the last document. "It’s the verdict."
The jury instructions are going to say guilty, of course. But I read it anyway, curious how these legal matters play out, looking for the strange part. I see a filing date stamp on the upper right hand corner, followed by the signature of the Executive Officer. Then I read aloud the jury findings.
"We, the jury, find the defendant, Denise M. Livingston, not guilty, as charged in count one of the indictment." I look up at Nikki. "Not guilty? How is that even possible?"
"I have no idea."
I start thinking through some options. Did Denise serve prison time for someone else’s crime? Was this a case of mistaken identity? Did Denise get wrongfully charged and they dropped the case? And to be found ‘not guilty’ of such a serious crime—is that what drove her to suicide? Or maybe she actually killed someone and walked free based on a technicality?
"Is there any more information?" I ask, quickly sifting through the photocopies. "Who she killed or how she walked free? You googled her of course. What did you find?”
“That’s the crazy part,” Nikki replies. “There’s hardly anything. I mean, I found some reviews on some home gym equipment, stuff like that. And name mismatches. Everyone has a digital footprint, some bigger than others, but it’s like the NSA got in there and wiped the internet pretty much clean.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Well, yeah, sure. I guess. But it’s not easy.” She slides one of the documents over and points at a block of information. “This is the only identification information I could find. Her inmate number: 6881."
After a long silence, I tell Nikki that I have an idea.
"You can’t call the psych ward!" she cries. "That’s crazy. And—and are they even open?" She checks her big face wristwatch, pink bands encircling her small wrist. "It’s already six fifty."
I roll my eyes. "It’s a hospital, Nikki. It’s not like everyone clocks off at five."
She rolls her eyes back. "What are you going to do? Call up and pretend to be Denise’s lawyer? Looking for the rest of the case file?" She laughs.
"No! I wouldn’t do that. I’m going to pretend to be Denise herself. Looking for my own case file."
Nikki laughs even louder and runs her hand through her hair, her shiny locks brushing along her jawline. "You’re nuts. Go ahead and call. I’ll count the seconds before they hang up on you."
While she stares at her watch face, I dial up the number listed on the psych ward document. A woman picks up on the third ring.
"Colorado State Psychiatric Hospital. Mandy speaking." She sounds a little out of breath, like she just made a heroic dive for the phone.
"Hi Mandy, I was wondering if you help me out with some documents?" My voice is high and approaching the sickly-sweet octaves of a politician pandering for votes.
"I’ll do my best," she replies. "Can I ask who’s calling?"
"This is, um, Denise Livingston."
"Denise?"
"Um, yes?"
"Hey Denise. It’s me!"
Oh dear. Mandy and Denise, I mean me, know each other. She’s going to take a little spin down Memory Lane and point out some road signs from our past, except that I won’t recognize a single one.
"Hey Mandy . . ." I strap on my very best Denise impersonation, whoever she is, and look over at Nikki, my eyes wide. Are you serious? Nikki mouths. I shrug and look away, trying to concentrate. "Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice,” I say to Mandy.
"That’s funny. I was going to say the same thing," Mandy says.
My stomach twists. Does Mandy know that I’m an impostor?
"Well, it has been a long time," I say.
"And I’m happy for that," she says. "I’m happy that you’re not back in here, and that you’re out in the big bad world, thriving. Hopefully. Are you? Are you doing okay?"
"Yes, I’m doing great. No, um, episodes to report." I think.
"Oh that’s good. You remember that time the orderlies had to chase you down the hallway because you refused your medication?" She chuckles a little.
I chuckle too. "Oh ha ha. Yes that was . . . kind of my low point."
"And do you remember—"
"You know, I try to forget about those days. I try to focus on better things. Happy things. It’s a part of my coping strategy for living out here in the big bad world."
I pull my shoulders up to my ears and grimace, while Nikki gives me the keep going hand signal.
Mandy seems like a cheerful sort with a soft, marshmallowy voice.
"Oh that’s so great," she says. "I’m so proud of you. I always hoped you’d make a full recovery. I mean after everything that happened to you . . ."
What happened! I want to ask; instead, I say, "Thanks, Mandy. You were always so sweet and supportive of me." I hope so. She seems like a ‘buttered up and sprinkled with sugar’ type so I don’t think I’m too far off the mark. "It was terrible—what happened to me," I say, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. I hope she’ll fill in the details.
"Mmhm." And that seems to be the end of her recollections. Of course it is. I just talked about staying as positive as Pollyanna.
"Actually, that’s the reason for my call. I’m trying to get my paperwork in order, because I feel like I’ve forgotten so much of . . . what happened . . . and I feel like if I forget all the details, then I open up the risk of maybe it happening again." Does that make any sense?
"You feel like there’s a risk that it might happen again?" She seems a little alarmed now, gently prodding the patient for some telling information.
"Well, no." I backtrack. "Not at all. It’s just that I’m seeing a psychiatrist. And he’s been so helpful. I feel like I’m healing from . . . my past . . . and all that. But we started to go over some raw wounds, you know, stuff that’s still healing. And I feel like I’m ready to deal with everything. Including the case, the—details. Except I guess I forgot more than I expected. So I was wondering if you could send those to me? The case documents?"
Was that too much explaining? Guilty people try to convince. Innocent people convey. Well, I am a guilty person, trying to pass myself off as someone else. I just hope Mandy can’t tell.
"Well, good on you," she says with a swell of pride. "I’m happy to help you out as much as I can. But you know patient files are confidential and I can’t go mailing them off any which way."
"Of course," I say, trying not to sound too deflated. "Any information would be really helpful."
"Well let’s see. Can I just verify some information? Gotta stick to the rules, you know how it goes."
"Sure," I say as calmly as possible, and give Nikki the thumbs up. All I have is the information in the photocopies. Let’s hope she doesn’t ask any trick questions. She asks for my case number, full name, inmate number, and a few other potentially trick questions that I answer with the help of the documents.
"Ok, good. Well, let me see what we have here," Mandy says, clicking away on her keyboard.
I wiggle my eyebrows at Nikki, who pulls one corner of her mouth into a smile and shakes her head incredulously.
"Thanks, Mandy."
There’s a psychological element to using people’s names. It’s supposed to make people feel closer to you on a
subconscious level. Salespeople are trained up in the matter of tricking people. Except it doesn’t work with me. It annoys me. I hope it doesn’t annoy Mandy.
"We’ve got your court records and the verdict. And here’s the summary of your case file," she says.
I grab a pen and start taking notes, listening to Mandy mumbling and trying to catch nuggets of information. "Suicide attempt . . . Transferred to the psych ward . . . Subdued . . . Medication . . . Yadda yadda yadda. Seven stab wounds to the abdomen. Found not guilty by reason of self-defense." She huffs out a little breath. "You must have been terrified, you poor thing."
The world stands still. This Denise chick stabbed her victim seven different times.
"I’ll never forget your case as long as I live," Mandy continues. "It’s one of those things that you can’t get out of your head, no matter what. And I’m so happy to hear that you’re moving on from it, and you’re getting help, and you’re healing from it. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you, Denise. Especially considering everything you’ve been through. What your ex put you through."
So she stabbed her ex seven times. "Thank you," I murmur, wishing she’d fill me in. Which she doesn’t. "Yeah, it’s been hard . . ." I add, fishing.
Mandy presses the receiver close to her mouth, her voice coming through loud and muffled. "And that ex-boyfriend of yours . . . what a monster. You must have the strength of an ox to recover from what he did to you. And you know what? I don’t blame you one bit for killing him."
The train is back, thundering down the tracks.
"Anyway," Mandy says, putting the phone back in normal position. "I’ll just send these out to the address on file?"
"Oh, um. You know what?" I rattle some papers around and tap them noisily into order. "I think I found everything. Thanks, Mandy. You really helped me. Thanks again." And I hang up.
Fingers shaking, I set my phone down and look at Nikki. "Denise killed her abusive ex-boyfriend, seven stab wounds to his body."
"Wow," Nikki says, at last. "And how did she get off?"
"Found not guilty by reason of self-defense."
20
GIA
It’s Wednesday night, just past eight o’clock, one day after my call with Mandy. I should be relaxed, snuggled up with Jacky Baby, watching Whale Wars, but I’m strung as tight as a violin, googling Erin Lazarus and Denise Livingston and the word ‘murder’ just to tighten up by search. But there’s so many social media profiles for each name that it’s a little bewildering. Are the profiles hers? Not hers?
I find a lot of information about the murder part, and accidentally slip down a ‘true crime’ rabbit hole, knowing all the while that none of it applied to the real Denise (age is wrong, first name is wrong) but I read with gruesome interest anyway and finally close out the browser.
I feel a little shaky and nervous. Shaky because this whole thing involves a death. Nervous because of what I’m about to do.
I’m sitting on my couch, phone in hand, looking at Denise’s address that Nikki had given me.
"So pretty much everything that relates to real estate is a matter of public record," Nikki had told me before she texted over the address. "You can even check this out yourself if you want. I think it’s an invasion of privacy, but nobody asked me."
Denise’s house is located about half way down Balboa Boulevard, on the bay side of the Peninsula. As I take a stroll with google maps, getting familiar with the area surrounding her house, I think back over Denise’s crime, trying to find a link between her story and what I saw at Nail Palace, trying to figure out what it all means.
The train. The cutting wind. The tightness in my throat. How does this involve Erin? And then there’s the missing link called Dan. How do these pieces all fit together? I know that Erin is in trouble with a boss for a killer. Is Denise planning on doing something to Erin? Is that what this is all about? And what about Dan? Is he the accomplice?
The ghost of an answer is in there somewhere, lurking in the misty terrain of my mind. I can’t find the common thread between all of these puzzles, so I decide to start with the only solid thing I have: Denise’s address.
Eight o’clock seems like a good time to visit her house. Maybe I can find the truth lurking in the shadows. If she’s home, the lights will be on. Then I will cruise on by and come back another time. If the lights are out, well then, I can dawdle outside and hope for psychic inspiration.
So I drive down Balboa Boulevard cautiously, near but just under the speed limit. It’s a wide road with an island in the middle lined with parking bays, flanked on both sides by older modest bungalows, built back when homes were just places to live in—not ways to build wealth, and newer McMansions dotted here and there along the boulevard.
About half way down the Peninsula, the house numbers fall into proximity to Denise’s address. I drive past a block of four newly built luxury townhouses and scope them out. The last one down, Denise’s house, is tidily painted with Cape Cod blue with white trim. A small American flag hangs from the porch column. Where does she get the money to live in such an expensive neighborhood? Maybe she’s leveraged up to her eyebrows.
One block down, I pull over and park. I’m wearing my jogging clothes, so I can pretend to be out on an evening run if I see that someone’s home. I lock up the car and slip my keys and my phone into the fanny pack that Mom had given me for Christmas.
Then I set off. Just ahead, geraniums spill over the decorative wall that separates Denise’s courtyard from the sidewalk.
Once there, I check out Denise’s windows. All the lights are off. So I bend and tie my shoelaces, trying to quickly boot up my psychic ability, furiously focused within. Relax, I tell myself. Hurry up and relax.
There’s a dog yapping across the street. I glance over, feeling like a cagey criminal, while I finish tying off my shoes. There’s a cluster of mailboxes, so I walk over like I’m checking my mail, waiting for some whiffs of intuition to come to me. Nothing.
My heart rate picks up, shunting adrenaline through my body. I am not relaxed. And if I can’t achieve relaxation, it’s less likely that my superpower will work.
Maybe I don’t have to stand right in front of Denise’s door to sense something. So I pull in some calming breaths, and walk away from Denise’s town house, trying to slow my heart rate.
But as I pass the side of her townhouse, I notice a darkened walkway that leads to a back alleyway. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m rushing down the side of her house toward what looks like a side accessory door.
I place my hand on the doorknob and twist. The door—it’s open. My heart rate picks up. I didn’t exactly come here to break and enter. I came here for answers that I hoped would come to me just by being in proximity to her house.
But my thumping heart is overriding my ability to sense anything. I focus on my internal organs—stop making so much noise!—and pull in some long steadying breaths.
I can still leave. It’s not too late. I can go home without an answer, but this might be the quickest way forward: snooping around inside her home. And the riskiest. But I need to know: who is going to die?
I pull the door open a fraction and peer into the shadows where a sleek red SUV is parked. Maybe I can go to the cops and convince them of my precog powers. Maybe I can slip inside and hunt around for some clues. Maybe—
"Can I help you?"
Startled, I jump back from the door and look toward the voice. Erin stands there, her plumped-up lips pursed, her light-colored eyebrows drawn into a scowl. Where the heck did she come from? And what is she doing at Denise’s house?
"Hey," I say, hand on my chest, feeling the thump-thump-thump of my pounding heart. "Geez, you scared me."
"You’re scaring me . . ." She dips her chin and looks at me, the shelf of her brow casting a dark shadow over her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asks, but her flat tone of voice tells me that it’s not a question; it’s an accusation.
"I’m just—"
"Spying?"
"Me? God no. No, I was just—I was in the neighborhood, going for a jog. I love to run along the beach," I say, motioning toward the ocean, hoping I pointed in the right direction. "And I was walking past and thought I saw something strange, so I just walked down here to check it out."
Erin also wears tight leggings, a tank top knotted in the back, and running shoes. She must have been out for a jog herself, and glimpsed me poking my head into a side garage door, so she slunk down the side of the house to intercept me. "Aren’t you that psychic chick that came in for a mani-pedi the other day? The one that works at Fuzzy Bear or whatever?"
"Furry Baby, yeah. The one with the Staffy."
The deep lines of her scowl soften. "Right . . . yeah." And she nods as if some information is dawning on her. "You told me someone is going to die . . ."
My mind races back to the discovery about Denise and her dastardly deed, and Mandy, I’m thinking about her, too. What did she say? Suicide attempt . . . Subdued . . . Transferred to the psych ward . . . Medication . . . Seven stab wounds. You must have been terrified, you poor thing.
And then, in my mind, the truth begins to unfurl. The world seems a little off kilter. It’s coming. Something is coming . . .
I hear a woman’s voice, soft and seductive, so much like Erin’s. Why don’t you come over, Chris?
Followed by a man’s voice, angry and accusatory.
Denise, you lied about everything. You set me up!
A jolt races down my arms. Denise set someone up. My mouth goes dry, my senses on high alert. The world stands still. The voices are coming in fast and thick now. Denise’s. Chris’s.
I hear a gurgling suffocating sound.
Stop, Chris. Stop!
And then I hear Denise’s voice, strangled but triumphant. Thanks for the evidence, asshole.
No! It’s a man’s voice. Chris again. I can hear the panic in his voice, followed by muffled stabbing sounds of a blade meeting flesh. But he survives somehow—I hear him panting and struggling. My stomach sours. And I realize that he didn’t hurt her at all. The floor falls out from under my feet.
Keep Me In Sight Page 9
