Dead Lift (16 page)

Does poorly on the phone. May need help making therapy appointments
.

Likes help with reading his mail
.

Likes game shows
.

The last one had a series of asterisks beside it:

Sometimes locks himself out. Be careful!

Below, a careful hand had signed, “Call anytime. VS.”

I slipped the top layer of instructional papers aside and attempted to decipher what looked like a bunch of insurance codes on medical invoices. The numbers and abbreviations meant nothing to me.

At the bottom of one stack, a three-ring binder, thick as a phone book, caught my attention. Its pages were separated by dividing sleeves labeled in reverse chronological order by year. I started at the back, with the oldest records, because that section was the thickest.

William stopped playing his song mid-measure and I stepped away.

“Do you know the hand position for middle C?” He stared at the piano keys, fingers lightly resting there, and tried to remember.

I placed a hand gently on his shoulder and left it there until he looked at me, then shook my head. “I’m sorry, I never learned. You sounded good. Will you play it again?”

“I like that one too.” He started from the beginning, and I returned to the binder and skimmed newspaper clippings, medical reports, and patient care instructions until William’s situation started to make sense.

The first article I found, dated four years earlier, said that “a 63-year-old male” had been the “front seat passenger in a traffic accident and suffered a severe closed head injury with frontal lobe impairment” and that “surgeons performed a right-side craniotomy.” At press time, authorities had not determined fault.

Medical records indicated that William required total assistance after his accident and a thick stack of invoices and insurance forms showed that his family had arranged for long term facility care and rehabilitation. One file note said that any dysfunctions that remained two years post injury would be permanent. I paused and stared at that one. It seemed wrong that anyone, even a medical professional, could so confidently write off another’s future.

A pamphlet about traumatic brain injury, tucked inside the binder’s front pocket, outlined William’s struggles: difficulty concentrating, trouble organizing thoughts, easily confused, often forgetful, unable to perceive social cues, adversely affected judgment, slow or slurred speech, overestimates abilities, unrealistic future planning.

I tapped the brochure in my palm and glanced at my watch, horrified to notice I’d lost track of time. I closed the binder and replaced the papers.

“I’m leaving now,” I said. “Everything’s back to normal. Come lock the door behind me.”

He pushed back the piano bench and its feet, obviously padded, made a soft whispering sound as they glided over the hardwood floor. We walked to the front door, and I stepped outside into the sweltering day.

“Thank you for helping me,” William said. “Don’t tell Mr. B. you were h-here.”

“No chance.”

“I liked your hair better the first time.”

Before I could get in a goodbye, the door closed abruptly and I heard the now familiar sound of the Victorian’s deadbolt sliding into place. Jeannie pulled up, and as I made my way down the steps I caught the faint notes of William’s song playing in the great, lonely house behind me.

“Change of plans,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat. Our original idea had been to ask nosey questions at the apartment complex where Daniel was murdered. “I need to see the police.”

“Sweet. You found something.” She rolled through a stop sign. “Which way do I go?”

“I have no idea. Pull over and ask somebody.”

She produced her cell phone—a model that made mine look as ungainly as a brick—and began using its GPS function to get directions to the nearest public safety building. Jeannie navigated its screens easily, despite her long fingernails, whereas my new fakes were much shorter and I couldn’t even accurately select a radio station.

“I need Richard’s help,” I said. “Just drive. I’ll explain in a sec.”

I dialed him on my own cell and described everything I’d seen at Saunders’ house.

“The evidence of identity theft you found is compelling but not urgent,” he said. “Under the circumstances, there’s not probable cause for a warrant and it may not get followed up for days. That e-mail and credit card, though…different story. Those are potentially linked to a homicide. Your report will go into the system and when a detective downloads it, you’ll probably get a call within hours.”

“There’s more,” I said. “Mr. B. was with somebody named Sandy Diaz. Can you follow up on that?”

“You bet.”

We hung up and Jeannie and I exchanged a hopeful look. Inwardly I felt torn, wondering what this new lead would eventually mean for William.

Chapter Twenty-seven

We’d heard on the news where Daniel had been shot. While she drove us to that apartment complex, Jeannie grilled me about my police report and seemed morbidly excited about visiting a crime scene. But when we passed the bustling Rice Village shopping district, offering everything from boutiques to artisans to booksellers to coffee shops, I lost her attention without warning.

“Look at all these stores,” she said at a stop light. “Sorry, girl. I can’t resist.” Before I knew it, the car was in park and she’d left with her purse. “Call me when you’re finished. I’m going shopping.”

She joined some crossing pedestrians in the crosswalk and a car honked behind me. I scurried out of the car and hustled to the driver’s seat. As I rolled forward, Jeannie gave a spirited double thumbs-up and I reached for my notes to the address I wanted.

The complex was subdivided into multiple courtyards, each surrounded by red brick three story buildings with black shutters and beige balconies. One of the courtyards had a streaming yellow crime-scene ribbon cordoning off five carport spaces. I parked in a nearby reserved spot and got out of the car. The place smelled like magnolias and cut grass.

No one answered at the apartment I’d seen flashed on the news, so I went to the unit directly below and banged its ornamental knocker in hopes of catching somebody at home. Opaque window sheers provided enough privacy that I couldn’t easily see inside. I made out two vague silhouettes in a kitchen nook, though, and it looked to me like maybe a card game was underway.

A man inside hollered. “You a reporter?”

“No,” I called back. I wanted to explain, but my voice was unlikely to make it through the door as crisply as his had.

The door opened, but not much.

“Yeah?” It was what Jack would have called a Whitehead—his catch-all term for white-haired retired guys. Something in this man’s apartment smelled divine, a mix between fresh dinner rolls and seasoned meat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, now unsure whether I’d interrupted cards or a meal. “I heard about the murder on the news and I’m trying to figure out whose apartment that is?”

“Why?”

No suitable lie sprang to mind. “The guy that was killed. Did he rent that apartment?”

The old-timer shook his head. “He’s a Johnny-come-lately. It’s a gal that rents that place, not a fella.”

“Oh. Do you know her name?”

“Think it’s Marcy or Margo, something like that. Works at a framing store over on Rice Boulevard.”

“Thanks,” I said, and he nodded and closed the door.

I stepped out from the landing that was the bottom of Marcy or Margo’s porch and stared up at her apartment, wondering what the heck was going on.

On Rice, finding the framing shop was way easier than finding a parking space. I backtracked on foot past three blocks of shops before opening a glass door that jangled with bells. Inside, I suffered the most frigid blast of A/C I’d endured in recent memory. It was triple-digit hot outside and I was so sweaty from my walk that the cold air against my wet skin and clothes gave me a sudden chill. The shop smelled like artificial citrus. I made my way toward the counter and tried not to look too confused.

Behind the desk, an alert-looking hippie-type with shaggy hair and round spectacles conjured the image of John Lennon in an apron. He dropped a pen into the apron’s pocket and leaned forward on the counter, waiting.

“I’m looking for Marcy. Or maybe Margo.” I grinned, hoping levity would head off any questions.

He held my gaze a moment and his lips curled into a conspiring smile. When I didn’t offer more, he stood up again and winked at me. “I think you mean Marta.”

I chuckled, not sure it sounded sincere. “Bet you’re right.”

He took a few steps back from the counter and opened one of two swinging doors that reminded me of old Wild West saloons. This set had been upgraded with bumper stickers depicting recycle signs and peace frogs. He called into the back room and a woman, significantly younger than I’d expected, emerged. She was
maybe
twenty-five if having a bad day, which she probably was, judging by her saggy eyes and the stray wisps falling out of her ponytail, not to mention the fact that Daniel had been shot dead in her carport last night.

“Hi, Marta,” I said. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gaston.” I cut a glance to the hippie, who seemed to be in charge. “Can you spare her for a few minutes?”

“Are you a cop?” she asked. “I’ve already given a statement.”

I shook my head. “Private investigator.” Not entirely accurate, but easier than explaining the real situation. Neither of them asked to see a license, which was lucky.

Her boss waved us off and she untied her apron and laid it across the far end of the counter before coming around to join me.

I still had a ten dollar bill in my purse. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She nodded and was first to the jangly door. The heat outside was almost a relief as we took a left and made our way into a Starbucks two doors down. I ordered an iced Cinnamon Skinny Latte and she ordered a Caramel Skinny Latte with no whipped cream.

We settled into seats near the window at the front of the store and I noticed she had trouble looking at me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Could you start with what happened last night? I only know what I heard on the news and that wasn’t much.”

She looked at me cautiously. “You said you’re a private detective. Who hired you?”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’m actually working on a different case but I think Daniel’s murder is connected.”

“What’s your other case?”

“Also a homicide.”

She took the lid off her coffee and blew on it. “So you think it’s a serial killer?”

It occurred to me then that Marta might be Daniel’s murderer, and that she could be having coffee with me to figure out what I knew.
No
, I decided,
you’re being paranoid again
.
The police left her alone
. Surely, they knew more than I did.

“I suspect it’s the same killer, yes, but I think it’s more cover-up related. I’m trying to figure out what, exactly, is being covered up. Did you see the person who killed him?”

She took a tentative sip, shook her head. “He went out last night to get some wine. Around eleven thirty I heard the shot. By the time the EMS arrived, he was dead.” Her tone was remorseful but matter-of-fact. “Shot before he was even out of his car.”

“He was staying at your apartment?”

She nodded.

“Were you two a couple?”

Another nod, this time with a sip.

I thought of Claire, Daniel, and their impending divorce. “How long had you been together?”

“About a month.”

“And you came to work today?”

Suddenly, she checked her watch. “I should get back. The only reason I came in at all is because I’m taking a trip in two weeks and I can’t afford to lose the hours.”

That seemed strange, considering her boyfriend was newly dead, but I reminded myself that her definition of “boyfriend” and mine were most likely quite different. What Marta called a boyfriend, I called a sugar daddy.

“Okay,” I said. “But before you go, this other case I told you about…I think it has something to do with a con artist and credit card fraud. Has anything weird like that been going on with you or—”

Her eyes flashed and I stopped talking.

“Daniel had weird credit card charges. He said he didn’t think much of them before, because his divorce wasn’t final and his wife was still using their cards. I guess she was a big spender.”

If only you knew
.

“Except, last week she went to jail—he didn’t say what for—and the charges kept coming so they couldn’t have been hers. One was a recurring charge for fifty-eight dollars every Monday night at Brewster’s.” She drew in a breath and exhaled slowly through her nose, deliberating. “This next part sounds bad.” She raised a hand in the universal plea for me to reserve judgment. “He really was a nice guy, but had kind of a short temper. We went down to Brewster’s together and Daniel got a little obnoxious, wanting to know who came in there every Monday and spent fifty-eight dollars. The manager didn’t like it at first, but after Daniel calmed down and explained it better, the guy gave in and described this person.”

“And?”

“Said he was a tall, good looking guy who came in by himself every Monday, had a nice steak fillet and two glasses of old-vine Zinfandel. Same meal, same tip, every week. Anyway, Daniel hands this man a hundred and says, ‘Next time that guy comes in here, call me.’ He left his number and we went home. Sure enough, three nights ago, he calls.”

“Then what?”

“Daniel went down there. He made me stay home, which turned out to be lucky since that’s the night we had the big storm. He couldn’t make it back that night with all the flooding, so he ended up staying at his wife’s house because it was closer.” Marta shrugged, unbothered. “She wasn’t there.”

But I’d been. I remembered Daniel’s swollen jaw that night and the pieces began to fit.

“How’d it go at Brewster’s?”

“They got kicked out.”

“Fighting?”

She nodded. “Daniel never got the guy’s name but he wrote down his license plate number.”

“You have it?”

“No. I never saw it, don’t know what he did with it.”

“He say what kind of car it was?”

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Something sporty I guess because he mentioned fancy rims.”

“I think that guy killed Daniel so he couldn’t report any of this.”

She crinkled her nose as if smelling something horrid. “You think he got killed because of a dumb fight?”

“Not the fight. I think he knew something.”

She checked her watch again and stood. “I have to go. Rob’s nice but he has limits.” She lifted her cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for the talk,” I said. “Sorry about the circumstances.”

We walked outside together, she peeled off into the frame shop and I continued to my car. Jeannie and I reconnected by cell phone and I collected her at a nearby accessory boutique. She emerged resplendent in a new flowing orange summer scarf.

“How’d that go?” she asked. “Anything good?”

“Real good,” I said. “We have a lead.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“We’re going to Brewster’s.”

“What’s that?”

I told her the fifty-eight dollar steak story and about how Daniel had confronted his credit card abuser and come away with a bruised face last Monday night. Before I finished, she had her cell phone out again, this time mapping our way to Brewster’s.

In Midtown, I pulled alongside a curb and parked the Altima. “I’m so lucky you’re here. Or rather, so lucky your phone’s here.” We’d found the place without so much as a wrong turn or a panicked lane change.

We got out of the car, her sheer scarf blowing in the summer wind. “Admit it. Technology’s a beautiful thing.”

Inside Brewster’s, I felt underdressed even though we hadn’t come to eat. Shutters at every window had been permanently closed, giving the place a dim look that made it feel hours later than it really was. Each table, even the vacant ones, had been pre-set with nice crystal and meticulously arranged silverware. A stoic greeter met us near the door and I asked for the manager. Moments later an athletic thirty-something arrived, smiling. The guy was ready to please.

“Oh yeah,” he said, after I explained my reason for coming. “No forgetting those two. Had to ask them to leave, then they were carrying on in the parking lot.” He shook his head. “Not what you want customers to see.”

I looked toward the ceiling, scanning for cameras. “Do you have surveillance here? I’d like to get a look at the one who was passing bad cards.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

“Can you describe him?” Marta’s “tall and good-looking” report was unlikely to get me very far.

“About six-two,” he said, “Maybe two hundred pounds, two-ten. Probably my age. Blond hair, sharp clothes.” He paused. “Before this mess he came here a lot, always alone, and the ladies sure did like him.”

“He picked up women here?”

“Oh no,” he said. “We’re not that kind of place. I only meant to say that he turned some heads.”

“Shame I missed this guy,” Jeannie said.

The manager gave her a fleeting once-over, seemingly unsure what to think.

“You happen to see his car?” I said.

“We all did. I mean, those of us working that shift who could slip outside for a gawk.” He chuckled, but probably noticing my anticipation quickly added, “Blue vintage Mustang. Very nice.”

I nodded.

“Hey, Em,” Jeannie said, surveying the empty tables. “How about something to eat?”

The manager perked up. I’d have rather eaten somewhere cheaper, especially with my personal finances now in such flux, but I appreciated the guy’s help and having lunch there seemed an appropriate way to express our thanks. It’d also soothe my nagging conscience about leaving Jeannie alone during so much of her visit.

He showed us to a corner table near one of the boarded up windows. White sunlight sneaked through the shutter chinks, diminishing the illusion that it was evening, but I didn’t mind. The case was finally moving forward.

I didn’t particularly like the track we were on, but at least we were inching away from the station.