“Why aren’t you watching her anymore?” Martin asked.
“Because she’s just a yoga teacher who happened to be casual friends with Liza. I’m not seeing the connection between them, or any indication that she had something to do with the murder.”
“But you had a hunch. Aren’t detectives supposed to go with their hunches?”
“Yes, but some detectives have better hunches than others. I really have no reason to follow her other than the fact that I have nothing better to do.”
“At least it’s something. Speaking of which, I have been thinking about the convict’s sister, the one that won’t call you back…What’s her name?”
“Alyssa Masters. What about her?”
“Well, what if she knows something about the murder and that’s why she isn’t calling you back?”
“Yeah, that’s probably the case. What’s your point?”
“Okay, tell me more. What are you thinking?”
“Hear me out. She lives in Brightmoor and her brother is locked up in prison. What if he had her kill Liza?”
It was an interesting angle, but unlikely. Demario Masters had plenty of time to kill Liza before he went to prison. Why wait and then have your sister do the dirty work? He also had seemed genuinely shocked when he found out that Liza had been murdered.
“I don’t know that I see the connection there. I’m assuming that she still lives in Brightmoor because she’s poor and her family has a footprint there.”
“But she and Liza knew each other. Isn’t it possible that they were in contact?”
“Yes. It actually is possible…Okay. We don’t have anything else. Maybe this will go somewhere. Let’s flesh it out a bit more. So, we have Liza in Brightmoor several times before her death. Alyssa Masters lives there. Demario Masters has obviously been out of contact with Liza for many years, but there is a familial connection.”
“Danica.”
“Yes, Danica. She may have fallen into the foster care system, but she could also have been taken in by one of Demario’s siblings. His younger brother is sick, according to the oldest sister, and one sister is dead, so Alyssa would be the only one Danica could be living with-if she’s with a close family member.”
“Which might make her skittish about calling you back.”
“She would want to shield her niece. The kid has already lost both parents—one to prison and the other to murder. Okay, Marty, I like it. Today I want you to find out everything you can about Alyssa Masters—where she works, her schedule, and any other interesting tidbits you happen to come across.”
“I’m on it.”
“Okay. I’ll be out today.”
“Where ya going?”
“I have a hunch,” I said, winking at Martin before heading out the door.
The kid was right. I had a hunch and I should follow it. So what if Madelyn had not changed her routine in three weeks? She was stealthy and private. Maybe she even had an inclination that she was being followed. Now that I’d laid off for a day or so, any suspicion she might have had could be gone. My hunch was far-fetched, but I didn’t have anything else to go on, so why not stick with it and see it through to the end? After all, Carson Stark was paying me a small fortune to find out what happened to his wife. Even if Madelyn didn’t have anything to do with Liza’s death, I was sure she knew more than she’d told me.
Madelyn’s routine schedule dragged on for two more weeks, but just as I was about to drop the surveillance gig for a second time, things got interesting. Madalyn left the house around 6:15 one evening, just as dusk took over. She climbed into her Honda Accord and took off. A late winter storm had blanketed the Huron Valley in several inches of snow, which made tracking Madelyn more difficult. I trailed her through the back roads, almost losing her on Geddes. She made a sharp turn that caused me to hesitate. I couldn’t follow her, but I knew if I went back and turned left on Geddes Road, I’d find another road that would take me close to that area. I drove past the road, waited, and doubled back, pacing myself and letting a few other cars turn onto Prospect.
The snow-covered fields and desolate two-lane road never saw much traffic, and even less at night. A dirt road in a winter storm isn’t a popular means of transportation. I had to wait quite a while before another car turned. About seven minutes after Madelyn had gone down the road, I crept up behind a blue Mustang that was struggling to get traction in the heavy snow. Madelyn’s car was nowhere in sight, but there weren’t many places to turn off the road. I figured that she had to be at the end of whatever this thoroughfare was.
While twisting through Ann Arbor’s outer reaches, I noticed that the snow had thickened. I drove through the blanket of white, hoping that Madelyn wasn’t somewhere by the side of the road listening to my tires crunching on the snow and ice. In the distance, I spotted a building with smokestacks puffing pollution into the air. I could see a few cars parked in front of it, but the last illumination of the day was fading. I quickly scanned the scene for Madelyn’s car, but came up with nothing.
I continued to creep along the road, edging closer to the building, which looked like a small factory of some sort. There were tire tracks on a secluded road to the right of the structure. Proceeding could mean running the risk of being caught or getting stuck in the snow. If I parked on the far side of the factory, my car would appear to be just another employee vehicle. I pulled into a parking stall, bundled up in my down-filled coat, and headed out. The snow-covered brush was thick, and the large, fluffy flakes reduced visibility. A pair of ski goggles shielded my eyes, but I still had trouble making out much of anything. I noticed a path of crushed snow that led deeper into the forest. I followed it for what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality, was only about ten minutes before I spotted a cottage sitting far back from the road. The small house could easily be missed if you didn’t know what you were looking for. I walked over to the edge of the road, kneeled behind a thicket of bushes, and pulled out my binoculars.
The cottage was hidden behind tangled branches and snowdrifts. I crept closer and focused the binoculars on the window blinds. Between the cracks, I could see that several young women and children were inside. I observed what I thought was probably the serving of dinner. Three women were working in the kitchen, two women were setting places at the long wooden dinner table, and a few children milled about. Madelyn was working underneath the kitchen sink and appeared to be fixing a pipe. A leak, perhaps? From what I could tell, there wasn’t much in the way of conversation. It wasn’t a friendly scene. This was business.
After Madelyn had finished under the sink, she seemed to instruct the women on what to do and how to set the table. I watched a cold and unfeeling dinner unfold. Madelyn stayed and ate with the others, but this was not a cordial gathering of friends. There was a crisp and formal feel to this meeting. The eyes of the women were dull and downcast, and their mouths silent. I scanned the group, noticing the somber looks. A very strange social setting. I put the binoculars back in the case and headed back to the car. My moccasin boots slipping on the fresh, hard powder as I made my way to the car.
***
“Okay, this isn’t much, but it’s a little odd.”
“What?” Martin asked. I had called him the moment I walked in the door.
“I trailed Madelyn to this place, and she appeared to be freelancing as a plumber of some sort. She went to a cottage that was full of women and children, and it didn’t look like a friendly get together. Madelyn fixed a pipe and had dinner, but I didn’t see any chatting or smiles. I can’t really figure out what the connection was between her and the other people there.
“Tell me more.”
“Well, she fixed something under the sink, directed traffic in the house, and had dinner with the group. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation or anything like that…Didn’t really seem like a friendly scene.”
“Hmm. What do you think is going on?”
“Not sure. They could just be some associates.”
“Do you think this has anything to do with Liza’s murder?”
“That’s hard to say. It just seems weird to head out to a secluded cottage, fix a pipe and have dinner in a little cottage that is packed with women and children.”
“That is odd. Guess what I found out about Danica?”
“What?”
“She’s been in and out of foster care, just like you thought, and you were also right about her living with Alyssa. She did live with her for about a year. I don’t know what happened, but I don’t think she’s there anymore. She’s going to Cody High on the other side of town.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“Spent a little time in Brightmoor. Why are there so many kids out during the day in that neighborhood?”
“Truancy is their thing. How many kids did you talk with?”
“Three. They were standing around in a huddle in front of a burned-out house. Didn’t look like they were drug dealers, or anything like that, so I decided to talk with them. They know Danica. She’s around sometimes—knows gang members, but she isn’t part of the gang. Her dad is in prison, as you know, and she drifts in and out of the neighborhood. Sometimes she stays at a shelter in the area, other times she lives with friends, or finds a way to get by. Alyssa does something in medial field, and she might be going to school.”
“Good job, Marty! This is great info. Now we know that we just have to be on the lookout for her. Maybe we should switch details. I can go to Brightmoor and you can watch Madelyn. I thought you’d search for info online.”
“You don’t think I’m tough enough for Brightmoor?”
“It’s not about being tough enough. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I was happy to have the information, but the idea of Martin hanging out around Brightmoor gave me chills.
“I can handle it,” Martin said, an edge in his voice.
“I know. Thank you for all of your hard work,” I said, while simultaneously wondering how I could get Martin out of the detective business.
***
The next morning, I drank two cups of strong coffee and headed out for an early morning run. Along the way, I recalled the strange scene I’d encountered the night before. How many women had been there? At least twelve. How many children? Five? No, maybe seven. Nothing nefarious seemed to be going on, but something was off. What did it all mean?
Strange fruit, but at least I had something new to ponder. The yoga instructor/abnormally calm “best friend” had a secret of some kind. I wasn’t sure what the secret meant, but being tucked away in a little cottage half a mile from the road, indicated that Madelyn might have something to hide. Whatever it was, I intended to find out.
After the run, I hopped in the shower, got dressed, and headed to the office. The winter thaw was beginning, making the stroll to the office rather pleasant. Martin arrived a few minutes after nine.
“What’s the plan for today,” Martin asked.
“We need to figure out what’s happening at that cottage in the woods. I’ll show you where it’s located this evening. I want you to watch and see show comes and goes.”
“Will I be able to sit in the car, or will I have to freeze outside?”
“Well, if you park far enough away, you can stay in the car. Take some binoculars and you’ll be fine.”
“What about this morning?”
“I’m going to see what else I can find out about Madelyn. Why don’t you print off all our information, organize it, and stick it in a binder?”
“Easy enough,” Martin said, grabbing his laptop and heading to the printer.
I sat down at my desk and began researching Madelyn Price again. After some math and guesstimating, I found Madelyn’s college graduation photo. There wasn’t much information about her, but the blurb stated that she had attended U of M on a scholarship. During her time at the U, she was a straight-A student and the leader of several clubs, including a single mothers’ group. It seemed that she was a natural leader and stood out from the crowd.
The one thing that didn’t seem to be included in Madelyn’s life was a romantic interest. Her Internet presence was minimal, but her daughter’s social media pictures included several images of Madelyn. She was by herself of with her daughter Kara, in all of the pictures. Based on what I’d observed, and the information I found online, Madelyn seemed to be focused on keeping the yoga studio running, and ensuring that her daughter received the best of everything. With that in mind, I decided to look at the yoga studio. Surprisingly, there was not a website for the yoga studio. How had Madelyn built the business and kept it running while maintaining such a low profile?
The yoga studio didn’t have a name per se. Madelyn had given her business a vague, uneventful title. If you looked up “yoga studio,” the address came up, but there was no name attached to the establishment. I was sure that she had a business license, but to have one, she had to have given a name of some sort. It was odd not to have specific information online. How did people find the studio? The best way to figure that out would be to talk to one of Madelyn’s patrons. I decided to switch the focus of the surveillance.
What I needed was an in. The only way to get that would be to get in touch with someone from Madelyn’s inner circle. My guess was that Madelyn’s patrons had other ties to her, and that was the way she acquired customers. Yoga classes that only took women, no official name for the studio…it was all so covert. The only way to learn more was to infiltrate.
After a day of online sleuthing, Martin followed me to the cottage on the edge of Ann Arbor Township. We parked at the little factory and I led Martin through the trees and showed him the little house. Large snowflakes were falling that evening, creating a certain level of camouflage.
“Stay out of sight, okay?”
“Will do.”
“You can sit in your car and wait to see if anyone drives down the road. If they do, try to follow them. Just don’t get caught.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” he said. Slight irritation slipping into his voice.
“All right, kiddo. See you soon. Call me if you need anything.”
Martin nodded and I headed back to my car. He didn’t seem to suspect that I’d given him this job because it was safe.
***
Days turned into weeks without leads. Nothing was happening and each time Carson called asking to meet, I would make up an excuse as to why I was unavailable. I try to remain honest in my dealings with others, and I don’t like to bring innocent people into the mix when researching a case. Unfortunately, I was at the point where I felt like I didn’t have a choice. I needed information from an insider-someone in Madelyn’s world. I chose an early spring day at the end of March to put my plan into action. Parked at the edge of Madelyn’s driveway, tucked away behind the barren branches of winter-beaten trees, I waited until someone turned onto the main road. An hour passed before any cars emerged, but just as I felt my head start to nod with sleepy boredom, I heard the rattle and hum of a vehicle. An early 1980s blue Volkswagen Beetle crept along the bumpy dirt road, twisting and coughing before steadying itself on the black top. I waited two minutes for the Bug to climb the small hill that sat a few hundred yards from Madelyn’s driveway before pulling onto the roadway.
The blue Bug chugged along Whitmore Lake Road, on the edges of rural Ann Arbor Township, until it came to Barton Drive. It snaked along to Plymouth Road and eventually stopped at Mocha’s on Main, a tiny coffee shop on Main Street. A young woman climbed out of the car and grabbed an apron from the backseat before heading into the coffee shop. I wrote down the license plate number of her car, and the address of the coffee shop before heading home to change. If I was going to chat up a barista, I needed to look the part.
***
I called Mochas on Main as soon as I got home. The first time I called, a man with a deep, trombone voice answered the phone. I hung up and called ten minutes later. This time, a woman with a soft, southern drawl purred into th
e phone.
“It’s a great day at Mocha’s on Main, this is Lacresha. How can I help you?”
“Hello. What are your hours today?”
“We’re open ’til ten tonight.”
“Thank you,” I said before hanging up.
Lacresha. Okay, so now I had a name. It was a like having one drop of water in a pond, but it was something. I typed in Lacresha, Mocha’s on Main, and Ann Arbor into a search engine. The combination pulled up hundreds of results. Switching to a social media site reduced the results to twelve. I sifted through each result, ruling out the ones with pictures immediately, and concentrating on the five that didn’t have personal pictures. In the end, I settled on the account with the posts that contained what I thought was southern dialect. The data was sparse, but it led me to believe that the profile I was looking at belonged to the girl I’d spoken to at the coffee shop. Ann Arbor and New Orleans were both mentioned, and the few pictures she had posted were of downtown Ann Arbor. I decided to head to the coffeshop.
Lacresha Newman enhanced the charm of the dark, dank, but somewhat quaint hole-in-the wall named Mocha’s on Main. The café was a tiny storefront sandwiched between a used book store and a small-plates restaurant. I gave the heavy oak doors a yank and entered a dimly lit room with small, cheap tables and old, sagging couches along the wall. There was also a bar with stools at the front of the café. I spotted Lacresha Newman behind the counter. I headed for the last stool at the end of the bar.
Lacresha was soft-spoken, with a southern drawl and big, brown, sad eyes. She wore a tie-dyed, purple, baby-doll shirt and inexpensive skinny jeans that were just shy of being too small. It was clear that she had once been petite—perhaps the yoga class was part of her quest to improve the fit of the jeans. A nametag dangled on her shirt, just south of her chin. I waited patiently for her to blend a coffee drink for the hipster in front of me.
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