Toxic Blonde

by David Stever

  I lowered my window and the cool morning air brought in the scent of pine and freshly cut grass. I clicked a 300mm lens on my Nikon and didn’t have to wait long. At seven fifteen, the left door of the Bellamy’s three-car garage went up and I brought the camera to my eye. Mary Ann’s white Lexus SUV backed out, just as a man came from the front door of the house and stood in the middle of the driveway with his hands parked on his hips. The car came halfway out of the garage and stopped. The man, I presumed Tom Bellamy, and the car, were in a standoff. After a minute, the driver’s door opened and she emerged, wearing a white bathrobe, and confronted him. I heard voices but could not decipher any words. Arms flailed and fingers pointed and several volleys went back and forth before Mary Ann got back into her car and pulled into the garage. Tom charged in and a door slammed.

  At seven thirty, a light-blue hatchback stopped in front of the house. “Honey Bee Maid Service,” was stenciled on the side and the back of the car, along with a Port City phone number. A short, round, Hispanic woman hopped out. She raised the back hatch and removed a cart that she loaded with a broom, cleaning supplies, and a vacuum. I photographed the woman and the phone number. She pulled her cart to the door and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened and she entered. Five minutes after that, the center garage door went up and a forest-green Range Rover SUV backed down to Lark Way, then straightened and shot past me. As I set my car in gear, I noticed Mary Ann standing in the driveway with her arms crossed over her chest. She watched him drive off and then turned and went back inside. I wondered whether she saw me in the trees, but after what I witnessed, I figured she had to be preoccupied with the morning argument to see anything.

  I caught up with Bellamy at a traffic light as he made the left on North Shore Boulevard. I fell in fifty yards behind him. We went two miles when he turned in to a shopping center and parked at a coffee shop. I found a spot thirty yards from the store with a direct sight line. He went in and came out with a coffee cup and a newspaper in hand and took a seat at an outdoor table.

  Twenty minutes went by and the shop bustled with patrons but Tom stayed at his table which I took as unusual. Most executives at his level, at least from my observations over the years, would grab breakfast and head into the office. He had time to leisurely sip his coffee and read the paper? My instincts, my gut, my sixth sense, got me through twenty years on the police force and six as a private investigator, and now it told me to hold tight.

  A black Mercedes SL 450 pulled in and stopped beside the Range Rover. A tall, lithe blonde got out and walked to the table. Mid-thirties, I decided. She wore a dark-blue business suit, a white blouse, and flat shoes. She had to be five ten and if I was to guess her profession, it would be a fashion model—definitely not a rocket scientist. She sat across from Tom. I used the camera to get in close and clicked off a few shots. Beautiful, with an angular face, high cheek bones, a pixie-like haircut and everything screamed of money and class. The clothes, the car, the hairstyle; the way she sat upright in the chair with her hands folded in the lap. Tom did most of the talking and she nodded, smiled. He got up and went into the shop and she picked up the newspaper. I photographed her license plate and his.

  I called Katie’s cell and she answered after six rings. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Sorry. I’m sending you a couple of plate numbers. Tom Bellamy and I think, Keira Kaine. Run them first thing.” Silence. “Katie?”

  “Send them.” She hung up.

  Not a morning person.

  Bellamy came back with a coffee for her and the conversation resumed. This time, her body language changed, the smile receded, her brow furrowed, and her arms crossed over her chest. Did he tell her about the argument with his wife? They talked for five more minutes and then departed in their respective vehicles.

  I trailed behind both cars as they made the commute to Bellamy Space Technologies. Tucked away at the far end of the business park, it was a rectangular, one-level white building, surrounded by a ten-foot-high, black-iron fence. The company name was not displayed anywhere on the building, and the only windows in the entire structure were in the lobby. Four satellite dishes were mounted on the roof. Their cars stopped at a security gate to show identification, and then were waved through.

  I drove past a quarter of a mile, made a U-turn, and came back and pulled to the roadside one hundred yards from the entrance and made quick work of snapping photos of the building. Last thing I needed was security to spot me taking pictures. I would have every three-letter government agency knocking on my door within minutes. The only way in was through the front gate, which made for tough surveillance.

  Project Thomas Bellamy was underway. His wife hired me to prove his affair with Keira Kaine. So far, it appeared he wouldn’t disappoint.

  6

  “Now what?”

  “Chicken salad on a croissant with lettuce and tomato.” Katie plopped into the booth opposite me. “Try it.”

  “It looks good, but I’m not so sure about our customers.” I took a bite. “Delicious—but…”

  “What? We need to keep reinventing ourselves if we want to compete in the restaurant business.”

  “How about we ease into this new menu thing after your vacation?”

  “Fair enough—but this lunch menu is going to be killer. Then we work on the wine list.”

  “Wine list? What about Bellamy?”

  I finished the sandwich while she retrieved her laptop. She sat beside me in my booth and opened the computer to a file she created. “Not much to talk about. He started the company fifteen years ago. A government contractor from what I can determine. There’s a website.” She turned the laptop to me. “It’s only information about company leadership and the organizational history.”

  “They won’t have contract details on the site,” I said. We went through the web pages, and Katie was right. It featured bios of the senior executives: Thomas “Tom” Bellamy was President, Founder and CEO. Keira Kaine was Senior Vice President for Special Projects. I wondered whether she’s making Bellamy her special project.

  The site referenced advancements made in aerospace technologies and a trade journal article lauded BST and their groundbreaking work with GPS navigation and its applications to orbital satellites. A second story profiled Tom Bellamy and an award he received from NASA for his achievements with space-based solar power. Whatever that is?

  “What else?”

  “Nothing. All the articles I found were positive. All business. No juicy scandals or anything.”

  “What about Keira Kaine?”

  “Well, interestingly, nothing. A Port City address. I can’t find any history on her. I did credit and criminal and nothing.”

  “Nothing on her credit report?”

  “One credit card and one car loan. Both with perfect payments. Both have the Port City address.”

  “No school loans?”

  She shrugged. “I wish that was me.” She flipped to another website. “Now, Bellamy, he’s a player in his industry. A bunch of articles in trade journals about some space energy thing he discovered. Awards from NASA, a community award from a kid’s charity.” She clicked on a picture and it filled the screen. “Handsome guy. Self-made and all that.”

  “Yep, that’s him.”

  “Mister Perfect got himself a girlfriend, huh?”

  “Appears that way.”

  “Sleazebag.”

  “If it wasn’t for cheating sleazebags, I’d be behind the bar serving drinks and you would be bored to death in some cubicle. What about Mary Ann Bellamy?”

  “Not much. One article about a golf tournament-charity event where she was the chairperson. Nothing else. They have one son, Adam. Credit reports are excellent, mortgage, one car loan, four credit cards and a department store card. Looks all chummy on paper. This divorce will be major drama with the country club crowd.”

  “Any social media accounts?”

  “No, none. Kind of weird. Nothing for Keira Kaine, either.
”

  I slid out of the booth. “Keep digging. Mike is closing tonight. I’ll be up in the condo.”

  “Don’t forget, I’m leaving early. I need to shop. Can’t expect me to go to San Juan without a new wardrobe.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  ***

  The research continued at my kitchen table. I spent another two hours learning what I could about BST and government contracts. Not that the work BST does was integral to my investigation of Bellamy and his employee, but it was interesting that Katie found nothing on Keira Kaine. Nothing but a credit card and a car loan. No school loans, not even a traffic ticket? Everyone has a past, no matter how much we want to keep it hidden. Her past was too clean.

  Employees of defense contractors must pass a background investigation that includes criminal, financial, and personal examinations to get their top-secret government clearance. If I was the investigator doing the background work for Keira Kaine’s clearance, I would question the lack of a history on her. All I found was a previous address from San Francisco and a small mention of her name in an article from a Stanford University campus newspaper. It was as if she did not exist before coming to Bellamy Space.

  I closed the computer, turned a jazz station up loud on my radio, made myself a quick cheese omelet, and grabbed a bottle of a Napa merlot and went to my balcony. The warm summer day had given way to a cool evening. I ate the omelet, filled the wine glass a second time, and stretched out on my lounge chair and watched the sinking sun provide a dramatic, swirling pastel backdrop to the Port City skyline.

  My chirping cell phone shook me from a sound sleep. I answered and a woman on the other end identified herself as one Brynne Middleton, and said she was a friend of Mary Ann Bellamy.

  “Mary Ann asked me to call you,” she said. “She was in a car accident and is at St. Helen’s.”

  “Is she okay?” I sat up and shook the fog from my head.

  “She’s banged up a bit, but the doctor said she’ll be fine. She asked if you could come to the hospital.”

  “Who are you again?”

  “Brynne. I’m her friend. She’s in the emergency room.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Mr. Delarosa?”

  “Yes?”

  “She asked if you could be discreet. Said you would know.”

  “Of course.”

  I ended the call and checked the time. Eleven thirty.

  7

  St. Helen of the Cross Hospital was owned and operated by the Carmelite Sisters of Ireland and is the hospital of choice in Port City. Compared to City General, it was the Mayo Clinic. However, the emergency room at midnight was no different from any other emergency room: a waiting room crowded with the sick, injured, derelicts, junkies, crying babies, toddlers on the loose, tired mothers, a television blaring out a mindless talk show, a two-hour wait time, an empty vending machine, and a volunteer at the reception desk who can only tell you to take a seat.

  I made my way through the battlefield of patients and past the useless volunteer and found a nurse who told me Mary Ann was admitted.

  “Try the third floor,” she said as she disappeared into the maze of the exam rooms.

  The elevator dumped me out at the third floor nurse’s station, where I inquired about Mary Ann. The nurse at the desk said without looking up, “Room 331. Turn left, on your right.”

  I made the left and caught the attention of a uniformed cop partway down the hall. “Delarosa.” He approached with a hand extended. “Remember me? Jack Bridges.”

  “Yeah, Jack. Been awhile. How are you?”

  “Sergeant now.”

  “Good for you. What’s happened here?”

  He nodded toward a small snack machine alcove, where we huddled. “Mary Ann Bellamy. She a client?”

  “Yes. She okay?”

  “She’s lucky. Car accident on Spring Falls Road. She ended up halfway down the embankment toward the creek. Saved by a tree.”

  “Injuries?”

  “Bruised ribs and a cut on her head. Husband is in there now with her friend. But, I got the impression the husband isn’t aware she hired you. The friend told me she contacted you.”

  “Your impression is correct. Why are you here?”

  “Said she was forced off the road.”

  “And…?”

  “Something happened. She went through a guardrail but it doesn’t add up. Too many skid marks for one car.”

  “Road rage?”

  “Could be. She claims a van came up behind her and pushed her. What’s the story?”

  I shrugged. “Hired me yesterday. Suspects the husband of cheating. Alcohol?”

  “Negative. Did a blood test here.”

  “Where was she coming from?”

  “The friend’s house. Spring Falls.”

  A woman came out of Mary Ann’s room. She was a slim brunette, medium height, wore gray leggings, a black warm-up jacket, and had a short wedge haircut. She leaned against the wall and went to work texting on her phone.

  “That’s the friend,” Bridges said.

  “I could use a friend like that.”

  “No kidding. Hey, I’m done for the night.”

  I handed him a business card. “Mind sending me the accident location? I want to take a look.”

  “No problem. I can meet you there tomorrow morning if you want. Ten?”

  “Perfect. Appreciate that.”

  “One thing, though. A tall blonde came in with the husband. She’s in the waiting room.” He pointed down the hallway.

  “No kidding?”

  “Hot, too. She the girlfriend?”

  “Could be.”

  “Just when you thought you’d seen it all.” He elbowed me. “Hey, I was in your place a few weeks back. Talked to Mike.”

  “Yeah? Hope he took care of you.”

  “He did. Cool place you guys have.”

  “Thanks. See you in the morning.” We shook hands and Bridges left. I approached the friend. “Are you Brynne? I’m Delarosa.”

  “Oh, hi.” She stuck the phone in her pocket. “Can we talk somewhere?” I nodded to the alcove and we went there. “She wants to talk to you but Tom is in there now.”

  “What happened?” She had lovely, light-brown eyes and I figured her around Mary Ann’s age. Closing in on fifty or so.

  “Somebody tried to kill her.”

  “Kill her?”

  “Followed her, and then pushed her car through a guardrail. He did it. He wants her out of the way.”

  “You’re talking about her husband?”

  “Yeah, the jerk.” Her eyes turned to daggers. “He actually brought the bitch with him here tonight. Can you believe that?”

  “His girlfriend?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does Mary Ann know she’s here?”

  “No. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

  “Don’t. I don’t want the…other woman…to know I’m here, either.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. I understand.” Her phone beeped and she checked it. “It’s her son. Let me answer him back.”

  “Sure.” She typed away and a moment later, Bellamy came out of the room. I ducked back into the alcove. Brynne stopped typing and from my angle, I watched her stare at Tom as he collected a tall blonde—presumably, Keira Kaine—from the waiting room and disappear around a corner. If Brynne’s eyes were lasers, she would have disintegrated the pair on the spot.

  She turned back to me. “The bitch is putting it right in Mary Ann’s face. I can’t stand by much longer without confronting him.”

  “My advice, hold off for now. Can we go in?”

  Brynne led me into Mary Ann’s room. She was in the bed, her head bandaged, and her red eyes told me she had been crying. “Johnny. You came.”

  “Of course. How are you?”

  Brynne handed her a tissue and she dried her eyes. “I have two bruised ribs and a cut up here.” She tapped the bandage on her head. “Keeping me overnight to
look for signs of a concussion. I’ll be fine. Physically.”

  “That is most important,” I said.

  “He did it. No doubt in my mind.”

  “Let’s take one thing at a time. What happened?”

  She explained a white van came up close behind her car. She went faster but the van stayed on her tail and when she got to the big left turn on Spring Falls Road, the van pushed her car through the railing.

  “All I thought about…I would never see Adam again.” The tears spilled and Brynne got more tissues.

  “We’ll find out who did this. I talked to the police officer and we’re going back to the accident site in the morning.”

  “She’s behind this. I’m positive.”

  “Mary Ann, you’re upset. I understand…”

  “You don’t understand. I will not go home. I no longer feel safe.” Her face blushed, her eyes welled-up again.

  Brynne gave her a sip of water. “She’s coming home with me.”

  “You tell your husband you’re going to Brynne’s?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We argued this morning. I confronted him about Keira and the late nights. He denied everything.”

  “He came here tonight and hardly acted concerned. Like this was a bother. He is such a walking boner,” Brynne added gracefully.

  “Rest. Call me tomorrow once you’re settled.” I reached out and she squeezed my hand.

  “Johnny, thank you again. Told you it wasn’t going to be your usual case.” She smiled and I smiled back.

  “You work on healing. I’ll work on everything else.” I let go of her hand and motioned for Brynne to follow me to the hallway. “You taking her to your place?”

  “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

  “You think her husband is capable of this?”

  “Yes. Trust me.”

  I gave her my card and we traded contact information. “She’s going to need someone to lean on. I’m glad you’re here.”