“Anything else you want to tell me that I haven’t asked?”
She paused before answering. “Sara’s death shocked me. She was my friend and I still miss puttering around with her in my garden.” Nakamura adjusted the roses in her basket. “She was a positive person, even during her husband’s illness. Shortly before she died … ”
Davie looked up from her notes, sensing a new darkness in Nakamura’s tone. “What happened?”
Nakamura glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone lurking in the bushes. “Sara stopped working in the garden, stopped opening the curtains during the day, stopped answering the telephone.”
“Do you know why?”
Concern settled into the lines of her face. “I didn’t ask. It seemed too nosy. But over time I’ve wondered if things might have been different if only I’d said something.”
“A lot had happened to Sara—her husband’s illness, his death, and the bad relationship with her stepson. Maybe life finally came crashing down on her. You think she was depressed?”
“No,” Nakamura said, shaking her head for emphasis. “Sara wasn’t depressed. She was scared.”
6
Opinions and intuition without evidence were of little value in a homicide investigation and, in fact, could harm any future case if Davie wasn’t careful. But June Nakamura’s belief that Sara Montaine had seemed frightened in the days before her death was definitely worth pursuing.
Nakamura had also given her another lead: the cat rescue organization where Montaine had volunteered. Four Paws Cat Rescue operated out of an office in nearby Larchmont Village, not far from the house in Windsor Square. Before returning to the station, Davie called to let the agency’s receptionist know she would be dropping by.
The rescue group was located between Melrose and Beverly Boulevards on tree-lined Larchmont Boulevard with its upscale shops and cafes that could have been found in any quaint American small town. Davie parked on the street not far from the Village’s scaled-down version of Big Ben. Climbing the stairs to the second-floor office, she inhaled the aroma of cinnamon from the bakery below.
The furniture in the small lobby was modern and tasteful. Framed photographs of cats of every breed and color covered the walls. The receptionist was keyboarding at the front desk but interrupted her work to notify the executive director that Davie was waiting in the lobby.
A large yellow tabby with golden eyes sat on the desk, squinting at Davie with suspicion. The woman nodded toward the cat.
“That’s Marigold—one of our rescues. She’s looking for a forever home if you’re interested.”
Davie felt a twinge of regret as she thought of Hootch. The cat had belonged to a murder victim on one of her past investigations and had been her roomie for a while until she’d placed him in a permanent home. She missed Hootch but knew he was better off with his new owner.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
A moment later, the executive director breezed into the lobby. Davie half expected to see a woman with a jovial smile and tuffs of cat hair clinging to her clothes, but instead saw a man in his late twenties, trendy in a fashionably slim suit and an even slimmer tie—an outfit that only flattered department-store mannequins and skinny young men.
He extended his hand, which she expected to be soft and moist, but was instead rough and dry. “Trevor Lofaro. Thanks for stopping by.”
Marigold trotted behind Lofaro as he led Davie down a hallway into a room with a desk and walls covered by snapshots of cats and their adopted families. Attached to the pictures were personal notes of thanks to Four Paws, including one covered with hearts and in a child’s handwriting—Thank you for Tigger. He’s the best cat ever!
Marigold joined a multicolored feline pacing near a row of empty food dishes and a white cat lounging on the top platform of a six-foot carpeted tree. Lofaro fixed his gaze on Davie like an overeager sales person. If he planned to hit her up for a donation, he was going to be disappointed.
“Are you a cat lover?” he asked.
“Cats are good people,” she said, hoping her ambivalence would end any adoption pitch. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m following up on Sara Montaine’s death.”
He nodded solemnly. “My mother founded the organization but after she passed away, I took over. I didn’t know Sara, but mom told me everybody here loved her. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“What was Sara’s role in the organization?”
Davie glanced down and saw Marigold weaving a curvy S around Lofaro’s calves, leaving a dusting of orange hair on the legs of his skinny pants. He nudged her away with his foot, a move that failed in its attempt to be subtle.
“She answered the phone at our annual fundraising drive,” he said, “but mostly she supported the organization with her donations.” He swiveled and pointed toward a photo on the wall that had been enlarged to poster size. A woman sat at a table with a pen in her hand. A watercolor painting of a farmhouse and sheep in a meadow sat on a stand to her right.
“That’s Sara a couple of weeks before she died, signing a check to us. It was a cashier’s check, but Sara pretended to sign it because it made a better picture.”
“What was the amount?”
“A hundred thousand dollars, plus the watercolor on that easel in the photo. At the time, it was the largest contribution we’d ever received. She’d always been a generous donor, but after her husband passed away, she wanted to give a more significant amount in his honor.”
Montaine’s face in the crime scene photos had been too damaged by her wound to get a clear impression of her looks. Until now all Davie had was her driver’s license photo. This picture had captured the woman’s exotic beauty in a way the DMV photographer hadn’t. Montaine didn’t seem frightened. On the contrary, she appeared relaxed and happy, pen in hand, smiling at the camera. Her dark hair was swept into a ponytail, highlighting the soft angles of her oval face. Her lips were full and skin translucent. Davie stared at her but found nothing to indicate she was planning to end her life in a scant two weeks.
“Her cash donation was generous,” Davie said. “Did she say why she was adding the painting to the mix?”
Lofaro picked up a bag of kibble and filled the empty cat dishes. Marigold nosed this hand for attention. Again, he pushed her away. Someone had once told Davie that cats were drawn to people who didn’t like them. If that were true, it appeared Trevor Lofaro was no cat lover.
“We don’t question the motives of our donors, but Sara told my mother that watercolor painting was worth a lot of money, maybe sixty thousand dollars. She also made Four Paws a beneficiary in her will.”
Davie’s interest spiked. “You inherited money when Ms. Montaine died?”
He sighed. “Unfortunately not. An attorney for Sara’s stepson called us shortly after her death. He told us we weren’t eligible to inherit because it violated the terms of the Montaines’ prenuptial agreement. I don’t remember all the details, but he wanted the money and the painting returned. He said it wasn’t Sara’s to give. Mom sent back the original check. Somebody from the attorney’s office picked up the painting.”
“Did you challenge the decision?”
He shook his head. “Mom thought about it, but it would have cost a fortune in legal fees and it didn’t create the right narrative for her. In the end, the lawyer offered a token amount for our trouble, and she accepted. Around a thousand dollars, as I recall. Mom was upset that Sara’s wishes weren’t honored, but, as I said, she didn’t want to pursue it.”
“Did you ever meet the stepson?”
Lofaro noticed the cat hair on his trousers and picked it off with his fingers. “Sara had never even mentioned she had a stepson. Mom was completely blindsided.”
Marigold climbed the cat tree and settled in for a nap on one of the lower platforms. Davie stroked her back, feeling the v
ibration of her purrs before returning her gaze to the photo of Montaine on the wall. Standing behind her were two people, a middle-aged woman with a kind face and a man lurking in the shadows. “Is that your mother standing next to Sara?”
He turned toward the photo. “Yes, that’s her. I miss her so much.”
“Who’s the man?”
“Mr. Royce, our accountant, but he doesn’t work for us anymore.”
Davie poised her pen over her notebook. “I need to interview him. Do you have his contact information?”
Lofaro laughed. “I should ask you that question. Mr. Royce disappeared a couple of days after that picture was taken, along with all the money in our checking account. Good thing my mom hadn’t yet deposited Sara’s check. We filed a police report but nothing ever came of it. I always imagined the guy soaking up the sun and counting our money on some beach in Rio.”
Small organizations similar to Four Paws, with little or no oversight, were ripe for embezzlers and con artists. Davie had heard similar stories when she worked the Burglary and Theft table at Southeast Division. She took down the accountant’s name and the date of the theft. When she had a chance, she’d check with detectives at Wilshire for an update on the case.
“How well did Mr. Royce know Sara?”
“I wasn’t here then, but I doubt he knew her at all. His office was off-site. I’m guessing he just dropped by that day for the photo op.”
“Was there anyone else in the organization Sara was close to?”
He paused for a moment to think. “Not that I know of. Mostly, she communicated directly with my mother.”
While Lofaro explained how Montaine and his mother had met, a story about three abandoned kittens and his mother’s savvy outreach skills, Davie shifted her gaze back to the photo on the wall. She studied Sara Montaine sitting at that table, pretending to sign that check. Something seemed out of place, but Davie wasn’t sure what it was. She closed her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, she noticed the pen in Montaine’s hand—her left hand. The gun she’d allegedly used to kill herself had been found near her right hand. If Sara Montaine had committed suicide, it would have been extremely awkward to hold the gun in her nondominant hand.
The discovery sent Davie’s pulse racing. Everyone had assumed Montaine was right-handed because most people are. Sarlos hadn’t investigated further because the evidence didn’t seem to lead anywhere, so he’d accepted her death as a suicide. Davie wondered if his impending retirement or his cancer had prevented him from digging deeper.
The coroner hadn’t found gunshot residue on either of her hands, possibly because the residue had been compromised. Another hypothesis was she hadn’t fired the gun. If somebody had staged her suicide, they obviously didn’t know Montaine was left-handed.
If that’s how it went down, Davie still had to wonder how the killer had loaded Blasdel’s weapon, shot Montaine, placed the gun, and left the store without anyone seeing him.
Davie pointed to the photo on the wall. “Can I get a copy for my file?”
“Sure. Mom featured that picture in one of her Four Paws email newsletters. Sara wasn’t happy when she found out.”
Davie glanced up from her note taking. “Why was that?”
He shrugged. “Sara said she didn’t want the story to be about her. Mom thought it was odd but she apologized for not consulting her.”
“Who gets your emails?”
Lofaro glanced toward a storage room filled with file cabinets. “Donors and potential donors. We buy lists of people who contributed to other charities, mostly animal lovers but other causes, too.”
Lofaro headed toward the back room. The sound of file drawers opening and closing disturbed Marigold’s nap. She jumped from the cat tree and skittered out of the room. Davie pulled out her cell phone and snapped a photo of Montaine signing the check. The actual newsletter could be evidence. The cell photo was just backup. A moment later, Lofaro reappeared with a stapled printout of the newsletter with the picture of Sara Montaine featured on page one.
“Would you be willing to give me your mailing list?” Davie asked.
He hesitated. “I suppose. It’s on a spreadsheet, but why would you want that?”
Davie wasn’t exactly sure why, but maybe it was that Montaine had been upset her picture had gone out to an unknown group of people. “It could be useful.”
Lofaro shrugged. He went into the back room and returned with a USB drive. “Please respect the privacy of our donors.”
She pulled a business card from her notebook and handed it to him. “Of course. Let me know if you remember anything else about Ms. Montaine.”
Davie thought about that initial crime report. Shortly after Sara Montaine walked into Jack Blasdel’s gunstore, Blasdel had received a call from the vendor who supplied him with cleaning products. That vendor’s name was Gerda Pittman, a cosmetician who worked out of a back room in a tanning salon on Pico Boulevard, an area real estate agents called “Beverly Hills Adjacent.” Davie had no time to waste. On her way back to the station, she would interview Pittman. If the woman had been on the telephone with Blasdel and heard the gunshot, she could be an important witness.
7
Once she returned to the car, Davie called the number listed for Gerda Pittman in the original crime report and found her still exfoliating at the same location. When Davie arrived at the tanning salon she was greeted by the smell of lavender room freshener, trying but failing to mask the odor of sweaty bodies baking in hot tanning beds. A young woman with a bad complexion sat on a chair behind the front counter. She informed Davie that Gerda was with a client before pointing to a grouping of chairs where she could wait.
Several tattered tabloid magazines were fanned across the surface of a coffee table. Davie considered catching up on the latest celebrity breakups, but given the stench in the room and the unknown DNA embedded in those pages, her hands remained in her germ-free jacket pockets.
Five minutes later, she heard voices and saw a young man in his early twenties exit a room in the back, a few steps ahead of a tall, well-nourished woman packed into a tight pink jumpsuit. Her short hair was red like Davie’s, but less coppery brown and more traffic-cone orange. Heavy makeup only called attention to years of hard living.
“Your back might be sore for a few hours,” Pittman said in a chirpy tone. “If you need anything, call me.”
The guy seemed embarrassed when he saw Davie looking his way. She wondered what exactly had been going on in that room. Maybe she was better off not knowing the details. It could save her a call to Vice detectives.
The pimply receptionist pointed to Davie. “Hey, Gerda, somebody’s here to see you.”
The young man slipped folded money into Pittman’s palm. She flashed a smile, half predator and half high school girl on a clandestine meet-up at the library.
After the kid left, Pittman strode across the industrial carpet in her gold ballerina slippers, her head bobbing forward like a seagull in search of a French fry.
“Love your hair,” she said, pointing to Davie’s head. “Who does your color?”
“Mother Nature.”
The woman ignored the comment and studied Davie’s face. “I have another client in fifteen minutes. You really need a facial, but the best I can do for now is an eyebrow wax.” She turned and loped toward the back of the shop. “Follow me.”
“I’m not here for an eyebrow wax—”
Pittman made a beckoning gesture with her hand. “Trust me, honey. You’ll thank me later.”
“I’m an LAPD Homicide detective. I’m here to ask you about a man named Jack Blasdel.”
Pittman abruptly stopped and turned toward Davie. “What’s he done now?” Her chirpy tone had disappeared.
“Nothing I know of.”
“Keep digging,” she said. “Come with me. We can talk in my studio.”
Davie followed her to a room off the lobby that smelled of anise and the bitter sweetness of almond oil. The walls were painted the same shade of pink as Pittman’s jumpsuit, and the ruffled pillows on the rolling stool next to the facial chair made it a fitting home for Boudoir Barbie. Glass jars with faux gold tops that matched her ballerina slippers were loaded with cotton balls and swabs. Pittman flipped a switch on a stainless steel wax warmer.
“Just so you know,” she said, stripping off the used sheet from the chair. “I haven’t seen Jack in a while. I’m not happy about you showing up here, bringing back bad memories.”
Davie leaned against the pink wall next to a glass shelf lined with beauty products. “I’m investigating a death in his gunstore about a year ago. I understand you were on the phone with Mr. Blasdel when he heard the shot. He said you were one of his vendors. Is that right?”
She laughed. “A vendor? Is that what he told you? That’s rich. No, honey, I was his girlfriend.” She threw the used sheet into a basket.
In his initial interview, Blasdel had been vague about the supplies he’d purchased from Gerda Pittman, claiming only that they were “cleaning products.” There was nothing in the police reports indicating that Blasdel and Pittman had a personal relationship. Withholding information was just another form of lying. Davie wondered what other facts he’d failed to disclose.
“One of our detectives made several attempts to interview you back then. He could never make contact. Why is that?”
Pittman pulled a clean sheet from a cupboard. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
Her dismissive tone made Davie wonder if she was hiding something.
“It wasn’t that long ago. What were you talking to Blasdel about that day?”
She spread the clean sheet over the chair. “Jack owed me money. I wanted it back.”
The Second Goodbye Page 3