The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  “Hey, Davie. Got a minute?” It was SID latent print analyst Sharonda West.

  “Only if you have good news.”

  “Let’s call it a mixed bag,” she said. “I caught a break in my schedule so I ran Sara Montaine’s prints through AFIS.”

  Back in the day when prints were on cards and had to be transmitted and analyzed by hand, results could take a couple of months. Now everything was electronic and could be returned within a couple of hours. But the department was always backlogged, so fingerprint submissions were prioritized with the most urgent cases processed first. She was lucky Shar had been able to shoehorn Montaine’s prints into the queue.

  “I was going to fax you the report,” Shar said, “but I thought I should call first. Are you sure you sent me the right prints?”

  That heavy feeling in Davie’s stomach was back. “I think so. They’re the same ones the coroner’s office lifted at the morgue. Why?”

  “Because they came back to a woman named Sabine Ponti and get this—according to DOJ records, she’s been dead for over two years. I don’t know the details, but I’m sure you can find out. I’ll fax the report to the station.”

  Davie shook her head, as if that might help process the news. There could have been a mix up at the coroner’s office, of course, but that seemed unlikely. If the information was accurate, she understood why Sara Montaine spoke little of her past—she was hiding her real identity.

  “Were the prints in the criminal database?” Davie asked.

  “No, they were in with the civilians. Ponti was probably printed because of her job.”

  Sara Montaine died a year ago. Sabine Ponti died a year before that. The math raised so many troubling questions it was hard to sort them out.

  “Thanks, Shar. I owe you one.”

  She chuckled. “Just one?”

  “You’re right. More than one.”

  Davie sat in the car, still shocked by the news. It must have been difficult for Sara Montaine to manage the lies of her cover story. Her stepson had pushed his father to hire a private investigator because of his suspicions about her, but he was met with resistance. Robert’s suspicions may have been justified. Davie wondered what a PI might have found about Sara Montaine’s background and whether that information would have changed anything. All along Davie had been searching for a motive for Montaine’s death, but the fingerprints opened a whole new line of inquiry. Who was Sabine Ponti and why had she morphed into Sara Montaine?

  Davie returned to the station and scanned the photo of the three men on the street corner and also printed a hard copy for the file. She searched for Sabine Ponti’s name in law enforcement databases but found no criminal history for the woman. After that, she typed the name into an Internet browser and saw a notice from the Register in New Haven, Connecticut.

  The Coast Guard has called off the search for Branford native Sabine Ponti, who left the Bahia Mar Marina in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in a rented thirty-foot sailboat last week. When she failed to return at the appointed time, marina personnel notified the Coast Guard. The seas were calm that day, but authorities said they couldn’t rule out the possibility the boat sank after colliding with another vessel, possibly a container ship.

  Ponti is a graduate of North Branford High School and Florida State University in Tallahassee. At the time of her disappearance she was employed as a hostess at the Seaglass Cafe, a Fort Lauderdale eatery.

  Roscoe Ponti, the missing woman’s father, told reporters his daughter was an experienced sailor who was accustomed to single-handed sailing. “She’s also a strong swimmer,” he added. “We’re all praying she’s out there somewhere waiting to be rescued.”

  The Seaglass Cafe was the name on the coffee mug found among Montaine’s possessions. An online search for the Seaglass produced a notice that claimed the cafe had gone out of business.

  The newspaper reporter’s name and email address were listed at the end of the article, but when Davie called, she was told he’d been laid off during the last downsizing.

  The telephone number for Roscoe Ponti was easier to find in a commercial database the department used. Davie punched the numbers onto her desk phone keypad. Three rings and a man with a gravelly voice answered. Davie identified herself and told him she was calling about Sara Montaine.

  “You must have dialed wrong. Happens all the time. My wife and I have had this number for forty years. I don’t know anybody named Montaine. Is she from around here?”

  He didn’t seem in any particular hurry to end the call, so Davie kept asking him questions.

  “Is your wife at home?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Let’s see. I haven’t seen her in a couple of hours.” He paused for a beat or two. “I think she’s at her church knitting group.”

  “Maybe Ms. Montaine was a friend of your wife’s?”

  He chuckled. “When you’ve been married as long as we have, you don’t have secret friends.”

  “What about your children? Would they know her?”

  “We have a son, Boyd, but he hasn’t lived with us for years. He’s a graphic artist. Very successful.”

  Davie noted that Roscoe Ponti made no mention of his daughter, Sabine. She wondered why. “I need to speak with him. Can you give me his number?”

  Ponti hesitated. “I suppose so, but it’s unlisted so don’t spread it around town—unless you need a graphic artist, of course.”

  Davie jotted the number in her notebook. She didn’t recognize the area code, but if it was a cell he could be anywhere.

  “Where does your son live?”

  “Pasadena. That’s in California. Didn’t you say that’s where you’re from? Maybe you’ve heard of him? Boyd Ponti? The wife and I are so proud of our boy. He’s a graphic artist. Did I tell you that?”

  They chatted for a couple more minutes but he again assured her he had never heard of Sara Montaine, so she thanked him and hung up.

  Davie didn’t know the state of the Pontis’ physical or mental health and was unsure how they’d take the news that their daughter had survived that boat accident only to be dead again a year later, this time for real. Before telling them anything, she wanted to talk to the brother in Pasadena. Davie picked up the phone once again.

  A man answered her call. Davie identified herself. “Are you Boyd Ponti?”

  “Yeah. How can I help you?”

  “I’m calling about your sister, Sabine.”

  He didn’t respond right away and when he did his tone was neutral. “Why? Did you find her?”

  Davie didn’t want to tell him Sabine Ponti had become Sara Montaine and died a year ago of a gunshot wound to the head. Not yet. One of the worst parts of her job was informing a grieving family that their loved one had turned up dead, and in this case, twice. She wanted to tread softly.

  “I think your sister may be connected to a case I’m working on. Can you describe her?”

  “Okay, I’ll play your game. Blonde hair, blue eyes, five-three. She called herself fat but I’d call her chubby.”

  Sara Montaine’s hair was brown and she had a thin build, but she could have lost weight and colored her hair. Davie remembered the cosmetic surgery scars from the autopsy report. This might even have been an attempt to change her appearance.

  “Did she have any distinguishing marks, a tattoo or scars?”

  “Why are you asking? Connect the dots for me.”

  “I’m investigating the death of a woman named Sara Montaine. I ran her prints through a national database and they came back registered to your sister. I need to make sure it’s not some sort of mix-up.”

  “Is this a scam? You say you’re a detective but I don’t know that. If you want information about my sister, you can come over and show me your ID.”

  “Happy to. Give me your address.”

  “You’re the de
tective. Find it yourself.”

  The line went dead.

  23

  Davie had expected Boyd Ponti to pepper her with questions about his sister’s whereabouts for the past couple of years or at least display some sort of emotion or concern that she may have been alive and using an alias. Normal people with missing relatives usually wanted all the details, especially after not knowing if the loved one was dead or alive. But Ponti didn’t seem all that interested in news about his sister. She wondered why but supposed she’d find out soon enough.

  Ponti was correct about one thing: finding his address was easy. He lived at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains in a single family home in Pasadena about ten miles east of downtown Los Angeles. Traffic would suck this late in the day, but she was too close to a breakthrough in the case to worry about that. She grabbed a set of car keys from Giordano’s desk and headed east.

  Davie had always loved Pasadena’s tree-lined streets and stately old homes on Millionaire’s Row, not to mention the Rose Parade and Cal Tech’s Athenaeum. But as appealing as the city was, she couldn’t imagine living that far away from the ocean.

  Ponti’s house was a vintage Craftsman, painted pale olive green. Davie parked the department vehicle and noted the time as 4:56 p.m. She climbed five wide steps to a wraparound porch. To the left were two cushy chairs and a small round table perfect for cocktails at five. Planter boxes rested on the ledge to the right. Someone must have been watching her walk up the sidewalk because the door opened before she could knock.

  An attractive woman with dark hair and a thin build beckoned her inside. She was in her late thirties and wore a tasteful gray silk shirt and matching trousers. Her ears were accented with large diamond studs. In her hand was a glass of white wine. It was barely cocktail hour, but Davie wasn’t an expert on the drinking habits of the upper middle class.

  “Come in, Detective,” she said, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture. “Boyd said you might drop by. I’m his wife, Darleen.”

  Davie stepped into a living room with large windows, dark wood ceiling beams, and matching built-in bookcases. The fireplace was a charming feature, but the addition of more dark wood on the mantel made the room feel gloomy.

  “Please sit down,” she said, pointing to a couch with a raised back at one end, a fainting couch if Davie remembered her Victorian furniture history. “My husband is in his office designing a corporate logo.” She walked to the base of the stairs and shouted, “Boyd. That detective is here.” Darleen returned to the living room and lowered herself into a chair across from Davie, sloshing wine on her silk pants. “Boyd told me you have news about Sabine. You know, his parents never gave up hope. Have you told them yet?”

  Her tone seemed hushed and gossipy. Davie wanted Boyd Ponti present before laying out the details. “I’d prefer to wait for your husband.”

  “Boyd said you identified Sabine—something about fingerprints. I always wondered if she survived that boat accident but didn’t reach out to the family because she had amnesia. Is that what happened? Have you spoken to her? Does she remember us?”

  Davie heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. A doughy man in his early forties with a beard and an air of annoyance ambled down the stairs. Boyd Ponti acknowledged Davie with a nod but distanced himself by the fireplace with his arms crossed.

  “Show me your ID,” he said.

  Darleen leaned forward, sloshing wine on the area rug. “Boyd—”

  He held up his hand to silence her. “I have the right to know who I’m talking to.”

  Davie had already identified herself during their earlier telephone conversation. Nevertheless, she opened her jacket to reveal her badge and gun and pulled a business card from her notebook. She held out her hand toward him. Apparently he considered the long-distance stretch too taxing because he made no attempt to take the card. Instead, he slumped into a nearby chair so the three of them formed a triangle.

  Darleen snagged the card and began reading. “Homicide. How intriguing. Who’s dead?”

  “Shut up, Darleen.”

  She flashed her husband a tight smile. “Whatever you say, dear.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “On the phone you mentioned a woman named Sara Montaine. Who is she?”

  Ponti’s curt response didn’t make Davie inclined to sugarcoat the truth. “Your sister may have been living in L.A. under that name, possibly for up to a year after she went missing in Florida. Sara Montaine died a year ago of a gunshot wound to the head. I need to know if she was your sister.”

  “Continue,” he said with a flip of his hand.

  “I have photographs.” Davie pulled out the picture of Sara Montaine at Four Paws.

  “Please ignore the hair color. And it’s possible this shot shows her heavier or thinner than she was when you last saw her. Just concentrate on her facial features.”

  Ponti took the photo, studying it for a long time. Darleen got up and wandered to the bar to refill her wineglass. Then she strolled to her husband’s side and leaned over to study the photo.

  “She’s thin,” Darleen said. “Not at all like our sweet chunky little Sabine. And look at her face. She had some work.”

  Ponti frowned and handed the photo back to Davie.

  “Is that your sister?” Davie asked.

  His expression was somber. “So, Sabine lived under our noses for a year as this Sara person? Just so you know, I’m not responsible for her debts.”

  Davie was taken aback by his lack of compassion. His reaction was almost as bad as Robert Montaine’s. “She didn’t owe any money, but thanks for asking.”

  “How sad,” Darleen said. “This is the second goodbye for our dear Sabine. That must be some sort of record.”

  Davie had to stop thinking of the woman as Sara Montaine. That name was a phantom creation from a forger’s tool bag. Sara Montaine had never existed. Her name was Sabine Ponti and from now on, that’s what Davie would call her.

  From the beginning of the investigation, Davie had felt compassion for Sabine Ponti. Her life couldn’t have been easy with her husband dying so soon after the marriage and a hostile stepson intent on making her life difficult. She didn’t know what Ponti had done to earn all the distain, but her father hadn’t even mentioned his daughter when Davie spoke to him on the telephone, and now her brother and his wife seemed detached and uncaring about her life or her death. Darleen might be excited about the drama factor, but Davie sensed no other personal feeling. Davie hoped Sabine Ponti had enjoyed some measure of happiness in her short life. It saddened her to think otherwise.

  Boyd Ponti stared out the window. “You want me to tell my parents?”

  “You can if that would be easier on them.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  Davie handed him the picture she’d found in the storage unit of the three people standing on the street corner. “Can you identify these men?”

  Boyd glanced at the photo and then looked away. “Never seen any of them before.”

  “I found a newspaper article about your sister’s disappearance,” Davie said. “She worked for a restaurant in Florida before she went missing. Can you tell me about her job?”

  “She was hired as a hostess,” he said. “Sabine had a business degree with an emphasis in accounting. Working in a restaurant was a big step down for her.”

  Davie jotted the information in her chrono notes. “What’s the restaurant owner’s name?”

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, staring at the floor. “Nate something.”

  Darleen took another sip of her wine. “His last name was Gillen, honey, but he’s dead, the poor man.”

  Davie poised her pen over the page. “When did he die?”

  Boyd continued staring at his feet, appearing disinterested in the conversation. “I’d guess—”

  Darle
en interrupted again. “A few days before Sabine disappeared. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver. She took it hard.” Darleen flashed a sly smile. “No surprise there. We heard a rumor that Nate was more than her boss.”

  The discovery made Davie’s scalp tingle. She didn’t want to get ahead of the story, but this information was tripping alarms. “You mean they were involved in a romantic relationship?”

  “That’s bullshit,” Ponti said, his voice bristling with anger. “Nate had a wife. Sabine didn’t date married men.”

  Darleen batted her eyelashes. “I hear you, honey, but I think you mean anymore. You know … she’d done it before.”

  He scowled. “Stop slut-shaming my sister. Sabine made some mistakes, but she was trying to start over.”

  “Okay, let’s just say Sabine specialized in close relationships with coworkers. Is that better?”

  Davie attempted to break the tension. “Sabine’s fingerprints were found in the civilian database. Did she have a security clearance from her work?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice so low Davie strained to hear. “Before the restaurant gig.”

  Darleen turned toward Davie, still eager to dish out information. “Sabine worked in the accounting department of a defense contractor in Hartford. She loved the people there … one of them she loved a little too much. That’s why her boss fired her. Awful man. Remember, Boyd, how he treated her like his personal secretary? Even made her learn shorthand. Anyway, her parents were appalled and embarrassed by the affair, so Sabine moved away from Connecticut. Memories, you know how that is. It took her a long time to find even the hostess job. References do matter, I guess.”

  Ponti sat in his chair fuming, but he didn’t contradict Darleen, which told Davie that Sabine’s affair with a coworker in Hartford was probably the truth.

  “Look,” Ponti said, “Sabine was pretty. Men were attracted to her, including Nate Gillen. She told me the guy made inappropriate sexual advances to her, and she wasn’t the only one. Lots of girls at the restaurant complained about him. There were other things about working there that bothered her.”