She walked up the far side of the street opposite Lynda’s house, checked around. The driveway behind Lynda’s gate was empty. Crossing over, she ducked around the brick wall that ran along the property. Staying close to the wall, about thirty yards down she found a glossy green door that had been painted many times. The lock was an old Mortise lock, with a big keyhole. Surreptitiously, she looked around at Lynda’s neighbor’s house. No one at the windows.
She squatted down, stashed her clipboard, opened the flap on her shoulder bag, found her set of skeleton keys, along with her old leather gloves, thin and worn. She slipped them on and tried various keys on the lock.
No go. The lock was too old.
She tried her Dyna QuickPick but the lock was stiff. Probably hadn’t been opened for quite a while.
She retrieved an eleven-inch pry bar and an old shop towel, the kind a gas station attendant might use to check oil.
The rumble of a car coming up the street caused her to stop, stand up, hug the door, making herself flat.
Lynda?
A blue Impala floated by. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Checking around one more time, she wrapped the tip of the pry bar in the towel and jammed the edge in between the door and the jamb next to the lock. She applied a good amount of pressure. There was a creak but the door held. She leaned into it with her hip. The door lock snapped, and the door loosened. Not too much damage around the wood.
She opened the side door, let herself in, pushed the door shut. A side door to the garage next to the house was locked. But it was a newer door and easy enough to pick. If she never got her PI license she might as well sharpen her cat burglar skills. Colleen entered, pushed the door shut quietly behind her. The dim two-car garage was devoid of cars. Lynda did not appear to be a very neat person. On the opposite side of the garage there was a kitchen door with windows. Colleen crossed the garage, one ear cocked. She tried the door. Unlocked. She opened it silently, peered into a large kitchen of burnt-orange tile. No lights on. All she could hear was the ticking of a clock. She was just about to step into the house when she noticed, sitting on the garage workbench to her left, a small red fabric suitcase with big white stitching. Next to it was an odd-shaped white case with a pink flower pattern, flat on the bottom. Both items of luggage looked suitable for a young girl.
Colleen stepped back, went through them. The unusual case was a helmet bag. Inside was a black equestrian riding helmet, size Youth M, along with a pair of junior leather riding gloves.
Inside the overnight bag were britches, a white blouse, and riding jacket, on top of a pair of riding boots that lay on their side amidst rolled-up socks and folded underwear. All the size a girl Melanie’s age might wear.
Melanie was passionate about riding. Colleen recalled the photo Steve had shown her. Melanie was pushing for her own horse.
Interesting.
Colleen zipped the bag back up, set it back on the workbench, slipped into the house.
The kitchen did not adhere to Colleen’s more fastidious style, with cups and bowls here and there and a half-eaten piece of toast on a crumby plate on the kitchen table next to an open Chronicle. Herb Caen’s column was next to the Macy’s ad.
The living room had high-end furniture, including a leather Chesterfield and a white canvas with a minimalist smear of black that was supposed to pass for art. A throw blanket was draped across one arm of the sofa, next to a copy of Cosmopolitan. A half-finished drink sat on the coffee table.
The walls were covered with gold and silver records and photos of Lynda over the years, posing with recording artists and movie stars, quite a few of whom Colleen recognized. No pictures of Melanie.
Colleen tiptoed upstairs.
At the top of the landing was a framed movie poster for Deadly Blessing, a potboiler featuring a buxom actress named Laura DuMond, wet hair dripping down a curvaceous body as she climbed onto the back of a motorboat in a skimpy red bikini that struggled to contain her shapely figure. One long-nailed hand held a smoking pistol. Her face was a sexy mean sneer and her eyes were slitted with intent. Laura DuMond was none other than Lynda Cook, ten to fifteen years ago. The tagline read: SHE PROMISED DANGER … AND DELIVERED.
Wasn’t that the truth?
Ironically, the only two rooms upstairs that were not pigsties were Melanie’s and an empty guest room, which was layered in dust. Melanie’s room had all the accoutrements of a bedroom belonging to a young lady with a guilty parent, including her own Princess phone, a twelve-inch color Magnavox television, a Marantz stereo system with 8-track player, stacks of tapes next to it. Several equestrian trophies were lined up evenly on a shelf. There were the usual photos of teen idols, Leif Garret with his blond tousle and unbuttoned shirt figuring prominently.
What seemed out of place was a top dresser drawer left wide open. Underwear and socks that had once been organized appeared to have been rummaged through, some perhaps taken and placed in the bag downstairs in the garage.
Colleen dug around but found nothing out of the ordinary. No diary. No gray gym bag containing twenty thousand dollars.
Lynda’s bedroom was the polar opposite of her daughter’s. Again, high-end furniture, but clothes were strewn here and there, along with papers, letters, and more.
Colleen checked the nightstand. Opening the drawer, she found a loaded Smith & Wesson LadySmith revolver with a baby-blue handle next to a wicked-looking pink dildo. Lynda’s weapons of choice. Colleen checked the closets next. Under the bed. Behind the bed. No bag of money sitting out in the open.
Keeping one ear raised in case the front gate clanked open, Colleen proceeded into the office, which was slightly more organized. She found a stack of work papers on an elegant mahogany desk.
She skimmed through the papers. Most were correspondence with NewMedia Entertainment, where Lynda worked. Toward the bottom of the stack, one note was from Sir Ian Ellis, chairman of Delco Records. The name rang a bell. Delco was Steve’s old record company in the U.K., whom he said had robbed him and the band blind. The note was dated about a month ago.
She picked it up.
Lynda-
Simply lovely to see you again. But then, you are so easy to look at. Next time I’m in town, I’d love you to show me around.
Best, Ian
P.S. I think we’ve made some headway on SOS.
The note made Colleen cringe. Sir Ian was a dirty old man. All part of the rock and roll business. And Lynda was in touch with Steve’s old record company. But what the hell did SOS mean?
She snapped a Polaroid of it.
She didn’t have time to go through all of the correspondence. The top desk drawer was open, a cluttered mess. Side drawers were locked. She fished around, found Lynda’s checkbook. She removed the checkbook register, lay it down on the desk. Too close for her Polaroid OneStep. She set her shoulder bag down, found her Olympus-Pen Fixed Lens Compact Viewfinder camera, loaded with black-and-white high-speed film. It was a little dark in the office, but she didn’t want to fuss with a flash. She turned on the desk lamp, positioned it over the register, went through it, page by page, using a paperweight to anchor the edges, taking photos of Lynda’s spending. That might lead to something. When she was done, she slipped the register back into the checkbook, tossed the checkbook back into the drawer. She turned off the desk lamp, repositioned it, along with the paperweight, to where they had been.
A filing cabinet was locked.
Colleen looked around, wondering where $20,000 might be hidden.
No safe visible.
But on an inner wall, she noticed a Warhol silkscreen of Marilyn Monroe, numbered and signed by the artist himself. It was slightly askew. She went over, lifted the frame.
And found a perfectly good SentrySafe wall safe behind it.
She didn’t expect it to be unlocked and it wasn’t. But who knew what the combination was?
She snapped a photo of it, just for good measure.
Colleen checked her watch. She’d
been here less than ten minutes. She’d do another quick run-through.
The clanging of the front gate pulled her into the here and now with a start.
Colleen darted over to the desk and peered out the Venetian blinds. A black BMW sedan waiting for the gate to fully open. Lynda at the wheel, wearing sunglasses and a scowl.
Colleen’s heart thumped.
She didn’t have time to get out.
She rushed back to the guest room, which seemed unused, and the last place, hopefully, anyone would think to look. She shut the bedroom door behind her, slid the mirrored closet door open, pulled off her hard hat, stepped inside, slid the door shut. She took a deep breath and stood in the dark closet, breathing musty clothes smells.
The garage door clacked open.
She waited. Time had a way of slowing down in situations like this. Oddly enough, the car engine did not shut off. Colleen heard a car door open, someone get out—Lynda—then the trunk opening, then someone running around, throwing a couple of items in the trunk, slamming the trunk lid, getting in the car, and backing out of the garage.
The garage door clattered shut. The car backed out of the driveway and the outer gate shut as well.
Colleen exited the closet.
Time to go.
She put her PG&E helmet back on and tiptoed downstairs, and when she got there, the sound of a side door by the front gate opening caused her heart rate to ratchet back up. She ducked through to the kitchen, peering out. A mailman wearing a white pith helmet had unlocked the iron entrance gate next to the driveway gates. He held a bundle of mail in one hand as he approached the front door.
Colleen waited while he slid the mail in through the front door slot, turned around, left, pulling the entrance door in the brick wall shut behind him.
Colleen went to the front door. A pile of mail lay on a Persian rug in the entranceway.
She picked up the mail and went through it, keeping the correspondence and bills, leaving the magazines and junk mail behind. Stashing her haul in her shoulder bag, she exited the kitchen through the garage, surprised when she saw that the small red suitcase and helmet bag were now gone.
Lynda had come back to the house to pick them up. Must have forgotten them.
A sense of gratification flowed through Colleen’s guts.
She had been right about Melanie all along.
Retracing her steps, she left, pulling the side garage door shut, locking it, exiting through the green side-door in the brick wall, checking that no one was watching her from the house next door.
She pulled off her gloves and walked down the path to Colon Avenue, checking her clipboard in a businesslike manner.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Colleen dropped her roll of film off at a one-hour photo on Mission, although there really was no such thing as one-hour photo processing. But she would get the pictures back later today.
It was well past lunchtime when she settled down at her office desk overlooking the city. Overlooking a blanket of fog would have been more accurate.
She proceeded to go through Lynda’s mail.
A letter from Melanie’s private school. Colleen plucked a letter opener from an empty coffee mug that said EAT AT JOE’S and opened it.
A bill. An expensive school, Colleen noticed. And a note from Sister Margaret. Melanie is making progress but must still watch her language. Setting a good example at home will help immeasurably.
Good luck with that, Colleen thought.
A birthday card to Lynda from someone in New Jersey. She read it quickly, feeling voyeuristic, and moved on to Lynda’s Pacific Bell telephone bill.
Over $100 in long distance charges. A job like Lynda’s no doubt involved a lot of phone time, and with NewMedia located in Los Angeles, that made sense. The bill cutoff date was last week. There were a number of calls to quite a few Los Angeles numbers.
She started dialing.
Most of the numbers ended up belonging to various executives at NewMedia.
But one heavily called number was unlisted. Colleen called it, got one of those fancy new telephone answering machines.
“This is Rex. You know what to do.”
She hung up before the beep.
Rex Williamson was Lynda’s father.
There were two more long-distance collect calls toward the end of the cutoff period, before Melanie disappeared, from Point Reyes, north of San Francisco. Another unlisted number. She dialed.
A woman with a Latin accent answered. Colleen hung up.
There were several calls to a location in the North Bay, Fairfax, around the same time. Directory inquiries told Colleen the number belonged to a business: Edenview Equestrian Center.
She was reminded of Melanie’s disappearing riding gear.
And suddenly she got an aha moment.
She’d wait until the photos of Lynda’s checkbook register came back before she continued. She wished she had just swiped the damn thing now.
She called Moran, in the hopes that he might be able to use one of his police contacts to track down the elusive Point Reyes number. But Moran’s wife always got to the phone first.
“What is it now?” Daphne seethed.
“I was hoping to speak to your husband,” Colleen said.
“Well, he’s not here.”
Colleen left a message, fingers crossed that it would get to him.
She ate cheese and French bread in the enclosed porch at a small table and washed it down with a wineglass of mineral water. Fog swirled outside. Inside it was relatively warm, as warm as an old San Francisco apartment with high ceilings got. Colleen counted her blessings. Not that long ago she’d been living hand to mouth in a condemned paint plant she was guarding for a client.
She would really have liked to speak with Moran, ask him to track down that Point Reyes number. But if she didn’t have it today, it wouldn’t stop her. Steve Cook’s next payoff was due in a few days, and she had to nip that in the bud before he sold his catalog to his ex-father-in-law. But she needed hard evidence.
She called Inspector Owens.
“About time,” he said.
“I’m going to need more time,” she said.
There was a long pause. Office clatter and background conversations filled the line. “So, your client won’t budge? Well, that’s too bad.”
“That’s not the problem,” she said. “I think I’ve found something.”
Owens paused. “Something like what?”
“Something like this is not really a kidnap.”
Another pause. “How so?”
“My client was set up. The kid is fine.”
“You have proof?”
“I will,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
“Jesus.”
“I’ll get photos.” She told him what she had in mind.
Another long pause. “Okay,” he said. “One more day.”
“Thanks,” she said but Owens had already hung up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Colleen crossed the Golden Gate Bridge at a painstaking twenty miles per hour, along with the rest of the evening commute traffic heading north out of San Francisco. Wet fog blew in from the Pacific through the red spans and cables. The Torino’s windshield wipers slapped it away as the V8 grumbled in low gear.
She wore a smart black polyester pantsuit with a crisp white blouse and sensible heels. She’d made herself up and brushed her hair back in a businesslike manner, along with Pamela’s silver Magpie earrings. When nosing around, it frequently helped to be well dressed.
Going through Marin wasn’t much faster, but traffic picked up when she reached Sir Francis Drake. San Quentin prison loomed to her right by the bay, the tall lights of the perimeter sparkling in the moisture. She knew every person inside was counting off the days, just as she had done. She exited 101 and headed west, through the laid-back communities of well-to-do former hippies who had escaped the harsh realities of the modern world. Soon she was in countryside, climbing low hills where the fog fell
away. Edenview Equestrian Center was tucked away in a secluded canyon.
She wound up on a narrow, well-maintained private road, lit only by her headlights, crossing a small bridge to a gravel parking lot.
Even at night, one look at Edenview revealed a prosperous stable. There were two arenas—one covered—an office, a tidy cottage, more living quarters behind the stables, all tastefully constructed of wood and painted in a rustic red with white trim. Colleen parked by the office next to a 4x4 pickup and an empty horse trailer. She got out, grabbing her trusty clipboard. Grass was watered and mowed. Hoses were neatly coiled. Water troughs were clean and full. Nothing looked out of place; nothing seemed wanting for maintenance. The country air was rich and pungent with the smell of wet earth and horse manure. In the distance, mariachi music floated from a building on the far side of the stables.
The office was closed for the day.
A light was on in the cottage, however, next to the covered arena. Colleen strolled over, stepped up on the porch. She could hear the braying of canned laughter. Someone watching TV. She knocked. The volume dropped on the TV. Footsteps approached.
The door opened and there stood a heavy but sturdy man about fifty years old with a white handlebar mustache and a gut pushing out a plaid shirt. He had a deep voice and was friendly enough, considering he’d been interrupted during what was probably his own time.
Colleen introduced herself as Carol Aird, insurance adjuster. She produced a card that claimed she was who she said she was, an identity she used to make unobtrusive inquiries.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you the manager?”
“Ed Brand.” He didn’t put a hand out. “What’s it about?”
“I’m working with Pacific All Risk. I meant to get here earlier but got stuck in traffic.” Traffic delays were a hindrance Bay Area people understood. She turned on the charm, making direct eye contact until she saw his brown eyes soften. She consulted her clipboard where she had scribbled some notes. “It’s about an accident on Canyon Road, week before last. Thursday. I believe you might know one of the alleged parties: Lynda Cook?”
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