“I won him in a poker game,” Greg said proudly. “His name’s Dumpster.”
“We’re holding onto him for a few days,” I quickly added, “then he’s going to live with a friend who has lots of other animals.”
“Seems about right for you two,” Dev said as he retook his seat at the table. He picked up the fork, opened the closest carton, then stopped. “This is kind of how we met, isn’t it? The three of us discussing a case over Chinese food. It was at Odelia’s condo in Costa Mesa, wasn’t it?”
Greg and I looked at each other, both of us remembering back many years. The case was the murder of my friend Sophie London. I was the executor of Sophie’s estate, Greg was a witness to her death, and Dev was the investigator. Greg and I didn’t believe it was suicide, as initially determined, and had joined forces to lay out our suspicions to Dev over a meal of Chinese takeout. Before her death none of us had known each other. Now I was married to Greg, the condo was long sold, and Dev was an important part of our lives.
“Seems like yesterday,” Greg said. “One of the saddest and happiest moments in my life.” Greg took my hand and squeezed it as I squeezed back tears.
ten
While Dev ate, we told him all about the Kingstons and Burt, my leave from T&T, and our concerns about Holly West.
“So you’re not sure who this West woman is following, if anyone?” Dev asked as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“No,” I told him. “We haven’t gone through all of her videos, but it looks like there are more starring the Kingstons than of Burt or Greg. So far we’ve only seen Greg in one of them.”
“We’re looking into Holly West a little more before calling the police,” Greg told him. “But we’ll definitely give them a call tomorrow.”
“Are you using that magic search engine you have?” Dev asked me.
I nodded.
He chuckled. If you didn’t know Dev, you’d think he was clearing his throat. “I hope when I go into the PI biz you’ll share that source with me.”
“I’m pretty sure Clark knows about it too,” I said. “I think Willie’s people use it sometimes, along with their other mysterious contacts.”
I heard a tone and glanced at the laptop. My magic search engine was notifying me that the search on Holly West was complete. I cut my eyes to Greg. Both he and Dev were watching me.
“Go ahead and open it up, sweetheart,” Greg told me. “Dev can help us decide what to do if it turns up anything disturbing.”
While I opened and read the report, Dev moved the empty food containers to the kitchen counter and washed his hands.
“There are three Holly Wests listed for Southern California,” I reported. “One is older than the one we’re looking for, and it looks like she moved to Northern California a few years ago. Another is a high-school student. The third has the same Long Beach P.O. box we found.”
“Like Goldilocks and the three bears,” Dev noted with a half grin. “One’s too old. One’s too young. The third is just right.”
I read more. “The one in Long Beach was born May 16, 1991,” I reported. I did the math in my head. “That means she’s 26.” There wasn’t much more information in the report. “It says here her mother’s name is Jane Newell. Father is Jordon West.” I kept reading. “Oh, how sad,” I said, “her mother passed away about just two months ago.”
I looked over at the guys. Dev was looking at me with interest. Greg was looking at me like he’d seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter, Greg?” I asked him. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What were her parents’ names again?” he asked.
I looked at the report and read the names. “Jane Newell and Jordon West.” I looked back at him.
Dev was now watching him too, and with his cop-trained eyes. “Do you know them?” he asked.
Greg nodded. “I do, or did back in college. At least I knew Jane Newell. I’ve only heard about Jordon West, and that was from Jane.” He took a deep breath. “And you’re sure Jane’s deceased?”
“Was she an old college flame?” Dev asked.
“Sort of,” Greg said after a long pause. “We kind of dated off and on during my senior year. She was a junior at the time. She left school mid-year and I never saw her again.” He pushed his wheelchair away from the table and toward the fridge. He opened it and grabbed himself another beer. “You want another, Dev?”
“Sure,” Dev answered.
Greg turned to me. “How about you, Odelia?”
“Will I need a beer?” I asked, concerned about where this was going.
As an answer, Greg pulled three beers from the fridge and brought them to the table. When he set one in front of Dev, Dev pushed it aside and got up from the table. “On second thought, maybe I should shove off so you two can talk about this in private.”
Greg and I were staring at each other, neither of us speaking. Whatever this was, it was huge. Greg’s eyes were nearly wet. I couldn’t read the emotion behind them, which was rare. He was definitely upset but not angry. Behind his obvious agitation I saw sadness and concern.
“I’ll let myself out,” Dev said. “You know how to reach me if you need me.”
Without taking his eyes off of me, Greg called to Dev as he made his way to the front door with Wainwright as an escort. “Thanks for coming by, Dev. Nice to have you back.” At the door Dev gave the dog a good scratching behind the ears before exiting. “We’ll fill you in shortly.”
When the front door closed, I twisted the cap off my beer and took a sip. It was icy cold and tasty, especially after the salty, spicy Chinese food. “So is Holly West following you after all?” I asked Greg.
“She might be, or it could be a coincidence.” He took a long pull from his fresh beer.
I snorted. “If Dev were still here, he’d say there are no coinkydinks.” I took another sip of beer, worried about what was coming next. Greg and I had shared with each other some of our more important relationships in our pasts, but the name Jane Newell was new to me.
“Like I said,” Greg began, “Jane and I dated in college off and on for a short while. We liked each other but there was nothing serious on either side. We were more like occasional bed buddies. She abruptly left in her junior year, and I never saw her again.”
I got up and paced the kitchen, finally stopping and leaning back against the counter to face my husband. “Do you know why she left school.”
“Yes,” Greg answered, his voice low. “She left because she was pregnant.”
I took another drink. This time I didn’t sip but chugged back nearly half the bottle at one go. College girls got pregnant all the time, but something in my gut told me this was different. Without warning, the beer that went down came back up like a foamy geyser. I slapped a hand over my mouth and turned toward the sink just in time to expel it down the drain. When I was finished, I swished some water around in my mouth and wiped my face with a nearby dishtowel.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Greg asked. I nodded as an answer, still unable to speak.
“So is Holly West your daughter?” I asked, finding my voice as I turned back to face him. My eyes burrowed into his, looking for the truth.
“I don’t know, Odelia. Jane told me the baby wasn’t mine when she left. She said it was this Jordon West’s baby.”
“Did Jordon West go to school with you guys?”
Greg shook his head. “Not that I know of. In fact, I have no idea who he is, just that she claimed the baby was his.” We were both silent, then Greg said, “I’m so sorry, Odelia. I should have told you, but Jane wasn’t that big a part of my life and I knew she dated other guys, so I accepted her word that the baby wasn’t mine.” His jaw tightened. “While I can father a child with my injury, tests have shown that I don’t have the best swimmers when it comes to sperm, so it was easy to believe.”
I
took a deep breath, then another. When we first met, I knew that Greg wanted children—not desperately, but he certainly wouldn’t have thought it a bad idea. I’m ten years older than Greg and don’t want children; frankly, I’m not that fond of rug rats. Don’t get me wrong: I actually love children—other people’s children. I’ve just never wanted my own. When we married, Greg had put the idea of having kids aside. I knew about his low sperm count and knew it was one of the reasons he easily accepted us not having children. Had we both wanted them, with my age and his issues, we probably would have had to jump through medical hoops to try, and even then there would have been no guarantee.
Now, here was a young woman who might be his daughter. I had mixed emotions about the possibility. Part of me was jealous in a weird way, worried that by coming into our lives she would upset the apple cart. Greg and I had a wonderful marriage. It wasn’t without its bumps and bruises, but we were as close as opposite halves of Velcro, and the union was way better than I had ever expected any marriage to be, at least any marriage I would have. I was also pleased by this offspring possibility. Greg would have a child. It would be a piece of him that would go on in the world, like a healthy seed sprouting into other plants, providing Holly West wasn’t some psycho.
“Are you thinking now,” I said to Greg in a slow, deliberate voice as I formed the bones of my question, “that maybe Holly found out that she is your daughter and was following you for that reason?”
He sucked down some beer before answering. “It’s a possibility. Seems strange that she was at the grocery store and at my shop, doesn’t it?”
I nodded in agreement. “Yes, it does.”
“But there were no other videos of me,” he pointed out.
“That we know of,” I added. “She could have hours of you that she hasn’t posted.”
I went back to my laptop and the report on Holly West, checking it for more information. “Rather than calling the police right away, let’s get to the bottom of this first on our own,” I told Greg. “There’s a phone number on the report. Should we call or email her?”
“Phone,” he said. “Stuff like this should be handled by phone or in person. Since we don’t have an address for her, it looks like the phone will have to do.”
“I agree.” I jotted down the information on the pad Greg had been using earlier and held it out to him. “Now seems like a good time, doesn’t it?”
“Sweetheart,” Greg said to me, taking my hand along with the paper, “I’m so sorry about all this.”
I squeezed his hand. “I won’t lie, Greg, I’m totally thrown by this, but whatever happens, whoever this Holly girl turns out to be, I am with you a hundred percent. Remember that, even if I get kind of cranky about it.”
He smiled, and the love in his eyes nearly shattered me into a thousand little pieces. I’d meant what I said about being with him on this, and I knew he’d have my back if the tables were turned.
Greg’s phone was on the counter. I got up and handed it to him. “Do you want some privacy?”
He shook his head. “We’re in this together. I’m counting on that.”
I watched as he punched in Holly’s phone number, half hoping he got voice mail, half hoping the number was disconnected. Just for security, Greg blocked his identity before calling. Some people won’t answer blocked calls, but for his first try, he wanted to give it a shot.
Greg put the call on speaker and held the phone between us. It rang three times, then a soft female voice answered, “Hello.”
Time stood still in our kitchen for what seemed like an eternity but was really just a few seconds. I swear I could hear the digital clock on the microwave move.
“Hello,” she said again.
Greg cleared his throat. “Is this Holly West?”
“Who’s asking?” The voice might have been soft, but there was a defiant edge to it.
Greg and I locked eyes, then he said, “My name is Greg Stevens, Holly. I knew your mother, Jane Newell, a long time ago.”
Nice start, I thought to myself. Keep it soft and subtle. I gave Greg an encouraging smile. There was silence, but she didn’t end the call. With my eyes I encouraged Greg to continue.
“Holly, are you following me?” he asked, his voice turning tight and demanding.
No! Don’t put her on the defense so soon. I wanted to kick Greg, but he wouldn’t have felt it. Instead, I widened my eyes at him and shook my head like Wainwright shaking off water.
“What?” Greg asked silently with expanded eye sockets. My normally smart hubby was clueless.
Holly disconnected. No big surprise.
“Well,” I said, “that could have gone better.”
“Oh yeah?” Greg asked, his voice challenging. “Just how would you have done it?”
“I wouldn’t have asked her right off the bat if she was a stalker, that’s for sure.” I got up from the table and started pacing the kitchen.
“Yeah, I kind of jumped the gun on that,” Greg admitted. He ran a hand through his hair, his face dark with frustration. “So where do we go from here?”
I was wondering that myself. “The police really need to view any video taken prior to what is on her YouTube channel. We should talk to her and ask her to come forward on her own.”
“Maybe she already has,” Greg said.
I stopped pacing and leaned against the counter again, weighing that possibility. “Most decent people would go to the police,” I said, “if they had any information on someone’s murder.” I paused. “Unless they were doing something wrong at the time they were filming that video,” I tacked on. Inside, I was hoping this Holly West was a nice person, not just because there was a slim chance she might be Greg’s daughter, but also because she was for sure the daughter of an old friend of his.
“Holly was at the store filming and at the shop filming,” Greg said. I could see he was working out the possible angles of Holly’s civic responsibility. “I don’t think she could be charged with stalking unless we filed charges—unless she was afraid of being found out in the first place.”
“But,” I said, holding up a finger to make my point, “who knows what else she might have been doing on her own or for someone else? Maybe she knew that Burt was going to talk to you and what about. Maybe they even knew each other. It’s possible.”
“The police may have already seen the video,” Greg said. “It is out in the public view. If they have seen it, I’m sure they would be tracking her down to get the entire thing.”
“True.” I moved back to the table and took my seat. “But all they would get for information on her is her first name, like we did, unless they have access to private information on her. If they have something like Marigold that farms information or a special access just for law enforcement, they still may not have anything more than we do, which is just a last name, telephone, and a mailing address.”
“Was that P.O. Box address a real post office box or a mailbox place?” Greg asked.
Turning back to the computer, I copied the address from the Marigold report and pasted it into the Google maps page. It popped up the location. I clicked on the street view feature and inspected the address and the buildings around it. “It looks to be a private mailbox place,” I reported. “If the police only have this address for Holly, they’d go there to get more information on her. At least that’s what I’d do.”
“But that’s private. The police might need a warrant to get them to cough up her full contact information, unless they can convince the people running it to do it without a warrant.”
“We could asked Dev about this,” I suggested, “or Clark.” Antsy, I got up and grabbed the beer on the table that had been meant for Dev. I held it out to Greg. “Will you be wanting this?”
He looked at the beer in his hand, then at the one in mine, and shook his head. “Nah, I’ve had enough.” He gave his p
hone a thoughtful look. “Speaking of which, since Clark hasn’t called since the thing with the dog, I’m guessing he doesn’t know yet about Burt’s murder. You know he’d be all over this, and so would Willie, at least with warnings to stay out of it. Maybe we should call him and give him a heads up?”
“If Clark doesn’t know yet, he’ll know soon enough,” I said with a roll of my eyes. Clark had called the night of the dog rescue. Mom had not only told him about it but sent him the link to the video. “My mother knows. Dev knows. Andrea Fehring knows. It’s just a matter of time before the hotline rings on Clark’s end in Arizona.”
I shuttled the unopened beer to the fridge. As soon as it was stored, I turned back to Greg with an idea. “How about calling Holly again,” I suggested, “without the block on your phone.”
“I hardly think she’s going to answer the call,” Greg said, draining his beer. “And if she did, what should I say? I don’t want to bungle it like I did before.”
“You don’t really need her to answer it,” I told him. “Leave her a message asking if she has anything on the video about Burt’s death or right before Burt was shot that might help us or the police figure out what happened. Leave your number and mine, and ask her to call one of us. Assure her it’s all we want.” I paused, then added with a shake of an index finger in his direction, “Say nothing about her following you, and do not ask why she was there.”
“I’ve already spilled the beans about knowing her mother,” Greg said.
“True,” I said. “And if I were Holly, I’d be wondering how you linked me to Jane Newell in the first place. But let that go for now,” I advised. “Let’s just focus on information that can help the police find Burt’s murderer.”
Greg shrugged. He gathered up the empty beer bottles from the table and brought them into the kitchen. I took them from him, gave them a quick rinse, then dropped them into our recycling bin for glass. While I did that, Greg rolled back to the table and picked up his phone. With a look in my direction for support, he unblocked his number and called Holly again. As we expected, it went straight to voice mail. Greg calmly left the message I suggested. We didn’t know if it would yield anything, but it was a start.
Too Big to Die Page 9