The Girl Who Didn't Die--A Suspense Novel

by Tim Kizer

  Now she knew it wasn’t a payphone number.

  Alice stared at her phone for a long moment and then called Hagan.

  “Would you do me another favor?” she said. “I need the name and address of the pervert that called me last week.”

  “What’s his phone number?”

  Alice gave Hagan Jeb’s number and said, “Thanks a lot.”

  “Did he call you again?”

  “No.”

  An hour later Hagan called Alice and told her that the pervert had called from a disposable phone.

  “That phone number isn’t registered to anyone,” he explained.

  Jeb was going to call again. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bought a disposable phone.

  How did Jeb know Melissa was her daughter? It wasn’t public information.

  Who knew that Melissa was her daughter? The police. The Keeners. John LaCross.

  It was probably Michelle or Norman Keener who had told Jeb that Melissa was her daughter.

  Had Jeb told the Keeners he knew who had murdered Melissa?

  Chapter 18

  1

  It had been the best turkey breast she’d had in a long time. Good news made food taste so much better.

  Now Hagan had evidence that Melissa had been stolen from her. He said the experts’ findings were inconclusive, but he must realize that if the signature on the consent to adoption form was authentic, the experts would have had no trouble establishing that.

  Today had been a good day.

  Alice squirted some dish soap on the plate, wetted the brush, and began to scrub the plate with it, the pleasant grapefruit smell of the dish soap wafting into her nostrils.

  It had been eight days since Jeb had called. When was he going to call again?

  Her phone rang.

  It might be Jeb.

  Alice put the plate and brush in the sink, turned off the faucet, and hurried into the dining area. The call was from an unknown number. She picked up her phone from the table and tapped the Answer button.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hey, Alice. This is Jeb. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine? What about Melissa? Are you grieving over her?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why?”

  “She was my daughter.”

  “But she never lived with you.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’ll be hard for you to understand me.”

  “I guess you’re right. It must be some kind of biological thing.”

  “Jeb, why don’t you tell me now who killed her? I’ll pay you.”

  “How much are you willing to pay?”

  “How much do you want?”

  After a silence, Jeb said, “I don’t want your money.”

  “Who told you that Melissa was my daughter?”

  “An acquaintance.”

  “Did you kill Melissa?”

  “No, I didn’t. You thought I killed her?” Jeb laughed.

  “Did you call the Keeners, too?”

  “Nope.”

  “When approximately will the time be right?”

  “I want you to do something for me, Alice. If you do it, I’ll tell you who killed Melissa.”

  “What is it?”

  “I want you to meet a man by the name of Kevin Munroe. He lives in Culver City. I want you to make friends with him. Can you do it for me?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Just a regular guy.”

  “Why do you want me to make friends with him?”

  “He’s got something I need.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you when you become his friend. Write down this address: one one five one Westwood Boulevard, Los Angeles.”

  Alice jotted down the address on a notepad and said, “Got it.”

  “This is the address of the restaurant where Kevin usually has lunch on weekdays. It’s called Carmine’s. Kevin comes around twelve-thirty and leaves around one. Here’s what you can do: sit down at his table, flirt with him a little, and give him your number when he asks for it. I think you’re his type.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-five. What’s your email address? I’ll send you Kevin’s picture.”

  Alice told Jeb her email address.

  “Meet him next Monday,” Jeb said. “Any more questions?”

  “No.”

  “Bye, Alice.” Jeb hung up.

  A few minutes later Alice received an email with Kevin Munroe’s picture. Munroe was attractive, with dark hair and brown eyes. He bore a passing resemblance to Ben Affleck’s brother, Casey Affleck.

  Chapter 19

  1

  Henry Dixon looked sleepy and his hair was tousled when he opened the door.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mister Dixon,” Hagan said. “Can we come in?”

  “What is this about?”

  Hagan advised him of his Miranda rights, and Dixon asked, “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Does the name Sophie Engstrom ring a bell to you?” Valdez asked.

  “No.” Dixon opened the door wide. “Come in, please.”

  Hagan and Valdez went inside.

  “Are you sure you don’t know Sophie?” Valdez said. “You met her on Facebook last March. She’s fourteen, she lives in San Diego. You told her you were seventeen.”

  “You told her your name was Tyler Simmons,” Hagan said.

  “I don’t know this girl,” Dixon replied.

  “You met Sophie in person on March twenty-fifth,” Hagan said. “She says you asked her to have sex with you. She says you kissed her and touched her breasts. This is child molestation, since Sophie was fourteen at the time of the incident.”

  “You’re going to jail, Henry,” Valdez said.

  Dixon frowned. “She’s lying.”

  “There’s only one liar here, and that’s you, Henry.”

  “Did you kill Melissa Keener?” Hagan asked.

  “It was probably an accident,” Valdez said. “You didn’t mean to kill Melissa, did you, Henry?”

  “Am I under arrest?” Dixon said tonelessly.

  “Yes, you are.” Hagan took out a pair of handcuffs.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Henry Dixon, you’re under arrest.” Hagan snapped the handcuffs on Dixon’s wrists.

  2

  Detective Valdez sat on the edge of Hagan’s desk and said, “We still have no evidence Dixon killed Melissa Keener.”

  Hagan nodded.

  Their theory was that Henry Dixon had murdered Melissa because she had refused to have sex with him.

  Sophie Engstrom had refused to have sex with Dixon, too, but he had not killed her. And he had not tried to rape her, either.

  Dixon hadn’t murdered Sophie, so why would he murder Melissa?

  Maybe Dixon wasn’t Melissa’s killer?

  Hagan leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “Maybe he didn’t kill her. Sophie Engstrom refused to have sex with him, but he didn’t kill her.”

  “Maybe he was high or drunk when he met Melissa. Maybe he was in a bad mood that day.” Valdez picked up Hagan’s stapler. “And are you sure Sophie didn’t do something for Dixon? Maybe she gave him a handjob or a BJ.”

  “She would have told me.”

  “Her father was there, wasn’t he? Would you admit to giving a guy a BJ if you were in her shoes?” Valdez put the stapler back on the desk.

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ask the Keeners to take a lie detector test?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “They had a motive. Let’s ask them to take a lie detector test.”

  Neither Norman nor Michelle Keener had a solid alibi. They had said they had left work at four-thirty and come home around four-fifty. The offices where the Keeners worked were
only a few miles from the murder scene.

  “Okay. I’ll call them today.”

  “By the way, is Alice still saying that Melissa was stolen from her?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “She says the woman in that video is her look-alike, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you watch My Name Is Earl?”

  “I saw a few episodes.”

  “There was a blonde actress on it, her name’s Jaime Pressly. You know who I’m talking about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She looks exactly like that blonde actress in The Wolf of Wall Street. You know who I mean? Her name’s Margot Robbie. They look exactly the same, don’t they?”

  Valdez was right. The two actresses did look exactly the same.

  “Yes, they do.”

  3

  At three o’clock, Hagan called Norman Keener and asked if he and his wife would take a polygraph test.

  “Do you suspect us of Melissa’s murder?” Keener asked.

  “No, we don’t. We just want to eliminate you as suspects.”

  “We’d rather not take a polygraph test.”

  The fact that the Keeners refused to take a lie detector test didn’t mean that they were guilty. Norman Keener might have decided that the cons of undergoing a polygraph test outweighed the pros.

  Two hours later, Hagan called Joanna Styles.

  “Do you have ten minutes?” he said. “I have a few questions for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “When did you leave Cradle Of Life?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I found a better job.”

  “When you worked at Cradle Of Life, did you see anything illegal going on there?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you remember Melissa Keener? You handled her adoption thirteen years ago.”

  “No, I don’t remember her.”

  “We suspect that some of the children adopted through Cradle Of Life were abducted from their biological parents.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Do you know of any abducted children who were adopted through Cradle Of Life?”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “If you’re concerned about potential criminal liability, we can grant you complete immunity.”

  “I don’t know anything about abducted children. I’m sorry, Detective.”

  “Did your boss ever ask you to sign a blank consent to adoption form?”

  “No.”

  “Did the agency pay any birth mother for consenting to adoption?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Maybe the Keeners refused to take a lie detector test because they didn’t want the police to find out that Melissa had been sold to them?

  “Thank you for answering my questions, Joanna. Goodbye.”

  Chapter 20

  1

  Alice parked her Nissan Altima in a three-story structure on Kinross Avenue two blocks from Carmine’s. It was hot and breezy, brilliant sunlight pouring down from the cloudless sky. When Alice reached Westwood Boulevard, she checked her watch. It was 12:11. She walked into the first store she saw, a gift shop, browsed it for fourteen minutes, and then went to Carmine’s.

  Her stomach felt tight. She had no reason to be nervous, but she was.

  Carmine’s was a modest establishment that didn’t have a hostess at the entrance. A sign at the door announced that the happy hour was from four to six. The restaurant hummed with conversation and background music; most of the tables were occupied. As Alice crossed the room, she looked around for Kevin Munroe. She did not find him.

  There were a lot of men in business suits among the diners, and Alice figured that most of them worked in the tall office buildings on Wilshire Boulevard, which was one block away.

  Did Kevin work in one of those buildings?

  The University of California, Los Angeles was nearby, but Alice didn’t think Kevin worked there: she supposed that UCLA employees had lunch at the campus food court.

  Alice sat down at an empty table and picked up a menu, her eyes fixed on the entrance. About half a minute later, a waitress, a young woman with curly red hair, asked her if she was ready to order.

  “Give me a couple of minutes,” Alice replied.

  It was 12:31 when Kevin Munroe entered the restaurant. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He went to an empty table, sat down, and opened a menu.

  A little thrill rippled through Alice. She felt like a spy. Like a femme fatale spy.

  A name came to her mind: Mata Hari. Mata Hari was a Dutch exotic dancer who had become a spy during World War I. She seduced men to obtain secret information. Her life had ended badly: she had been executed on suspicion of being a double agent.

  Alice got up and walked over to Munroe’s table.

  “Is this chair taken?” she asked, pointing at the chair across from Munroe.

  Munroe looked at her and said, “No.”

  Alice sat down and put her purse on the table. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Munroe smiled. “How are you?” He closed the menu and gave it to Alice. She saw a silver signet ring on his right hand.

  “I saw you here last week,” Alice said. “How often do you come here?”

  “Almost every day. They have great Philly steak sandwiches.”

  “It’s a nice place.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “My name’s Alice, by the way.”

  “I’m Kevin.”

  “Do you work nearby?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  The waitress with curly red hair came to the table and asked for their orders. Munroe ordered a Philly steak sandwich and Alice a chicken panini.

  “What do you do for a living?” Alice asked Munroe.

  “I work for the FBI.”

  Alice had passed a huge federal building on Wilshire Boulevard on the way to Carmine’s. Perhaps it housed the FBI Los Angeles office.

  “The L.A. office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you work in the federal building on Wilshire by the freeway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you an FBI agent?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you carrying a gun?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Jeb wanted something from an FBI agent. What could it be? Was it related to Munroe’s work?

  Was Jeb after information about one of Munroe’s cases?

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Casey Affleck?” Alice said, smiling.

  “You mean Ben Affleck?”

  “No. Casey is Ben’s brother.”

  “Is he an actor?”

  “Yes. He was in Gone Baby Gone. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “He plays the private detective.”

  “Oh, I think I know who you’re talking about. Are you sure I don’t look like Ben?” Munroe laughed.

  The waitress brought their food and left.

  “Do you work on Saturdays?” Alice asked.

  “Sometimes.” Munroe took a bite of his sandwich.

  “Do you like playing tennis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too. Unfortunately, my friends are always too busy or too tired to play tennis with me.”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Munroe seemed interested in her, and he had probably realized she was interested in him, too.

  Did she need to give him one more hint?

  “Are you looking for a boyfriend?” Munroe smiled.

  “I just want to have fun right now. No expectations.”

  “I see. Are you free this Friday night?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I know a bar in L.A. with a Ping-Pong table. Do you like playing table tennis?”

  “Yes, and I’m good at it, too.”

  “We’ll see. You want to play some Ping-Pong this Friday?
”

  “Yeah. Give me your number. I’ll call you on Friday.”

  Munroe told Alice his number and said, “Can I have your number?”

  “Sure.” She gave him her number.

  Chapter 21

  1

  Henry Dixon was arraigned at ten o’clock in the morning on Monday, July 24. His bail was set at fifty thousand dollars. An hour later he was brought into the interview room of the San Diego Central Jail to meet with Detective Hagan.

  “How are you doing, Henry?” Hagan said.

  “I’ve been better.” Dixon placed his cuffed hands on the worn wooden table.

  Hagan pushed the Record button on his voice recorder. “Look, Henry, I believe you. I don’t think you killed Melissa. I don’t think you hurt her in any way.”

  Dixon was silent.

  “I believe you met Melissa on June twenty-seventh and spent some time with her. We have no evidence that you did anything inappropriate to the girl.” Hagan paused. “I’m not asking you to admit to meeting Melissa. I just want you to help me find her killer.”

  “How can I help you find him?”

  “All I need from you is information. Nothing you say will be used against you. Just say the information came to you in a dream.”

  Dixon thought for a moment and then said, “Okay, I’ll give you the information. What do you want to know?”

  “What time did Melissa leave?”

  “I’m not admitting I met Melissa. Everything I tell you today came to me in a dream.”

  “Got it.”

  “She left about five minutes past two.”

  “So you spent only five minutes with her?”

  Dixon said nothing.

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did she leave alone?”

  “She left with some woman. I think this woman drove her to the park.”

  “Did you see the woman’s face?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “White, around thirty, slim body, short brown hair. About five feet eight. She was cute.”

  “Any tattoos?”

  “No.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did Melissa tell you the woman’s name?”

  “No.”