I logged out of Facebook and brought up dexknows.com. I did a reverse search of the Conrad address. In addition to the Conrads, one other name came up: Ian Dawson. A quick property search in county records told me Dawson was the owner of the property and that he’d inherited it. I went back to Dex and searched his name, coming up with a post office box and no phone number. I made a note and searched Megan Rice. There was no Megan, but I found a Peter and Sonja, which I thought might have been her parents. I scribbled their names down then went to the Fort Collins Coloradoan website, searching back issues for information about the Conrad murders. Despite what Bonnie Matheson had said about the paper having done extensive coverage, I could find little more than what she’d already told me.
Feeling a little like the library stop had been a bust, I walked over to Dazbog Coffee (my favorite) and got a perfectly blended chocolate-flavored coffee. I chatted briefly with the girl behind the counter and one of the owners who’d been in doing paperwork, then left. Two sips in, I didn’t feel the trip had been a waste of time at all.
Back in the truck, I motored over to the next address listed for Dillon. The house, another huge place, was in a neighborhood near Fossil Creek High School, off of Ziegler. The houses here are probably comparable to the houses in the country club area I’d just been to, but the major difference was that the sidewalks here were full of activity: bikers, skaters, parents, kids, dogs.
I took a moment to add the license plate and car information to my list, then I got out and walked to the house I needed. The front yard was a bit small, but it was well kept and the expansive flowerbeds were immaculate, blooming with a multitude of colors and sizes.
I climbed the steps to the front porch and rang the bell. A moment later, a brunette woman in her thirties peered out at me cautiously. She was well dressed and groomed, though without the pomp Mrs. Burbank had. I could see two paintings on the wall of the living room behind her that I guessed were expensive. I smiled and introduced myself.
“Do you know Danielle Dillon?”
She opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch with me, pulling the door closed behind her. I got the impression she wasn’t in the habit of inviting strangers into her house. I didn’t get the feeling she was hiding Dillon inside.
“No, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
I showed her the picture. “Recognize this woman?”
She thought for a moment. “I think she looks familiar, but I really can’t think where I would have seen her.”
“Can I ask your name?”
“Linda McKinnon.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“No, my husband Dave lives here, too.”
“Do you have any house staff?”
“Do you have some sort of identification?”
I gave her my card then pulled the cheap badge out of my pocket. I didn’t blame her when she didn’t appear impressed. I think the badge looks like it came from a costume set at the dollar store, too.
“You’re a bond agent?” she asked.
“That’s right. Feel free to call the police and have them run my name.”
“That’s okay. It’s just people have to be so careful nowadays, what with everyone trying to scam them. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. More people should be so careful.”
“To answer your question, we don’t have any house staff, but I do have a cleaning service that comes once a week.”
“Which service would that be?”
“Clean Sweep. It’s a small, local business. I switched to it last year. I was using House and Home.”
I know of Clean Sweep; it’s Amy’s business.
I thanked McKinnon for her time, asked her to call if she thought of anything, then left.
I drove to the next address and parked in front of the biggest house I’d been to yet, in a neighborhood south of Horsetooth between Taft and Shields. I made note of visible license plates, including the two in the driveway, and went to the door. So far, Danielle Dillon was unlike anyone I’d ever looked for. And everywhere I looked just made her more confusing. Today alone I’d been to four neighborhoods I’d never been to before while looking for FTAs. Not that I was necessarily making a correlation, but I had tracked a lot of skips to trailer parks, and after only a few weeks in the biz, I was already intimately familiar with a lot of the apartment complexes and lower–middle class neighborhoods around town. It seemed to me that if the people who lived in these pricey places were committing crimes, they were either committing serious crimes for which bail wasn’t an option, or, more likely, they had the means of posting their own bail and had no need for companies like Sideline. Why, then, had Danielle Dillon needed Sideline?
I rang the bell and waited. When the door opened, a man smiled out at me. He was about six feet tall, and while he appeared to be only reasonably fit, I sensed something about him; it was almost like he was radiating power. I attributed it to his wealth; rich people bleed money. I’m pretty sure that’s a documented fact somewhere. He had a simple, almost friendly face, blue eyes, and brown hair that was styled neatly. I guessed him to be approaching forty. I wondered how he could afford such a big house when most of his neighbors had to be at least ten—more likely fifteen years—older than him.
“Hi,” he said, smiling. “Can I help you?”
I handed him a card. He pushed the door open a bit wider and stepped out onto the porch, accepting the card and looking at it. Behind him, I could see through the entryway to the living room and noticed a lit display case containing several shiny things. From what I could make out at my distance, they were all of different origins and time periods. I didn’t need to see them closely to know they were expensive.
“I’m Zoe Grey. I’m a bond enforcement agent for Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds. I’m looking for this woman.” I held up the picture. “Have you seen her?”
He looked at the picture then back at me, shaking his head. His gaze lingered on the photo, I thought.
“Nope, sure haven’t. What’d she do?”
What is it that makes rich people so nosey?
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of her case. What about the name Danielle Dillon—that mean anything to you?”
He shrugged. “Nope. Is that her name?” He inclined his head toward the photo I was still holding up.
I was about to answer when something caused me to stop. I think it was the way he asked the question. Regardless, I rethought my answer.
“I’m sorry, I can’t say. How long have you lived here?”
“A couple years. Why? Did that girl you’re looking for live here once?”
“I’m just following up on a lead. Listen, thank you for your help … I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Eric.”
He didn’t seem inclined to offer his last name, and I chose not to push. There are other ways to learn that sort of information.
“Eric. Thanks for your help. Oh, hey, I was going to ask, is this your car?” I pointed to the 2014 Chevy Camaro parked in the driveway beside a 2012 Toyota FJ Cruiser.
He smiled and took several steps across the porch, looking at the car.
“Yes. A classic reborn. Do you like it?”
I’m a huge fan of Chevy cars and trucks, and I think the Camaro remake, inspired by the first generation design, is a very hot car. His was silver. I would have preferred an orange one. I kept this last bit to myself.
“Yes. The first generation Camaros were the best looking.”
He looked at me appreciatively. “You’re into cars?”
“Who doesn’t like muscle cars?” I asked, walking off the porch. “Please call me if you see the woman in the photo or think of anything that might be helpful.”
“I’ll do that.”
4
After stopping at all the addresses listed for Dillon and turning up zilch, I drove back to the office. The front door was open until six, when the receptionist and Amerson went home, but I
wanted to slip in and out. I parked in the back and let myself in through the rear entrance. I’m not an employee and don’t work full time, so I don’t have an office or my own desk. But there are several cubical workstations in one of the back rooms, set up with computers and phones for use by those of us who only drop by occasionally. Tonight, the room was empty.
I chose a seat and pulled out my notes. It was tedious work, but I went through each plate number I’d written down. My first step is always to see what name came back and if it’s known to be connected to the case. My next step is to make sure the plate came back to the same make and model I’d found it on. Stolen plates had blown open more than one case in the past, or so my mentor Blue had said. Lastly, I input everything into an Excel spreadsheet so I can more easily search for patterns later. When I’d done this, coming across no names that rang any bells or any stole plates, I printed the list.
I’d learned the Camaro and FJ were registered to an Eric Dunn. A quick property search told me Dunn owned the house, having purchased it five years before. I ran his name through the Sideline database and came up with several hits. A bit more searching told me Dunn was a defense attorney. That went a long way in explaining how he could afford his house.
I wasn’t sure I was making progress on finding Danielle Dillon, but I still needed to find Dix, too. I looked up the number to the Starbucks where he worked and used the landline to call. A girl answered, and I heard the espresso machine hissing and blenders whirling in the background.
“Hi. I was wondering if Cory was working tonight.”
“He’s not here at the moment, but I think he’s closing tonight. Hang on, let me check.”
It is frightening to me what people will tell a perfect stranger over the phone, truly frightening.
“Yep, he’ll be here from five-thirty to close. Would you like me to have him call you?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I may just swing by.”
I hung up and dialed my voicemail. I had a message from Amerson, the Burbanks’ accountant, and Ellmann. Amerson called to tell me no vehicle was registered with the DMV under the name Danielle Dillon. I’d just looked it up myself and knew the same thing. But that message had been there a while. The accountant left the names and addresses of the housekeeper and gardener. Ellmann just asked me to call him back.
I added the housekeeper’s and gardener’s addresses to my growing notes, along with the accountant’s name and phone number, just in case. Feeling I’d come to a bit of a standstill, I dialed Ellmann.
“I was wondering if you had plans tonight,” he said. “Would you be interested in grabbing dinner?”
“Sure. Did you have anything specific in mind?”
“Not really. Why? Do you?”
“How about Pueblo Viejo?”
“Strange choice. I have the nagging suspicion you’re up to something. Whatever it is, can we get ice cream first?”
Ice cream is Ellmann’s favorite food. When in doubt with Ellmann, get him ice cream. Yesterday’s Ice Cream Shoppe, located across the street from Pueblo Viejo, serves Blue Bell ice cream. In Ellmann’s opinion, the only ice cream that’s better is the homemade stuff at Pioneer Candies and Ice Cream.
“Sure.”
“You’re not denying it?”
“Would there be any point?”
“Probably not.”
“So I thought I’d save us both the time.”
“Want me to pick you up?”
“No, I better meet you there.”
“Definitely up to something. When do you want to meet?”
I looked at my watch. “How about twenty minutes?”
He agreed, and we disconnected.
I gathered my printout and tucked the notes back into my pocket. The drive, in the heavy evening rush-hour traffic, took nearly the whole twenty minutes. It took me another five to find a parking space and hike over to the restaurant. Ellmann was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me.
Ellmann is a very big man. He’s six-six and solid muscle. I’m pretty sure he could pick up a car if he wanted to. He has wavy dark hair, which he keeps a little longer, and his cheeks and chin are covered in a dusting of dark growth. There were few occasions when he wore a high and tight and went clean shaven. Fine with me; he’s a very good looking guy.
His eyes are green, a more jade color than mine, and have a mesmerizing quality to them. Of Italian descent, Ellmann doesn’t really have the olive complexion, but he always looks healthily tanned. His typical work uniform consists of jeans, which fit him exactly right, and t-shirts, with a few button-down tops thrown in. Today was no different. He wore a light blue t-shirt that made me want to blow off the rest of the day and take him home.
“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling.
“I was just thinking the same of you.”
He pulled me into him and kissed me. The take-Ellmann-home idea was gaining intensity and appeal the longer the kiss went on.
“Are those handcuffs in your pocket?” he whispered in my ear.
“Yeah.” Suddenly my mind was dreaming of different things to do with those cuffs. I pushed away from Ellmann. “Uh, should we eat?”
He chuckled as he followed me inside, no doubt fully aware of the direction my brain had spun. Ellmann tends to have an uncanny and sometimes annoying talent for knowing precisely what I haven’t said. Only one other person in the world can do such a thing, and that’s Amy. It had taken her years of practice. Ellmann seems to do it naturally. Most days I like that. Some days it scares me.
Ellmann had put our name in and requested a seat on the patio, which was all the more convenient for my purposes. After a short five-minute wait, we were shown to a table. The restaurant was crowded, and the sidewalks were packed.
“How was your day?” I asked after we placed our order.
“Pretty good,” he said, nodding. He took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair. “Finally got a break in that series of muggings downtown. Caught the guy this morning. We even recovered a lot of what was stolen.”
“That’s great.”
“It is. Shortly after that, though, I got called in on a new case.” He dragged a hand back through his hair. It’s what he does when he’s stressed or upset. “Caroline Marks was murdered last night.”
I may not have known the name Burbanks, but I knew the name Caroline Marks. She was a big deal in Fort Collins, her family being sort of like our own version of the Rockefellers. She was a native, her great-great-great grandfather having been a key player in founding the town. He’d struck it rich with the railroads, and while he had left plenty of money to his children, they’d each gone on to do something remarkable and earn their own fortunes. The Marks family had more money than the lot of them could ever spend in ten lifetimes.
Caroline Marks had married young and become a widow young, the result of something tragic like cancer, if I remembered right. Never remarrying, she devoted her time to her children and town. Pretty much every local charity and public event had her hand in it. Every year, she gave away two scholarships to CSU to local high school graduates she chose herself. It wasn’t uncommon for her to pay the hospital bills of a local family in dire financial straits. She’d built a shelter for the homeless and fully funded the soup kitchen there. She donated money to the Lincoln Center so they could buy equipment and props for the community theater. She donated computers and musical instruments to the local schools. She went to the library and read books to the kids on weekends. She was like Fort Collins’ own Mother Theresa. It was hard to think of her as being dead, and that much harder to think of her death as murder.
Who could have done something like that? Who would want to kill Mother Theresa?
“I can’t believe it,” I said after a long moment. “Do you have any leads or anything?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m still not really sure what we’re dealing with. We think her murder is connected to a string of murders stretching across the state. The FBI is getting invol
ved, and a task force is being formed.”
“I just can’t believe it.”
He sighed and leaned forward again. “I get the feeling you have plans for the evening. I was going to head back to work anyway. I want to go through things while it’s all fresh and before the FBI takes over.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a couple things to do. Hey, would you do me a favor, maybe when you need a break later?”
“Depends,” he said cautiously, watching me. Even after such a short time, Ellmann knows me well.
“I just need a little information. In August, a couple named Melissa and Mitchell Conrad was murdered in their home. I don’t know yet if it’s connected in any way to the woman I’m looking for. There wasn’t much in the papers.”
“The name rings a bell, I think. I’ll see what I can find. It’ll probably be nothing,” he warned.
“I know. I just need to be sure.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“A woman named Danielle Dillon. I’ve got until six a.m. Sunday to find her or Sideline is out a lot of money and an old lady loses her house.”
“Is she the reason we’re here?”
“No. That would be Cory Dix. Oh, I don’t have a cell phone right now, by the way.”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. I suspect he wasn’t.
“What happened?”
I explained.
“I’m glad you didn’t follow him out the window.”
“I’m not a total idiot.”
“So, what’d Dix do, anyway?”
I told him.
“Streaking, huh? He’s quite the daredevil.”
“He’s a pain in my ass,” I said, looking across the street at Starbucks. “He works there. And the police are probably more upset about the grand theft auto part.”
“With CSUPD, it’s hard to tell.”
Not surprisingly, there is a bit of rivalry between the different agencies in law enforcement. Those in Fort Collins and the state of Colorado are no different. They are capable, for the most part, of working together, but they’re pretty hard on one another. And all of that animosity is magnified for the FBI. I imagined Ellmann would be pretty stressed in the coming days after working with them and a bunch of other local agencies.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 5