The image of the bedroom I’d found him in flashed in my head. Neat, orderly. Nothing out of place. No struggle. Cold, calculated. This was no crime of passion. Somebody wanted Mr. Sullivan dead. What could he have done to arouse such violence in someone?
It was hard to imagine that Mr. Sullivan had an enemy or a dispute with a neighbor or family member that would cause this. A gang initiation, maybe? It was common—terrible, but common.
And what about the guy I’d seen running from the house? It was easy to think he’d been the shooter, but maybe he wasn’t. An accomplice? Or, like me, someone who had wandered into the house, discovered Mr. Sullivan’s body, then taken off, fearful he’d be considered a suspect.
The front door had been ajar when I’d arrived. Did that mean the guy who’d actually murdered Mr. Sullivan had run out earlier and failed to close the door? That scenario gave credence to the theory that the guy who’d run into me had wandered inside later, after the shooting. Plus, the guy didn’t have a gun—at least, not one that I’d seen.
I gazed across the wooded lot into the trees and decided I shouldn’t put too much emphasis on the tall white guy who’d knocked me down. If I kept too narrow a view of the crime, I might miss the big picture.
I pushed the whole thing out of my head, forcing myself to get back to work. I opened the Griffin file and took a minute to look it over.
Sean and Belinda Griffin had taken out a second mortgage loan from Mid-America about a year ago for home improvements. Sean worked as a factory foreman in Ontario, about forty-five minutes from here, and Belinda was a housewife.
Their trouble started seven months ago when they began making their payments late, then skipping payments altogether. Currently, they were four payments behind. Manny—he handled all the mortgage accounts in our office—had attempted to contact the Griffins a zillion times to try and work something out, but hadn’t gotten a response.
I flipped through the file and saw the new credit report Manny had obtained a few days ago. The Griffins’ owed everybody. Twenty credit cards, all with huge credit limits, all maxed out. No wonder they couldn’t pay their mortgage.
I got out of my car, snapped a picture of the house with my cell phone, and walked up to the front door expecting to be on my way again after a knock or two. To my surprise, a woman answered.
“Belinda Griffin?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
She was in her late twenties, blond, attractive, well dressed for a woman alone in the house during the day. Her hair and nails were done. She had on a skirt and sweater, and pumps.
I introduced myself and handed her my business card. Belinda shrugged and stepped back from the door. I went inside.
From the high balances on her many credit cards I’d expected that Belinda spent her days at the mall and her nights glued to the shopping networks. But the house was barely decorated. Average furniture, a hodge-podge of pictures and floral swags on the walls. “Uninspired,” my mother would have called it.
I followed Belinda to the kitchen. She scrounged through her purse on the counter. I hoped she’d dig up the cash to bring her account current, but all she produced was a hair brush, a dozen Lottery scratchers, and a pack of cigarettes.
“What’s the deal?” Belinda asked and lit up.
“The company is considering foreclosure,” I said. “I just need to take a look at the house.”
I’d said those words to customers before and I got a variety of responses in return. Shock, disbelief, panic, fear. Belinda just shrugged.
“Go ahead. Look all you want,” she said, and blew out a puff of smoke. “There’s nobody here.”
I took a look out the kitchen window into the backyard. According to the file, Mid-America had loaned the Griffins’ money for a patio, patio cover, built-in barbecue and landscaping. I was pleased to see they’d actually had the work done; it would improve our chances of selling the property, if it came to that.
I went upstairs noting that, like the first floor, not much effort had been put into fixing up the place. When I got back to the living room, Belinda was lighting another cigarette.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” I said when I reached the front door. “I’d hate to see you lose it.”
She drew in a big breath of smoke, then let it out slowly. “Do what you have to do.”
I couldn’t let it go at that.
“Would you like me to come back later and talk to your husband about this?” I asked. Sean worked on an assembly line and wasn’t allowed to take phone calls. According to the file, no one from Mid-America had spoken with him.
“Sean doesn’t want to discuss it,” Belinda said.
I felt more concerned about the Griffins’ losing their home than Belinda seemed to be.
“Don’t you care about keeping your home?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s just a house.”
I wondered if her two little girls felt the same way. I wondered how she could put so much money and effort into buying the home, then let it go with so little thought.
“If your situation changes, Belinda, and you come into some money, call the office right away,” I said. “There’s still time to save your house.”
She shrugged. I got in my car and drove away, not feeling so great. I didn’t like doing property inspections, but it was more than that. Something with Belinda. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
I wound my way back to the 10 freeway and headed west toward Santa Flores. But instead of exiting on Fifth Street to go back to the office, I kept going. I’d found the name and address of Leonard Sullivan’s cousin, Todd Murphy, on his personal reference sheet in his file, and decided that paying a visit in person might produce more info than a phone call.
I exited the freeway a few minutes later in Atwood. The neighborhood looked a little scary. Fences were tagged with graffiti, abandoned cars sat on vacant lots, houses were run down, their yards overgrown.
My GPS took me to the Murphy home. I parked at the curb and walked up to the front door. Windows stood open and I heard water running inside.
I knocked and a few minutes later, a tall black woman in her fifties opened the door wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She did not look happy to see me.
I introduced myself, and said, “I’m looking for Todd Murphy.”
“Todd’s my boy.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “What do you want with him?”
“Actually, I’m trying to find Leonard Sullivan,” I said. “He gave Todd as a reference.”
Mrs. Murphy swelled like a Mylar balloon, and for an instant I thought her eyes might shoot out of her head.
“I’ve got nothing to do with that Leonard Sullivan,” she declared. “My boy Todd knows better than that.”
“Isn’t Leonard your nephew?” I asked.
Mrs. Murphy planted her fists on her hips. “He’s my nephew—technically. But I don’t claim him. I don’t claim any of those Sullivans. Trouble. Everyone of them is nothing but trouble. Including that Arthur. It doesn’t surprise me one bit what happened to him. Not one bit.”
My stomach did a little flip. “You’re not surprised he was murdered?”
“Arthur caused trouble, just like his boy, just like his grandson,” Mrs. Murphy said. “It wasn’t a month ago that there was a big stink over Arthur and one of Gladys’s friends. Embarrassing, that’s what it was. A man his age carrying on with another woman—right in his own neighborhood.”
I gasped. “Mr. Sullivan had a girlfriend?”
“A married girlfriend.” Mrs. Murphy jerked her chin. “Her husband put a stop to it. Lord, that man was mad, the way I heard it. Shameful, that’s what it was. Shameful and disgusting.”
“Who’s the woman?” I asked.
Mrs. Murphy’s pursed her lips. “That Ida Mayhew. She’s nothing but trouble—just like Arthur. That husband of hers has his hands full with her—always has.”
I hadn't expected to hear any of this. I gave myself a mental shake to recall
why I’d come here in the first place.
“I’m trying to find Leonard,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
Mrs. Murphy calmed down a little. “I’ve heard nothing from Leonard in months, and that suits me just fine.”
I pulled a business card from my purse and passed it to her.
“If you hear from him, would you ask him to call?” I said.
“If I see him,” Mrs. Murphy said, and disappeared into the house.
I was stunned. Mr. Sullivan had been involved with another woman? A married woman? What other secrets did that family have?
When I reached my car, I could see that I’d attracted the attention of a group of young black guys two doors down. I drove over and buzzed open my window.
“Hey,” I called. “Where’s Leonard?”
They were in their late teens, dressed in baggy pants and oversized shirts. They looked at each other, then grinned and sauntered to my car.
“Looks like Leonard’s got himself a white girl,” one of them said.
The others laughed and it seemed I’d become their amusement for the day. Okay by me, as long as I got the info I wanted.
“So where is he?” I asked.
One of them leaned down and rested his arm on the window of my car.
“Leonard don’t hang here no more,” he said. “He’s got himself new friends. He came around here driving a big-ass Lexus and flashing some serious cash.”
“When?” I asked.
“Couple of days ago,” the guy said.
“I heard he’s got a new job,” I said.
The three guys laughed, and the one hanging on my car window said, “Oh, yeah. Leonard’s got him a job, all right.”
“If you see him, tell him Dana’s looking for him,” I said, and passed him a business card.
He took it and backed away from the car.
“Thanks,” I called and drove off.
I hadn’t found Leonard, but I’d found a motive for murder.
Chapter 7
When I arrived at the office Manny hadn’t returned from Riverside yet, so I saw no reason to attend to my official duties. Despite picking up an unsavory bit of info about Mr. Sullivan and one of his neighbors, I hadn’t accomplished much in my search for Leonard. Everyone I’d spoken with had said that he hung with a different crowd, had a new job, a new home, an expensive car, and was flashing some serious cash, which meant I wasn’t likely to find him through my contacts with his family.
Of course, I couldn’t ignore the motive I’d discovered for Mr. Sullivan’s murder—his married girlfriend who came complete with a jealous husband.
Since Mrs. Murphy had provided me only with the woman’s name, I had some digging to do. I phoned the title company Mid-America did business with and asked for a list of all properties owned by one Ida Mayhew. The clerk gave me one address, owned jointly with Ida’s husband, Gerald Mayhew.
I waited until I saw Inez pick up her phone to make a call.
“I’m going out,” I said, as I breezed past her desk.
I drove to the Mayhew home, which was located down the block from the Wiley house. Like most of the houses in the neighborhood, the place looked a little run down. I parked in the driveway alongside an SUV, grabbed one of the file folders off my passenger seat, and knocked on the front door. A gray-haired, African-American man—I put his age at mid-sixties—opened the door. He was dressed in work clothes; despite his age, he looked fit, muscular and strong.
He gave me a look of deep suspicion, which I’d seen many times since taking this job with Mid-America.
I introduced myself and told him where I worked, then flipped open the file folder.
“I’d like to speak with Will Saunders,” I said, giving him the name I’d made up on the drive over.
“Nobody here by that name,” he said, and tried to close the door.
“There’s supposed to be,” I said, sounding confused. “This account was transferred to our office and it gives this address as Will Saunders’ home. Is he a friend or relative of yours?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s giving out your address,” I said, with a suggestive eyebrow bob.
“Somebody’s giving out my address?” he demanded, edging closer to see inside the folder.
“If this is an error, I can correct it,” I said, closing the folder. “If I could see your I.D., I can assure my supervisor you’re not the man we’re looking for.”
He thought for a few seconds while I tried to look innocent, then pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and flipped it open displaying his driver’s license. He was Gerald Mayhew, all right. And next to his license in a separate plastic sleeve was an employee identification card from Fowler Security Service.
“You work for Fowler?” I asked, sounding chatty. “I hear it’s a good company. Have you worked here long?”
“About ten years,” Mr. Mayhew said, tucking his wallet into his pocket.
“Do you know Dan Hollister?” I asked, pulling the name out of thin air. “He works for Fowler at the mall.”
“Don’t know him.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “You must have been worried the other night, with the shooting just around the corner.”
Mr. Mayhew bristled. “I was working that night.”
I backed up a step. “Well, sorry to bother you. I’ll get this account corrected right away.”
“Good,” he said, and started into his house.
“Do all the security guards at Fowler carry a gun?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, and looked a little surprised by my question.
I nodded and went back to my car. When I pulled away, Gerald Mayhew was still standing on his porch watching me.
The thought of going back to the office was even more unappealing than usual, so I circled the block and pulled into Leona Wiley’s driveway. I wanted to let her know about my efforts to locate Leonard, such as they were. I also hoped she could give me the low-down on Arthur Sullivan and Ida Mayhew.
Mrs. Wiley welcomed me into the living room, offered me a cup of tea, which I declined, and we sat together on her couch. The house was empty and quiet, just the ticking of a clock somewhere and the crackle of plastic beneath us.
I updated her on my attempt to find her wayward nephew, and she thanked me three different times. She was so nice about it, I felt even worse for having failed so miserably.
“I understand there was a misunderstanding between Mr. Sullivan and one of his neighbors,” I said, trying to phrase my comment as delicately as possible. “Gerald Mayhew and his wife.”
Mrs. Wiley’s lips turned down distastefully. “Wasn’t nothing to that. Not really. Not on Arthur’s part, anyway. Arthur used to drive us ladies to bingo every week.”
“That doesn’t sound like a big deal,” I said.
“Ida, she’s always making something out of nothing,” Mrs. Wiley said. “She got that husband of hers all stirred up, trying to make him jealous. But Arthur, he didn’t want trouble so he quit driving us to bingo. Leonard took over about a month or so ago.”
“Do you think Gerald Mayhew carried a grudge?” I asked.
“He’s a hot-head.” Mrs. Wiley gasped and clasped her hands together. “You don’t think he could have shot Arthur, do you?”
I was saved from answering when Gladys Sullivan shuffled into the room dressed in a floral housecoat and fuzzy slippers.
Leona hurried to her, caught her arm, and helped her sit down in the chair beside the couch.
“Look who’s here,” Leona said, gesturing to me, attempting to make me sound like something interesting. “I’ll go fix you some tea, Gladys. Just rest right here.”
The wing-back chair seemed to swallow Mrs. Sullivan. She looked a little out of it, and I wondered if she was still taking the sedatives the doctor had sent. She seemed thin and drawn, more wrinkled than I remembered, as if she’d aged another sixty years since Mr. Sullivan’s death.
Silence stretched endles
sly in the room while I wracked my brain trying to think of something appropriate to say. Mrs. Sullivan didn’t seem to care if anyone spoke or not, which should have been a relief, yet somehow it increased my sense of guilt and responsibility over her husband’s death and my inability to locate her grandson, the one person who might actually bring her a little comfort.
I was contemplating making a break for the door when Mrs. Sullivan spoke.
“Leona said you were going to bring Leonard home,” she said.
This wasn’t the conversation I was hoping for.
Mrs. Sullivan squeezed her eyes shut. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“He’s just scared, that’s all,” she said.
She’d spoken so softly, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. I slid off the couch and onto the footstool beside her chair.
“Who’s scared?” I asked. “Leonard?”
Mrs. Sullivan pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her housecoat and wiped her tears.
“Arthur and Leonard, they had a terrible fight,” she said. “My Lord, the things they said to each other. Turned my blood cold.”
“When?” I asked.
“That afternoon.” Mrs. Sullivan sniffed. “Arthur said he’d go to the police himself before he’d let Leonard end up in trouble. And Leonard said—”
I leaned forward so far I almost fell off the footstool.
“What did Leonard say?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “I couldn’t stand to hear them going at each other like that. My Lord, the words they used on each other. I left. I just left the house and came over here to Leona’s, and we went to the store.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“He’s just scared,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “Leonard loved his grandpa, and the last time they were together, they fought something fierce. Leonard thinks I’m mad at him, or he’s ashamed of himself, or worried what the family might think if they found out about him and Arthur arguing that way.”
Fatal Debt Page 6