I approached DJ’s paneled office, passing Molly’s desk with an ornate flower arrangement in the corner. I knocked softly on the door frame.
“DJ? Tyler said you wanted to see me.”
“Carol.” DJ stood up from behind a large mahogany desk, her petite figure nearly dwarfed by its gigantic size. “You’re here. Please, come in. And shut the door behind you. I’ve something to say I’d prefer not leave this room.”
I wanted to blurt out that if this was about Silva that it was a mistake. That I hadn’t meant to say anything to anyone. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and took another deep breath while I grabbed the gold knob on the door and gently shut it behind me.
DJ remained standing until I took a seat in front of her desk. In my nervous state, she appeared extremely well-polished and poised. I pegged her to be somewhere in her early fifties, but like most professional women, with the proper makeup and clothes, it was difficult to tell. She was dressed in an expensive, custom-tailored leopard jacket and slim black pencil skirt. I immediately felt underdressed and regretted my choice of jeans. I crossed my legs several times before finding a semi-comfortable position, locking one leg behind the other like a pretzel.
“Thank you for coming in, Carol. I know it’s your day off, but I felt it was important we talk. Privately.”
She paused for what felt like an eternity. If she was going to fire me, I wished she’d hurry up and get it over with. The palms of my hands were beginning to sweat. Slowly I started to massage them on my thighs, hoping she’d not notice how nervous I was.
“I heard your show last night. I liked it.”
I readjusted myself in the chair. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
“I think you’ve hit on something, Carol. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you have.” She smiled and leaned back in her chair, head cocked slightly to one side, studying me. “But I have a problem, and I thought maybe you and I should have a little talk.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Silently, I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like I had dodged a bullet and vowed I’d never whisper another word about Silva and his accident. I uncrossed my legs and sat forward in the chair. “I thought maybe you called me in here because you didn’t like the show.”
“On the contrary, Carol. I think you have a lot of talent. But there’s something you need to know. It concerns the show you did last night. I don’t want anyone, Tyler included, to know what I’m about to tell you.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t imagine where she was going with this, but as long as she wasn’t going to fire me, I didn’t care. “Is there something you’d like me to be doing differently?”
“No. Not at all,” she said abruptly. Placing her elbows on her desk, she steepled her hands and leaned forward. “I want you to continue to do exactly what you’ve been doing. And I want you to do something that will cause Mustang Sally to call back.”
“Mustang Sally?” I jerked my head back. “I’m sorry, I thought maybe you liked that Andrea—”
“Forget Andrea Reddings. Your interview with her was just fine, and I compliment you on getting it. But it’s not Andrea I’m worried about.”
DJ leaned down and opened a desk drawer. She brought out a crystal decanter and placed it on the desk between us.
“What I have to say to you is between you and me. It doesn’t leave this room. It can’t. Lives, mine included, depend on your secrecy.”
“Okay.” I shifted in the chair again, crossing and re-crossing my legs.
DJ poured us each a small glass of what I assumed was scotch and handed it to me.
“To secrets,” she said.
I leaned forward, we clicked glasses, and I took the smallest of sips. Just the taste gave me an immediate buzz.
Then DJ said, “I think I know Sally.”
I coughed. The hot liquor caught in my throat, burning as I forced myself to swallow.
“What?”
“Years ago, I was in a very abusive relationship. The man I was with was crazy, and when I tried to end the relationship the first time, he killed my dog. I say the first time, because back then I wasn’t a well woman. I thought the arguments and his escalating violence was my fault and that I could fix him. So I didn’t leave. I thought I could make it better. Abusive men can do that to you.” She took a second sip of whiskey, then continued. “The second time I did leave, but he found me and burnt my house down. As you can imagine, I did what any sane woman would do. I went to the police. But I had no proof. Then my dog was hit by a car, but I had no evidence it was even him. And the house, the fire marshalls said, was the result of an electrical short. So I got a restraining order and an attorney.”
“That must have been awful. I can’t imagine—”
“There’s more. When I got the restraining order, the police warned me, if I really thought he was abusive, not to go near him. They couldn’t guarantee my safety, but if he showed up again, I should call them. Which I did. But the problem was, by the time they showed up, he was gone. So I moved. And the next time I saw him, I was living in a high-rise where he managed to pass himself off as a repairman. He was waiting for me when I got home. Hiding on my balcony, seventeen floors up. He threatened to push me off if I didn’t come home with him. Fortunately, a neighbor saw me struggling with him and called the cops. He got scared and ran. When I tried to file charges, the police said I had no physical proof it was him. My word against his. And the neighbor, who had tried to be so helpful, said she couldn’t identify him. Didn’t get a good enough look. Plus, he was wearing gloves and a jacket, so I had no finger prints, no DNA beneath my nails, nothing. And when I insisted it had to be him, he claimed he had an alibi, he was with his new girlfriend, and I was crazy. As expected, she backed up his story. So I moved again. Only this time, I changed my name, dyed my hair, got a different job, and I was careful about who I contacted and where I went.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“No one here does. What saved me was a self-help group I found online. It was for women recovering from abusive relationships, a kind of ten-step program. A support group for those in need of getting away from their abuser and starting over. It was also a way to pass notes back and forth to loved ones without our abusers ever knowing.”
I looked at the wall of photos behind DJ. Pictures with stars and politicians. I never would have guessed her life had been anything but perfect.
“Only I wasn’t so lucky. I don’t know how, but he found me again. I was at my wit’s end. By then I’d moved three times, I was constantly looking over my shoulder, and I didn’t think my life would ever be my own again. You’ve no idea how awful that can be. That’s when one of the women in the group approached me online and invited me to another kind of meeting. She said it was a secretive offsite kind of thing. I had to agree that anything I heard or saw would remain between the women I was about to meet and no one else.”
“Where was it?”
“It wouldn’t make any difference if I told you. The location was never the same. All I was told was that she’d be my handler and that I couldn’t bring any ID, my cell phone, or anything that might track my whereabouts. She told me she was taking me to meet with her high court, a group of women who would hear my story. She said it was this tribunal’s job to make certain justice was administered properly. I never asked their names. The only thing I knew about these women was that they seemed to understand what I’d been through. I suspect they were all survivors themselves.”
“So there really is such a thing? Mustang Sally didn’t make it up?”
“I’m telling you I was given money, a car, and a job at a small radio station out in Palm Springs. The kind of place where nobody checks a person’s background, and it was easy enough to fit in. I changed my name to Doris Jean, after a favorite aunt of mine. My handler added the last name Presley because she thought it fit. After a w
hile, I shorted it to DJ. Seemed to fit since I was working at a radio station, and I guess it did. Nobody ever questioned it. I had a new job, new life, and a fresh start. Whatever the tribunal did, it worked. I never heard from my abuser again. He simply disappeared, and one day my handler told me I didn’t need to worry about him anymore.”
I put my glass down on her desk and closed my mouth. “And your handler? What was her name?”
“Sally.” DJ took a drink, finished the glass and put it back down on the desk next to mine. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you. All this happened ten years ago, Carol, but last night, when I heard your show, I realized Mustang Sally was the woman who helped me. I recognized her voice.”
“That deep, gravely voice?”
“Even then it was like she had rocks in her throat and had to strain to speak. I remember one time when she picked me up there was an old Patsy Cline song playing on the radio. I got the feeling she’d wanted to sing along with it but couldn’t. Instead she just kind of mumbled the words. Odd isn’t it, how certain voices stick with you?”
“It’s distinct all right. Any idea what happened to make it so?”
“She never said, but I didn’t have any doubts she’d been abused. I suspect someone tried to strangle her, probably damaged her vocal chords and ruined her voice forever.”
Just thinking about it made the muscles in my neck strain. My hand went to my neck and massaged it lightly. “Talk about motivation,” I said.
DJ continued. “I can tell you we were never asked to do anything in return. But when I heard her talking to you, I realized something was wrong. Mustang Sally would never speak out like she is. She could barely talk as it was. And we were all sworn to secrecy. I think she’s in trouble. Something’s happened to her. She’s lost it and gone off the deep end.”
“Do you have any idea what?”
“Maybe. There was a man in the car with her the first time she picked me up. I think he must have been in his late twenties, and he might have been her son. He was wearing headphones, and he didn’t speak. At the time, I thought there was something wrong with him. I don’t know what it was that made me think that, other than she was very maternal towards him. Making sure he kept his jacket on, and his seatbelt buckled. That kind of thing. She was more than a bit overprotective. If I had to guess, I’d say something might have happened to him. I’ve no idea. But what I do know is I need you to find her. Listening to her last night, I can tell from the way she was talking, she’s not going to stop calling this station or any other for that matter. You’ve got to stop her. If you don’t and she’s found out, her life—and the lives of several other innocent women living free of fear for the first time in a long time—is going to change for the worse. Drastically. You understand?”
I nodded. “You’re afraid she’ll talk, and if she does, your name and the names of the others will be attached to that of a serial killer—”
“And we’ll all be charged as accessories to murder. I’m not asking you to break the law, Carol. All I need you to do is find her. And when you do, I need you to tell me where she is. I’ll take care of the rest.”
CHAPTER 21
I texted Chase as I left DJ’s office. We need to talk.
After my meeting with DJ, I knew if I was going to find Sally, I’d need his skills as an investigator. And, despite my doubts about him, he was closer to the case than anyone I knew.
He buzzed back almost immediately. Meet me. Griddle Café. Ten.
The minute I read Chase’s text I knew he suspected my invitation to talk implied a change of heart on my part, that I had somehow come to my senses after hanging up on him last night and wanted to apologize. It was clear he viewed this as a social invitation. When I got to the Griddle Café, I spotted him nursing a cup of hot coffee at the counter. He looked like he had just gotten out of the shower, his dark hair damp and slicked back from his face, almost touching the collar of his work shirt. As I approached, he stood up, and I thought I caught a gleam in his eye like he knew what I looked liked without my clothes on. I squelched a nervous smile and ignored the thought.
“Hope you like pancakes, Carol.”
“I’ve only time for coffee, Chase. There’s something important we need to discuss.”
He ignored the urgency in my voice. Taking his cup, he turned and made his way through a maze of closely grouped tables like a linebacker. I followed, catching the faint scent of his cologne as he continued to talk about the pancakes.
Between the cologne, an empty stomach, and the pancakes, I felt momentarily lightheaded.
“They’re the size of dinner plates. Best in the city. You really ought to try them.” Then coming to a small table marked reserved, he nodded for me to take a seat. “’Course, I’m gonna have to cut back some if we’re going to be hanging together.” He stood behind the chair opposite me and patted his mid-section.
I waited for him to sit down. I needed to put a stop to his idle flirtation. I put my elbows on the table, leaned closer to him, and whispered, “Chase, this isn’t a social invitation. We’re not hanging together. Not now. Not ever. It’s not happening.”
He sat back in the chair, took his napkin, and spread it neatly on his lap, as though my words had no effect. “And I thought you asked me to breakfast as a thank you for helping you with Ms. Reddings.”
“I already said thank you. Last night. And while I do appreciate it, that’s not why I needed to see you. Right now I’ve got a job to do, and difficult as it is for me to ask for your help, I need to. More than anything, I’m going to need you to focus on the job and not me.”
Chase put both hands on his legs and stared at me from across the table. “And you don’t think I can do that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Do I really need to answer that?”
“Okay, look, I know you’ve had your doubts about me. You’re not sure about my theories concerning the recent deaths I’m investigating. But I’m not delusional. I didn’t lose my mind in Afghanistan, and I haven’t smoked so much weed I can’t think straight. The docs tell me everything’s fine. Now that, and the fact I find you attractive should be proof enough for you to know I’m a healthy, red-blooded American male. But, hey, if you’re not into me,” he held hands up as though to surrender, “I’m fine with it.”
“Good.” I poured myself a cup of coffee from the French press in front of me. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive. I do. It’s just complicated, that’s all. I try to keep my work life separate from my personal. And I’m not about to get involved with any cops or—”
“I’m not a cop, Carol. I’m a private investigator. But, like I said, I’m not pushing this. I respect your boundaries. Besides, right now, if it’s between you and these red velvet pancakes, I’m afraid you’d lose.” Chase signaled the waiter and ordered a tall stack. “Wanna split?”
I nodded yes. By now I was ravenous, and while we waited for our food, I checked out the tables closely bunched on either side of us. I didn’t dare speak too loudly.
I leaned forward and whispered. “I think I know more about who Mustang Sally might be.”
Chase raised a brow, his coffee cup inches from his mouth. “What happened between last night and this morning to make you say that?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” I certainly wasn’t about to tell him what DJ had revealed to me. I’d have to find a way to tap dance around her secret without revealing my source. “Only that someone contacted me, someone whose identity I agreed not to share, and who claims they know her or knew her. But even more importantly, I may have some idea as to why the police are calling Bruno’s death a suicide.”
“Go on.” Chase put his coffee down, clasped his large hands together like fists and, with his elbows on the table, stared at me.
“Bruno wasn’t a victim. Not at all.” I waited for that to sink in. “You were right about his being killed by
a gang of women, but it wasn’t because they were jilted or seeking revenge on a philandering ex-boyfriend. It’s the other way around. The women were the victims. They were abused. And Bruno, and maybe the other two men whose deaths you’re investigating, were stalking them. They were abusers, Chase. And this group Mustang Sally belongs to, they were contracted to take care of the situation.”
“And the police knew it and looked the other way?”
“I think it was easier to do that than to try to get a conviction. It’s the only reason someone like Riley didn’t pursue the investigation. I suspect in his mind, he believed justice had been served.”
“No.” Chase jerked his head back like I’d just slapped him across the face. “There would have been a record. Restraining orders or something.”
“Women don’t always file restraining orders. They’re not exactly a Teflon shield against a predator. Remember Nicole Simpson? She had the police on speed dial. The cops all knew Nicole was in trouble, but there wasn’t much they could do beyond suggesting OJ take some time to cool down and maybe file a report. Things have changed some today but not enough. Abuse is a social stigma. A lot of women are too embarrassed to tell their friends and family the truth about what’s happening. Most end up living in fear.”
“You’re saying none of the women reported it?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if the cops are in on it, I doubt you’d find any records. It’s likely any reports made have since been destroyed.”
“But somebody must know something. Their friends? Family?”
“If you’re talking about the men’s friends and family, I don’t think they’d tell you much of anything. My experience with the cases I’ve reported on is when something like this happens, friends and family will swear the abuser was a squared away guy. That the girl was throwing false accusations. That she was a loose cannon, always going off the deep end, and he couldn’t deal with her.”
“That might explain why I haven’t been able to talk to any ex-girlfriends.”
Room for Doubt Page 11