Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Quit worrying about it, sweetheart,” Greg said, poking his nose over the top of his book. “You’ll just drive yourself nuts. Not to mention the rest of us.”

  I settled in bed. Using one leg, I pushed Muffin out of my sleeping area so I could stretch out. It was a nightly ritual. Seamus was at Greg’s feet. He was no dummy. With Greg paralyzed from the waist down from an accident as a young teen, the cranky cat could snooze undisturbed. Wainwright was settled on the rug at the foot of our bed. Everything and everyone was winding down for the night except for my thoughts.

  “But I didn’t know Shirley,” I persisted.

  “Or Steve or Sean or Bob,” Greg teased. “Or whatever the hell her name used to be.”

  “Dev didn’t tell me that, though I think he knew. He simply said they won’t be able to confirm Shirley’s legal name until her fingerprints come back.”

  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t mean you didn’t have acquaintances in common.” Greg put down his book and took off his reading glasses. After turning out the light, he rolled to face me. “Now put that hornets’ nest of a brain down for the night,” he gently ordered as he planted a big goodnight kiss on my mouth. “With the police checking fingerprints, I’m sure whoever wrote that note will be revealed soon enough, and hopefully it will have nothing to do with Shirley’s death. That way, it will have nothing to do with you.”

  I kissed him back and turned over. Scooting back against Greg, I settled my body into his in a classic spoon position. He wrapped an arm around my waist and fell asleep instantly. I listened to the soft and not-so-soft sleeping sounds of my little family and wished my brain had an on/off switch.

  Two days later, when Dev Frye showed up at my office, the mystery was still driving me nuts. Not the issue of who killed Shirley Pearson—although that was on my mind, too—but I was still racking my brain over the identity of who could have given her my number. It gnawed at me like an army of hungry termites.

  Dev had called me around four o’clock, asking if I had time to meet with him to discuss some new developments in Shirley’s murder. I found that odd; usually I have to pull information out of Dev. Then it occurred to me that he probably knew who had written the note.

  “What time’s good for you?” I’d asked him. Pulling up my Outlook calendar on the computer, I noted a meeting scheduled in thirty minutes with my supervising attorney Michael Steele, obnoxious pain-in-the-ass extraordinaire.

  I am a paralegal for the law firm of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, or Woobie as both its fans and not-so-fans refer to it. It’s a medium-sized law firm in a high-rise office building near South Coast Plaza, one of the largest malls in the country. I’ve worked there since God wore short pants, and it was at Woobie that I first met Zee Washington. She’d been a secretary there years ago when Seth was starting his own practice and Hannah was just a toddler. Wow, I thought, remembering that bit of history. A few days ago, murder or no murder, Hannah, now a beautiful young woman, had gotten married. Time flies when you’re not paying attention to details.

  “Now,” Dev said, his tone blunt and demanding. “I’m just pulling into the parking garage next to your building. I’ll see you in a minute.” The call ended.

  I quickly tidied my desk, then thought it a lost cause. One of our clients was currently in the midst of a major and messy acquisition, and there were at least a dozen boxes of due diligence documents stacked in my office, some with files spilling from them in a lava flow of paper. Then there was the confidentiality issue of client documents being visible to an outsider, even though that outsider was a cop.

  Recently the firm had moved me into a different office. The move had been both a blessing and a curse. While my new office was larger and had a window, it was next door to Steele’s office. My other office had been down the hall. Some days it felt like Steele was in my office more than his own. There was also more room to store and spread out the documents I needed, but that meant a less shipshape office—and, again, more reason for Steele to be in here. He treated my office as an annex to his own. It was just a matter of time before he installed his own hi-tech desk chair.

  I made a quick call to our receptionist and asked about the availability of a conference room. Joyce advised me that the small one a few doors down from my office was free. Damn. That also meant it was just a few doors down from Steele’s office. I asked about the others, any of the others, but she said they were all occupied. If Steele saw me talking with Dev Frye, he’d decide it was his business to find out what it was about.

  I grabbed my purse and headed for the lobby, nodding politely at colleagues along the way. I would cut Dev off and take him back downstairs to the small coffee shop on the ground floor of the building next door. Dev was just getting out of the elevator when I corralled him.

  “I’d rather talk here, Odelia,” he told me. “It’s more private.”

  Humph. Not when there’s a prying attorney trolling the halls. But I gave in and told Joyce we’d be taking the small conference room after all. The problem with our conference rooms is that they all have floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out to the hallway. Only one was completely closed in, and that one was upstairs and unavailable. I glanced at my watch. At this moment, Steele was on a conference call concerning the boxes of documents in my office. With luck, I could get Dev in and out before Steele freed up from the call and came looking for me for our meeting.

  I showed Dev into the conference room and waved him into a nearby leather chair the color of ash. I shut the door as I addressed him. “Will this visit be a nice surprise or a not-so-nice surprise?”

  “Hmmm, not sure.” Dev ran a meaty hand over his heavy face. Dev Frye is a very large man, standing well over six feet and built like a linebacker. His voice is gravelly and deep, his short, curly hair more gray now than blond. “But it will definitely be a surprise,” he added, raising a brow at me.

  “More so than Shirley Pearson being a man?”

  “Could be.”

  I stared at him, wondering what news could top what he’d spilled before.

  Dev leaned back in his chair. “You have anything to drink, Odelia? It’s hotter than hell out, and I’m parched.”

  I went to the small refrigerator built under the counter on the far end of the room and pulled out a can of soda for Dev. I knew how he took his poison—diet and full of caffeine. “Or would you rather have a bottle of water? We have both sparkling and still.”

  He reached out a hand for the soda. “Perfect. Thanks.”

  I grabbed one for myself and sat down opposite him. We popped the tops on the cans in harmony and took sips before Dev started.

  “We got two sets of fingerprints off the note Shirley had in her pocket addressed to you and the list Zee gave me. One set of prints was common to both.”

  I laughed. “Not Zee’s, I hope.”

  Dev showed a small smile. “No, not Zee’s. Hers were only on the rehearsal list, which we expected.” He adjusted his big body in the chair. “Shirley Pearson’s prints were common to both, which we also expected. And, by the way, Shirley Pearson used to be Doug or Douglas Pearson, that’s been confirmed.”

  “Doug,” I repeated, trying on the name. “I thought when people changed genders they usually chose a name that sounded like their original one—like Doug would be Donna or Dottie or something like that. You know, how Chastity Bono became Chaz Bono.”

  “Not sure there are hard rules about such things, Odelia,” Dev grinned.

  “Humph,” I shot at him for his sarcasm. “So what was unexpected?” I motioned with my hand for him to keep it rolling while I kept an eye out for Steele.

  “We had two big surprises,” Dev continued, again smiling. He’d met Steele on many occasions and fully understood my lookout for my obnoxious boss. “Three, if you count Shirley Pearson not really being a woman. Seems Doug Pearson disappeared about fourteen years ago after being involved in a rather large armed bank robbery in Minnesota.”

  “What?” I ne
arly shouted the word at him.

  Unfazed, he nodded. “There’s more. A couple of years after disappearing, a body identified as Doug Pearson was found in a burned-out building following a gas explosion.”

  As much as I tried to wrap my brain around what Dev was telling me, it wasn’t making sense. “Then how could Shirley’s prints be his?”

  “We’re ordering dental records on Doug Pearson right now to make sure, but I’m guessing that Doug Pearson’s death was staged. Then he came to California and began life as a woman named Shirley Pearson.”

  “But there was a body, correct?”

  “Yep, at least according to the PD back in Minnesota. I’ve been on the phone with them all morning.”

  “So who was buried as Doug Pearson?”

  Dev shrugged. “Dunno. But he wasn’t buried. He was cremated—or what was left of him anyway. His ashes were scattered by his family somewhere.”

  “And what about the bank robbery? Did he act alone?”

  “According to the Minnesota police, there were three people involved that they know of, but during the heist only Pearson was caught on the security camera. So far, none of the others have been identified, and the money was never found.” Dev was feeding me information piecemeal, letting me connect my own dots. “Pearson was only about twenty or twenty-one at the time.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “How convenient is that? The cremation, I mean.”

  He laughed lightly. “How convenient, indeed. But that’s not all.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the conference table. “Now we get to the part that involves you.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Difficult to say, but I don’t think so.” He gave off a short laugh that sounded more like a cover to a small belch. “Who is Roslyn Beckworth?”

  Like playing roulette, I rolled the name around the wheel of my brain, hoping it would stop on a winning number. “Roslyn Beckworth,” I repeated, hoping it would snag on a hangnail of memory. “Sorry, Dev, I’ve got nothing. Should I know her?”

  “It was Roslyn’s prints on the paper with your phone number.”

  Rubbing a hand over my brow, I dug back into my memory, searching for a Roslyn Beckworth. Any Roslyn. Or any Beckworth. Again, I came up empty. I shook my head at Dev. “Still nothing. Anything more you can tell me?”

  “Besides the fact that she’s dead?” The words came out of Dev’s mouth as dull as flattened cardboard.

  “Dead?” My jaw nearly hit the conference table. “You mean since Saturday?”

  “I mean for the past six years. Died in a car accident just outside of Chicago. Car was incinerated. So was the body.”

  “What?” I popped out of the chair as if it had zinged my heinie. “How in the world could a dead woman give out my phone number? And why would a dead woman have it in the first place?”

  Dev shrugged and took another drink of his soda before responding. “Just as Pearson faked his death, so did Roslyn Beckworth. And from this evidence, she’s alive and living in Southern California—although, unlike Pearson, she doesn’t appear to have a criminal record. Her prints showed up because she once did some part-time security work for the University of Chicago back when she was a student. Probably a work-study situation.”

  I paced the length of the conference room. It wasn’t very long, and I covered it in just under three strides. Reaching the end, I made a return trip. After another loop, I stopped once more in front of Dev and clutched the back of the chair I had been sitting in. “I still don’t understand what this woman has to do with me, dead or alive.” I spun the chair around, plunked down, and swiveled back to face Dev. “What more can you tell me about her?”

  Pulling his little notebook from his suit pocket, he read off some details. “Beckworth would be about 33 or 34 by now. African-American, 5 foot 7, weighing about 135 pounds. Of course, the weight thing could have changed one way or another by now.”

  I ran down the very short list of women I knew who might fit that description, but I had known each of them more than six years, which put them in the clear. “Any idea why she took off?”

  “Not yet. We’re having trouble finding her family. I don’t think she was from Chicago originally. We have calls into the university to check records or see if anyone remembers her, but so far we haven’t been able to reach anyone. I’ve also put out a call to the Chicago PD.”

  “Wow,” I muttered softly.

  “It’s interesting, for sure.” Dev took another pull from his soda and put the can down on the table with a decided clunk. “But that’s not your problem. I didn’t come here to get you involved. I only wanted to know if you knew anything about this Beckworth woman.”

  I shook my head again. “Nothing. I can’t imagine how she’d know me or why she’d give my number to Shirley Pearson.”

  Just then, a movement in the hallway caught my eye. I turned to look out the window to see Mike Steele standing just outside the conference room, arms crossed over his chest, observing us. In dealing with the living dead, I had totally forgotten to be on the alert.

  Mike Steele had just turned forty. He’s about six feet tall, slim, and athletic. Generally, his appearance is impeccable, but this afternoon the shirt sleeves of his light blue dress shirt were turned halfway up to his elbows, his tie was askew, his hair was limp, and his handsome face was showing signs of an early five o’clock shadow. He’d arrived at work this morning looking like a model straight out of a gentlemen’s fancy clothing catalog, but the current deal was running him ragged, and it showed. His weary face was blank as his gaze moved between Dev and me. Dev noticed him, too.

  “Can he read lips?” Dev asked.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” I told him. “I’m also convinced he has some sort of unnatural radar. He always senses when I’m doing something non-work related.”

  Dev waved for Steele to come in and join us.

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped. “It just encourages him.”

  “If I don’t, he’ll barge in anyway, won’t he? So why not be gracious about it?”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic. Mike Steele, a partner at Woobie, believed nothing was private if it happened within the walls of the law firm, especially if it had to do with me.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you two,” Steele said as he came into the conference room and closed the door behind him.

  “That’s exactly what you were hoping to do.” I gave him a mild snarl. “So drop the act. Dev knows you too well.”

  Steele tossed a smirk my way, then held out his right hand to Dev. “Nice to see you again, Dev.”

  “Always an interesting pleasure, Mike.” Dev completed the shake.

  “So,” Steele began as he settled into the chair next to mine and leaned back in cocky comfort. “Who’s the stiff, and how is Grey involved this time?”

  I looked at my boss and scowled. “Dev and I are friends. Can’t he visit me without there being a murder involved?”

  “Of course he can, Grey.” Steele fixed me with a slow smile. “But if this were simply a friendly visit, it would be over lunch or at your house with Greg firing up steaks on the grill. Not in a private conference room.”

  “Impressive.” Dev drained the remainder of his soda in admiration. “Maybe you should have been a detective.”

  “Lawyers are detectives,” Steele shot back with a grin. “Just paid better.”

  Dev looked around, unfazed by Steele’s rude comment. “Nicer digs, too.”

  “He’s just showing off,” I said to Dev.

  “He’s good at it,” Dev replied with a chuckle.

  I turned to Steele. “As you pointed out, this is a private discussion.”

  Steele made no move to leave. He looked back at Dev. “If you’re here in an official capacity, Detective, then Grey should have an attorney present.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.

  “She’s not a suspect in anything, Mike. I’m just asking her a few questions about the m
urder at the Washington wedding.”

  “The what at the where?” Steele’s eyes popped out of his head like side by side turkey timers, and his weariness was replaced with keen interest.

  Dev looked just as astonished as he turned to me. “He doesn’t know?”

  I shrugged. “Steele was in Cabo until the night before last.” I shot a glance at my boss, whose womanizing was legendary. “Twenty-something lingerie model, wasn’t she?”

  Sitting straight as a lamp post, Steele ignored my dig and addressed Dev. “Are you talking about the wedding of Seth and Zee Washington’s daughter?”

  “The same,” Dev told him, pointing in my direction like a tattletale. “Odelia here found a corpse in the cloakroom.”

  Steele stared at me like I’d just slapped his momma.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” I demanded. “Zee was with me when I found the body. It’s not like I killed the woman and planted her there for laughs.”

  Once Steele realized the body in the cloakroom wasn’t a joke, there was no way Dev and I could get rid of him. And his presence wasn’t just to protect my legal interests. Over the past few years, Steele had become morbidly fascinated by my ability to ferret out dead bodies. To him, it was just another positive tick on my résumé—a bullet point listed under Other Interests.

  “How do you do it?” he asked me with genuine awe after learning the gory details.

  I shrugged. “You know how some people always manage to step in dog poop even if there’s only one pile of poop within a one-mile radius?” I paused. “Well, that’s me. If there’s a dead body within a one-mile radius, somehow I’ll find it, whether I want to or not.” When neither man responded, I added, “What can I say, it’s a gift. At least Zee’s beginning to think that way.”

  “Zee?” Dev looked at me in disbelief. “The same Zee whose daughter’s wedding was the scene of a murder?”

  “Yes,” I told him, wearing my attitude like bright orange lipstick. “That Zee. She told me Sunday right before you showed up at my house that she’s beginning to wonder if it’s my destiny, my calling, to help people through these murders.”