Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Anything else?” I asked him a second time.

  He looked at Joan again, and so did I. Steele was giving her the sign to leave. I was silently telling her to stay. In spite of her earlier bravado, Joan looked like she wanted to slip onto the floor and dribble out the door like a river of spilled coffee.

  While Joan was making up her mind what to do, Steele cleared his throat and turned to me. “How is that special project coming along?”

  I knitted my brows in question. “Special project?”

  He blew out air in frustration. “The special project, Grey. The one you and I met about yesterday afternoon in the conference room.”

  The conference room? It took me a moment before I caught on to what he was asking. He was inquiring about my meeting with Dev Frye that he’d crashed. The one about Shirley Pearson’s murder. Well, duh.

  “Oh, that,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “You need any help with that?” Steele shifted from one expensive shoe to the other.

  “Not at this time. It’s well under control,” I assured him.

  Steele didn’t look assured. “Uh-huh. I see.”

  When I didn’t say anything more about it, Steele glanced at Joan one last time and left, leaving the door open. As soon as he was gone, Joan let out a breath of relief, looking for all the world like a rabbit who’d escaped a fox. I got out of my chair and closed the door again.

  “Here’s what I propose, Joan.”

  She looked at me with such hopeful expectation, I wondered if she thought I had a magic wand.

  “Considering there are now two murders,” I began, “possibly more, I’ll talk to my friend Dev Frye. He’s handling the Pearson murder and can interface with the Santa Ana police about your dad’s murder. The police can handle the dirty work like hunting down killers while I look into your father’s whereabouts for the past several years.”

  Joan was visibly relieved. “That sounds good, Odelia. Thank you.”

  “The thing is,” I continued, “the police don’t like it when civilians poke around, so I’ll have to keep a low profile. That means you can’t tell anyone, including your mother. I know Greg will help me.”

  Joan’s face got brighter by the moment.

  “But remember, I can’t promise anything.”

  Joan got up and threw her bony arms around my neck. “Thank you, Odelia. When do we start?”

  We?

  Why is it that while all my friends make fun of, worry about, and caution me on my predilection for finding dead bodies, whenever one pops up they can’t wait to jump on the crime-solving bandwagon?

  Somehow I’d managed to convince Joan that it would be best for Greg and me to work alone. I pointed out to her that we’d had some experience at this and could go about after-hours snooping without causing too much notice. She, on the other hand, had to help arrange to bury her father and comfort her mother. She’d reluctantly agreed.

  After I sent Joan back to her office, I called Greg and filled him in on the latest news. Considering the murder of Alfred Nunez, we agreed that we should only help Joan look into her father’s whereabouts for the past several years and leave the rest to the police.

  In addition to giving me Alfred’s last address, Clarice had given me the addresses for Roslyn Stevens and Scott Johnson, though she’d also informed me both of their places were empty. She hadn’t stopped to check on Alfred’s place of residence.

  The plan was to first go by Alfred’s. Then, if there was time, we’d shoot by Roslyn’s. Scott’s address didn’t look too far away from Roslyn’s, so we might get lucky and hit a twofer. Whether or not we visited all three depended on traffic and how much time was spent gathering information at Alfred’s place. After all, he was our real focus. Finding one person might lead us to another, although now we weren’t searching for Alfred Nunez physically but for the life he’d led away from his family. We were starting tonight. Greg, in the meantime, would run names and addresses through a people search engine, though we doubted he’d find much since the names were very generic.

  After speaking with Greg, I called Dev and set up a lunch meeting. He offered to come out my way, but instead I suggested we meet at a small Thai restaurant near Fashion Island that was halfway between my office and his. It was a hole-in-the-wall with great food, where I knew there would be no chance of bumping into Steele or anyone else from the office.

  I gave Dev a copy of the photo and brought him up to date on everything. While he silently digested the information, I dug into the pad thai I’d dished onto my plate.

  “You have a way of getting in touch with Clarice Hollowell?” He started scooping helpings from the serving dishes onto his own plate. “I’d like to ask her some questions.”

  “No, she said she’d get in touch with me.”

  He tapped the photo with a finger while he chewed. “Two of these people have been murdered,” he said once he’d swallowed the food in his mouth. “Makes you wonder who’s next.”

  “Who knows, maybe the murders aren’t even connected.” I sucked a large amount of Thai iced tea through my straw.

  Dev put down his fork and stared at me, his face a study in skepticism. “You really think that’s a possibility?” The question was sarcastic, not a sincere query.

  Ignoring Dev’s tone, I continued telling him what I knew. “Clarice told me all three went missing before Shirley died. She didn’t identify the other people in the photo.”

  Dev ate on autopilot, shoveling into his mouth the chicken and noodle dishes we’d ordered while his brain went into high gear. His eyes stayed mostly on the photo, as if one of the people in it might step forward and spill the beans at any moment. I ate slowly, occasionally stopping to sip my beverage, while I waited for him to say something.

  Joan had given me the name of the detective in charge of Alfred’s murder, and I had also passed that along to Dev. Dev didn’t know the man, but right before our food came, Dev had called him and left a message requesting a call back.

  Tired of waiting, I broke the silence. “You don’t think Clarice killed Shirley, do you? You said you thought it was a man or a strong woman. Clarice Hollowell is neither.”

  “And I still think so, Odelia. But that doesn’t mean Clarice wasn’t involved.”

  “She also said Shirley wasn’t seeing anyone at the time of her death, or even shortly before.”

  “That’s the same information Amber Straight gave us.”

  I pushed the noodles on my plate around with my fork. “Clarice seemed genuinely nervous to me, Dev. Maybe she’s concerned that whoever killed Shirley might come after her. She did say she was worried that whatever happened to these missing people might happen to her. I don’t think she knew Alfred Nunez had been killed at that point.”

  “She still may not know.” Dev took a few more bites before speaking. “So, the only thing these people have in common is that they’ve started their lives over under assumed identities?”

  “That’s what it sounds like. Clarice also gave me the impression that not all of them are in hiding from the law.”

  “Mmmm,” Dev grunted while chewing and swallowed another bite. “There are lots of reasons why people go into hiding—abusive spouse, debt, fraudulent activities, back child support.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering something else. “The Santa Ana police said there would be an investigation into insurance fraud because Mr. Nunez’s widow collected on his life insurance the first time he died.”

  Dev wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That’s pretty standard procedure in a case like this.”

  “Standard procedure? Does this happen all the time?”

  “Not all the time, no. But it has happened where someone fakes his or her death so that the family can collect the insurance. I’m sure the authorities will be looking into the Nunez family financials at the time of the insurance claim.”

  I stirred my tea with my straw, watching the yummy concoction swirl in the tall glass as it blended the la
st of the orange, ivory, and brown ribbons into a creamy, sweet gold.

  “Dev,” I began, looking up at him. “Is it possible that these folks are part of the federal witness protection program? Maybe they’re in hiding because of what they know.”

  He shook his head. “We checked with the feds as soon as we found out Shirley Pearson’s real identity. If Shirley had been one of theirs, they would have been all over it in a heartbeat.” Dev poked the photo again. “And people in the federal program don’t hobnob like this. They don’t know about each other, let alone throw barbecues.” He pushed back his plate. “There has to be a reason why a group of people in hiding all know each other. Outside of Shirley Pearson, did Clarice mention knowing any of these people before?”

  “No, she only said she’d met Shirley years ago.” I thought about Clarice’s daughter. “I believe Clarice has a daughter named Jackie. I have no idea where she is now, but Clarice said her daughter knows nothing of her secret life.”

  “Clarice’s daughter lives in France,” Dev announced. “Or at least she used to. Her husband was transferred to the Paris office of his company shortly before we found Hollowell’s killer. I also know that Clarice sold the Hollowell home in Corona del Mar about the same time.” He finished eating and pushed his plate back. “When I get back to the office, I think I’ll see if we still have the daughter’s number somewhere. She might know where her mother is or at least pass along to her that we’re here to help.”

  “Yeah, like a call like that from the police would really bring someone like Clarice Hollowell running to the station.”

  Dev cocked one eye at me, letting me know he didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.

  The check came. “That goes for you, too,” Dev told me as he slapped down a credit card. “If Clarice contacts you, let her know we can help. We just want to ask her some questions. Considering what’s happened to Alfred Nunez, it could save her life. As for you, there’s no reason for you to be involved.” He shook a thick index finger my way. “But I know you. Joan Nunez is a close friend, which means wild horses couldn’t keep your nose out of it. So all I’m going to say is be careful and contact me immediately if you discover something I should know.” He paused, then tacked on, “Even if it’s something you’d rather I not know.”

  It was then I told Dev a half-truth, which in theory is the same as a half-lie. “I did promise Joan that I’d look into what her father had been doing for the past several years.” That was the truth. “But I can do that from the safety of a computer.” That was the truth, too. I could research from my computer, but I knew, even as I sucked down the last of my Thai iced tea, that I wouldn’t.

  Greg was waiting for me when I arrived home after work. He’d already plugged the addresses Clarice had given me into the GPS in his van. I looked at my husband and smiled. He was excited, like a young boy about to go on a treasure hunt. We’d both left work early to get a jump on the evening.

  While I changed from my work clothes into a pair of comfortable black knit drawstring capris and a tee shirt, I gave Greg a rundown of my lunch with Dev. I was finished about the time I slipped on some comfy sandals. After grabbing a couple of water bottles, we piled Wainwright into the van and hit the road.

  Our first destination was the address for Alfred Nunez. It was on a modest street in the city of Santa Ana. Both sides of the street were lined with older apartment buildings. Some were well maintained, while others were in various stages of neglect.

  “Strange,” I said to Greg. “You’d think if someone was making a new life for himself, he wouldn’t stick so close to his old home. Joan and her mother both live in Costa Mesa. That’s almost next door. I know I’d head out of state for sure.”

  Greg pulled up to the curb across from the address Clarice had given me. It was a two-story pale green building with white trim, one of the better-cared-for buildings on the street. It looked like four or five apartments were on each floor. All of the apartment doors faced the building next door with a small greenbelt and walkway between them.

  “Did Nunez speak Spanish?” Greg asked.

  “Yes, both of Joan’s parents are bilingual, as is Joan.”

  “Santa Ana is a large city and predominately Latino. It might be a good place to disappear yet stay close enough to keep an eye on things.”

  “You mean he wanted to stay close to his family?” I looked at Greg with surprise.

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. But if he didn’t care, he could have taken off for any number of cities in California and blended in easily.”

  “Okay, so tell me why Clarice is still sticking around. According to Dev, her daughter is probably in France. Why would Clarice come back to Orange County when she could live anywhere in the world?”

  He shrugged again. “Did she say she was living in Orange County?”

  I thought back on my conversation with Clarice Hollowell. “No, only that she was a silent partner in Shirley’s business and that she was here a few months ago. That’s when she saw me at the bridal shop.”

  “Then Clarice could be living anywhere in California. She could even live in another state and visit here from time to time.”

  I groaned. “You’re right.”

  Greg grinned. “And you hate it when I’m right.”

  My lips raised slightly at his remark. “No, I don’t hate it. I just find it inconvenient sometimes, like when I think I have a hot theory.”

  After tossing me a wink, Greg craned his head back and forth, looking up and down the street. “I don’t see any police cars. Did you give Dev this address?”

  “No,” I answered with a mild attack of guilt. “I didn’t give him any of the addresses.”

  “Nunez is probably a very common name. It might take the police some time to track down this address. Good thing for us.”

  Greg did a U-turn and pulled up directly in front of the building. He reached behind his seat and pulled out a small box the size of a ream of paper. “Here,” he told me, handing me the box. “Take this and go check out the apartment. If anyone asks what you’re doing, tell them you have a delivery for Alfonso Nunez. I’ll keep the engine running just in case you run into a problem.”

  “What are they?” I asked, looking at the unmarked box.

  “Just some old flyers I was going to toss. There was an error on them.”

  I started to open the door, but Greg stopped me. “One more thing: put the earpiece to your cell phone in and call my phone right now. Then keep the connection open. I’ll be able to hear everything that’s going on that way.”

  My hubby may be one smart cookie, but it was starting to worry me how naturally he was taking to snooping. One nosy Nellie in the family was enough. What would be next, training Wainwright to track?

  Following his instructions, I plugged my earpiece into my ear and called Greg’s cell phone. As soon as we were hooked up, I climbed out of the van with the box of bogus flyers.

  According to the mailbox, apartment number 7 was occupied by a Nunez. That number jived with the apartment number Clarice had given me. A quick glance told me it was located on the second floor. The first apartment at the top of the stairs was number 5. The front door to this apartment was open. I couldn’t see anything through the screen, but the spicy smell of cooking filled my nostrils. In turn, my stomach reminded me that we’d left the house without first having supper.

  Walking along the narrow upper walkway, I passed apartment 6. The front door and the drapes on the living room window were closed. Next was apartment 7. The drapes were open, the door shut. Tucking the box under one arm, I cupped my hands around my face and tried to look inside the apartment. The living room looked tidy enough. I tried the screen door. It was unlatched, but the front door was locked tight. I jiggled the doorknob but got nowhere.

  “What do you want?” a voice asked me.

  I turned to my left and saw a young Latina holding a chubby baby. She stood in front of the open door at the top of the stairs, apartment 5, holding the scr
een door open with her body. She was plump, wearing cutoff jeans and a halter top the color of overcooked peas. Her hair was long and stringy—black hair dyed red, with several inches of roots grown out. Her eyes were heavily made up, her face hard for her age.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Nunez.” I looked down at the box as if double-checking a name. “Mr. Alfonso Nunez.”

  The woman looked me up and down. “What’s your business?”

  My first inclination was to tell the girl whatever it was, it was none of hers, but a little voice in my ear stopped me as if my thoughts had leaked out through my cell phone. “Careful, Odelia,” I heard Greg say through the earpiece. “You want her to talk to you. She won’t if you piss her off.”

  I gave the woman a small smile. “I have a delivery for a Mr. Alfonso Nunez. It’s some copying he had done but never picked up.” I lifted the box as an exhibit to my words.

  “You can leave it with me,” the woman said, hoisting the baby to her other hip.

  “Um … he owes $32.95 on the job. I can’t leave it unless someone pays for it.”

  I took a step toward her. The baby giggled and smiled at me. It was a cute little tot with dark straight hair and huge brown eyes, wearing only a diaper.

  “Can you pay for it?” I asked the woman, forcing hope into my voice. “I’m sure Mr. Nunez will pay you back when he gets home. Then I can leave it and my boss won’t get mad.”

  “Like hell.” She retreated a step, as if I was going to turn out her pockets for the money. “I’m not paying for anybody’s shit.”

  I tried to look disappointed at the news. “Well, can you tell me when Mr. Nunez gets home from work? Maybe I can wait for him.”

  “Al hasn’t been around for a while. Not sure where he’s gone.”

  “Is he friendly with any of the other neighbors? Maybe he told one of them when he’d be back.” I thought of Alfred Nunez in residence at the morgue and shuddered, knowing he’d never return to this place.