by Burton, Mary
Smiling, Gage pulled out his badge. “We’re with Henrico Police. I’d like to see the manager.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.” She rose and disappeared down a shag-carpeted hallway that led to a back office.
Vega reached in the candy jar and scooped out a handful of jellybeans. “Be a minor miracle if anyone remembers Craig Thornton. Employee turnover in these places can be pretty quick.”
“We’ll see.”
Vega popped the jellybeans in his mouth.
Seconds later a petite woman with reddish hair and large glasses appeared. She wore a pale green pantsuit and glossy pink lipstick. “My name is Wanda. I’m the manager. Can I help you?”
Gage explained the reason for the visit. “I’m trying to track down a former tenant of yours. Craig Thornton and Rhonda Minor.”
Wanda rested a petite hand on her slim hip. “When did they live here?”
“Would have been about three or four years ago.”
“If I saw their faces I might be able to help. I get to know people’s faces when they drop off their rent checks. But I’m not so good connecting faces and names.”
Gage pulled out a picture of Craig and Rhonda. “Do they look familiar?”
She studied the picture. Her glasses magnified her blue eyes, making her look a bit like an owl. “I sure do. It’s been a few years since he and his wife moved out.”
“Wife?”
“Yeah. A cute little brunette. Fact, I remember her more than him. She dropped off the rent check. He kept to himself. She liked the summer pool parties but he didn’t.” She shook her head. “Funny the things you remember about people.”
“What do you remember about her?”
She handed him back the pictures. “She was a pain in my backside, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“She paid her rent on time but she was always playing her music too loud. Her next-door neighbor was always complaining to me. She in trouble? Wouldn’t surprise me got into a fix.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry. What happened?” She pushed up her glasses with her index finger.
“We’re still working on that,” Gage said. “I’d like to see your files if you have them.”
“I got my dead files in a storage room at the clubhouse.” She blushed realizing what she’d said. “No pun.”
“Right. Can you show us?”
“Sure. Susan, hold down the fort.”
The girl smiled. “Sure, Ms. Wanda.”
Wanda opened Susan’s desk and pulled out a thick roll of keys. “Follow me.”
Gage and Vega trailed behind Wanda, whose quick steps reminded him of a hummingbird. He doubted she ever slowed down for a breath. They crossed the parking lot and went into the complex’s clubhouse. Unlike the rest of the property, it looked as if it had been renovated in the last five years. Grays and mauves were featured in the furnishings and patterned wallpaper. In the center of the room was a pool table and outside sliding glass doors a swimming pool, sporting its winter cover.
Wanda moved to a door, opened it, and flipped on a light. Rows of filing cabinets filled the room. She moved to a section on the right, pulled open a drawer, and flipped through dozens of manila folders and pulled out a thick file.
“As you can see, she cost me a good deal of paperwork.”
Gage nodded. “What’s the name on the file?”
“The Starlight Corporation.”
“Corporation?” Gage said.
Wanda opened the file. “I remember it was printed on her checks.”
Gage nodded. They’d leased the apartment under a corporate name, which explained why his searches three years ago hadn’t turned up this place.
Wanda glanced at her notes in the file and then pulled out two photos. She handed the pictures to Gage.
Rhonda and Craig’s unattractive identification picture stared back at him. “You keep pictures of all your residents?”
“The ones that want a pool pass. We went to picture IDs about ten years ago. Folks kept trying to sneak nonresidents into the pool. I remember he didn’t want his picture taken, but she insisted. I don’t think he ever did come to the pool.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Perky. Smiled a lot.”
“Where’d she go after she left?”
“Said she and her husband were moving to Florida—that he’d gotten a new job. And she paid the three-month balance of her lease in advance. Normally, she paid her rent a day or two late. Always said she forgot. She paid this balance in cash. I was shocked enough to underline cash three times.”
He glanced at the notation, which she’d punctuated with an explanation mark. “Did she give a forwarding address?”
“She did. But it turned out to be no good—a fact I found out when maintenance crews went to flip the apartment and discovered it was a disaster.”
Vega raised a brow. “Flip?”
“Paint, clean, inspect. We do it on all units.”
“Right.”
“What did the maintenance people find?” Gage said.
“The crew found that she’d left a lot of her furniture and a good bit of trash: paint, brushes, and a ripped canvas.” She pulled out a couple of color photos, which documented the damage and mess.
Gage studied the pictures. His attention settled on a large carpet stain. “What was this?”
“Nasty stain in the back bedroom.”
“What kind of stain?” Gage said.
“Brownish, red. One of the guys thought it was blood, turned out to be paint. They had to pull up the carpet and padding and replace both. I took that out of her security deposit.”
“Didn’t you have to mail the balance to her?” Vega said.
“The carpet and padding replacement ate it up. In fact, my notes say the girl owed me six dollars more after it was all said and done. I called her cell but didn’t get an answer. I mailed an invoice to the address she gave me but when it was returned Address Unknown, I wrote the six bucks off. It would have cost me more in phone calls to track her down.”
“Did you mark the date she paid you the last three months’ rent?”
Wanda glanced at her pad. “September twenty-fifth, three years ago. Almost to the day. Imagine that. So if she’s dead, where’s her husband?”
“He’s of no help,” Gage said. “You ever note any visitors to the apartment?”
“I notice when people pay and when they use the amenities. Beyond that I don’t track my residents. I’ve got one hundred and fifty units.”
“Any of her old neighbors still around?”
She glanced at the file. “Rhonda was in building six, second floor, apartment five.” She closed her eyes as if mentally running through the building. “Apartment seven was living across the hall about that time. He’d remember Rhonda. I heard they got into some real fights over her music.”
“Do you have apartment seven’s contact information?”
“Sure.” She held her walkie-talkie to her mouth. “Susan, this is Wanda. I need some info on building six, unit number seven.”
“Ten four, Ms. Wanda.”
Wanda’s pert nod reminded Gage of his third-grade schoolteacher—Mrs. McCormick. As he remembered, he was always in trouble for making triangular footballs out of his worksheets.
Minutes later, Susan’s voice squawked over the radio. “Man’s name is Mark Benton and he works for the power company.” She gave them his cell and work numbers.
Gage scribbled down the information as it came over the radio.
“Thank you, Susan. Over.” Wanda looked at Gage. “You got that?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Gage handed her his card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
She held up his card. “I’ll put my thinking cap on and if I come up with something I’ll call.”
“Thanks.”
Gage and Vega walked over to Rhonda’s apartment building
and knocked on the doors of unit seven. Several seconds passed and no answer. Gage was reaching for a business card when he heard footsteps inside.
Vega stood back, hands on hips.
The door snapped open to a large man dressed in sweats, a stained T-shirt, and flip-flops. Black hair stuck up as if he’d just gotten out of bed and under thick dark chin stubble a sallow complexion suggested the guy was home sick. “Yeah?”
“Mark Benton?” Gage introduced them and each showed their badges.
“Yeah?” Suspicion changed the entire tone of the word.
“We have questions about a former neighbor of yours. Rhonda Minor.”
He turned and coughed. “What’s she done now? Or what does she want?”
“Nothing. We just have a few questions about what kind of trouble she made for you.”
“Crazy bitch. She played that damn music of hers all the time. When I asked her to turn it down she would for a while but within an hour it was cranked again. Said she couldn’t paint without the music. And then that idiot husband of hers sideswiped my car.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was fall that last year she was here. They were having a fight and he tore out of here like a bat out of hell and hit my bumper.”
“Did he stop?”
“Damn right, he did.” Benton smelled of chips and beer. “He was all attitude until I threatened to call the cops. Then he softened right up. Paid for the damage in cash.” He grunted. “Rhonda even tried to be nice for a few days after that as if her boyfriend told her to keep quiet and stay out of my way. She offered me one of her paintings as a peace offering.”
“You take it?”
“Yeah.”
“You still have it?”
“Naw. It was a landscape. I gave it to my mom.”
“I’d like to see it.”
Mark shrugged. “I’m seeing her in a couple of days. She lives in Roanoke. I’ll take a picture with my phone and e-mail it to you.”
“Thanks. Did Rhonda ever have any other visitors?”
“Not too many. She was either painting or playing that damn music. Not much of a life.” He snapped his fingers. “She did get a visit from a woman late one night right before she left. I remember because they got into a fight, too. And don’t ask me what about because I couldn’t hear the words only the tone of their voices.”
“Can you describe the woman?” Vega said.
“She wore a hat. Blond. She looked rich and fancy.”
Gage held up a picture of Adrianna. “Her name?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Gage handed Mark his card. “If you think of anything else, would you call me?”
“Yeah, sure.” He glanced at the card. “So what did Rhonda do?”
“She was murdered shortly after you last saw her.”
His face paled. “Well, I sure as shit didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Gage said. “But I do want you to keep thinking about those last days she lived here. Any detail will be helpful.”
The guy looked flustered. “Yeah, yeah, sure.”
“Thanks.”
After Benton’s door closed and the two descended the stairs, Vega said, “Three years is a long time. He must have been some kind of mad to remember Rhonda.”
“Mad enough to kill her?”
“Another million-dollar question.”
“So what’s next?”
“Alex thinks the other victim was dead four or five years.” That had been the time he and Adrianna had dated. “I should have financial records for Craig by now. Hopefully, there are some credit card receipts that show us what he was up to about that time. We’ll also do a check on Mark Benton.”
“You heard what Benton said. Blond. Well dressed. Icy. Joan says Craig was having an affair. Think he’s talking about Adrianna Barrington?”
Gage measured his words and tone carefully. “We’ve got two victims, not one. And you’re assuming the victims both knew Thornton and his wife.”
“Both were female. Both on Thornton land. Come on. There has to be a connection to the guy. And I don’t care what Adrianna Barrington said about her man not having an affair, I’d bet a paycheck he was and she knew about it.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Who wants to tell their friends at the country club that their old man’s been doing the secretary at the office? Or that her zillion-dollar wedding might be off? She’d have a lot of humiliation to deal with if he dumped her.”
Gage drew in a breath. “Let’s see what Dr. Butler has to say.”
Tammy Borden’s head pounded like she’d been on a three-day bender. Her mouth was dry and her limbs felt like they were covered in lead. Her first thought was that she’d fallen off the wagon. She’d been struggling to stay sober since she’d gotten out of jail. The booze was everywhere.
She remembered buying the bottle of vodka before her meeting. She’d prayed the meeting would straighten out her thinking but when she’d walked out of that meeting she’d been determined to kill it.
She not only craved the buzz but a blissfully numb mind that would let her forget that she’d murdered a man and his child.
Tammy glanced around the room. Dark and dim and windowless, the room had a dank smell. She sat a little straighter and ran a trembling hand through her hair.
As the seconds passed she realized she wasn’t drunk or coming off a bender. Her heart started to race a little faster as memories flooded back. The parking lot. That guy and the stun gun.
Tammy tried to stand and then realized a chain bound her to the floor. She jerked at the chain but it was a good inch thick and made of galvanized metal. She screamed, “Help!”
Her voice echoed off the concrete walls and bounced back like a rubber ball. She screamed again. After nearly fifteen minutes, her voice was hoarse and scratched. And no one had heard her.
Over the last three years she’d wished for death often enough. Now she feared she’d finally landed in hell.
“Oh God, oh God.”
A light rain ushered in the evening as Gage and Vega arrived at the medical examiner’s office. They moved through the antiseptic hallways at a brisk pace and found Dr. Butler in his windowless small office. Shelves, jammed full of books and papers, lined the small space from floor to ceiling. In the center was a government-issue desk where two laptop computers hummed between towers of more papers and books.
Dr. Butler looked up from his computer, seemingly unaware of the chaos in his office. “Good. You got my text message.”
Gage nodded. “So what do you have?” There were two chairs in front of the desk but both were filled with files. He wondered how the guy could breathe in this kind of space.
Dr. Butler turned from one laptop to the other and with the few clicks of his mouse opened a document. “I’ve reviewed the bones carefully. Took x-rays, searched for birth defects, injuries both old and new, job-related anomalies, and anything that might set her apart.”
“And?” Gage said.
“Rhonda Minor had two fractures on her face. The left cheekbone and the bottom right jaw. The fracture on the left was just a hairline whereas the blow to her right jaw had enough force to break teeth. The injuries hadn’t fully healed, but the healing process had begun. Bone knitting begins immediately but takes time. It was the same with the other victim. Fractures to the face. Partial healing.”
Gage’s lips flattened. “Any guesses on how long he held them?”
“It would be a very, very rough guess.”
“I’ll take it.”
Dr. Butler rubbed his eyes. “Four or five days, a week maybe.”
Gage clenched and unclenched his jaw. Four or five days. A lifetime for a victim. Four days Jessie had been missing. Shit.
“How long has the other victim been dead?” Vega said.
“Based on the tree roots that had grown through and around her bones, I’d say she’s been dead about four or five years.”
“You can determine time of death by tree roots?” Vega said.
“Factoring in the average growth rate of an oak tree as well as rain we’ve had over the last couple of years, I can estimate how much the roots would have grown each year.”
Gage was impressed. “You said you were searching for job-related anomalies.”
“Right,” Dr. Butler said nodding. “If you work one part of your body more than another, over time muscle builds up. Increased muscle size is reflected on the bone.”
Gage nodded. “The bone grows to support the muscle.”
“Exactly.” Dr. Butler had an IQ that bumped two hundred yet could break any complex issue down to the simplest terms. “A horseback rider would have well-developed adductor magnus muscles and femurs. Butt and leg. A trumpet player builds up the cheek muscles and thus the lower jaw changes.”
“And what did you find on Jane Doe?”
“The tibia—lower leg bone—suggested strong calf muscles. And the outer edge of her right shoulder showed signs of a strong deltoid, suggesting she consistently carried heavy objects with her right hand.”
“Strong legs, one arm stronger. A waitress?” Gage said.
“That would be my guess.” Dr. Butler glanced at his notes. “Jane Doe also had shin splints, suggesting a high-impact sport. Maybe even high heels. The pounding of the feet while wearing high heels is murder on the frame. She had the beginnings of bunions on her feet. Whatever shoes the victim wore didn’t fit her feet so well. And her bones showed signs of malnutrition. When she was growing up, she didn’t eat as well as she should have and it left a mark on her bones. And changes to her pelvis tell me she gave birth at one point.”
“Supposing she was a waitress,” Gage said. “And let’s assume for the moment she knew Craig Thornton. Two and two equals…”
“A cocktail waitress,” Vega said. “They carry heavy trays, they do wear high heels, and they can make a lot of money in tips, which would appeal to someone who didn’t grow up with money and had a kid to support.”
Gage played devil’s advocate. “Why not a waitress who worked in a family restaurant who liked to play soccer or tennis?”