I took the brokerage statements back out of the folder and spread them out, studying the dates on the transactions. The local bank account had been in existence for about a year before David’s disappearance. No doubt the bank was thrilled that a customer would leave that kind of money in a non-interest bearing account. They’d earned a bundle, no doubt, on what they considered a customer’s naiveté.
The brokerage accounts were opened within a few months after that, all on the same day. A huge influx of money had come into David’s possession four or five months before he disappeared. No withdrawals, nothing but dividends he’d earned (quite substantial ones), had occurred after the initial deposits. I ran a total on my calculator and found that the number of zeros boggled the mind.
I closed the folder, wondering what to do next. This whole thing was going to get complicated once it became known. Legally, Earleen was still married to David and was now a widow. Under our community property laws she would inherit everything. Unless David had created a trust or something that would leave a portion to Amanda. But we hadn’t found any evidence of that yet. The new will could present strong evidence, but it was written as if it would take effect after the divorce. The divorce had not happened, so I had no way of knowing if the will would be deemed legal.
I pictured Earleen and Frank Quinn, squandering money like mad in Vegas, and knew there was no way I could support any plan that would give her tens of millions of dollars while Amanda and Jake struggled day to day. David’s letter, the one we’d found at the bank, outlined his wishes but he’d presented so many facets, so many quirks and curves, that I felt uncertain. I wanted to hope that he would want Amanda to have everything.
If Earleen fought it the outcome would probably boil down to a court decision and I had a sick feeling that once lawyers became involved the bulk of the estate would filter into their pockets, leaving everyone else out in the cold. I’d seen it happen before.
The other entity with an interest in all this was, of course, the IRS. The brokerage would have reported the dividend income and the government would expect tax returns to be filed. When they got no responses from Mark Franklin, with nothing but a mail drop to identify his location, what would they do? I imagined some sort of attachment on the accounts themselves, but didn’t know for sure. I paced to my bay window and stared out at the street below. Two kids from the house across the street played on bicycles. While I watched, their mom called them in for lunch.
“I’m going out for a couple hours,” Ron said. He’d donned his Stetson and a suede jacket I’d never seen before.
I put everything back into the folder and jammed it into the back of a file drawer. Officially, Mark Franklin existed nowhere except on these sheets of paper. For now, I intended to leave it that way.
Out the front window I watched Ron’s car drive away. Shortly after that, Sally called out that she was also leaving and her minivan left, too.
“So, kid, what do you think?” I said to Rusty. He wagged and looked up hopefully at the cookie canister on the shelf. I unthinkingly tossed him a treat, sat in my chair, got up again. “I’m not focusing too well, am I?” He wagged again but I didn’t fall for the cookie ploy this time.
In the kitchen, I toyed with a package of chocolate donuts but tossed them aside. This is ridiculous, I decided. I can’t just pace the office all day and think about all that money. I decided that part of my restlessness stemmed from the fact that I’d eaten nothing but sugar and coffee all day. With the generous portions of fried goodies I’d consumed at Jo’s Café during the past week, my jeans were getting snug and that disgusted me as well.
“Come on, kid,” I called to Rusty. “We’ve got to find something green for lunch.”
I locked up, set the voice mail system and headed out the back door. One of the best salad places in town is just a few blocks away, so I headed there. Virtuously ordering one with high fiber and low fat, with dressing on the side, I convinced myself that this would be good for dropping at least a couple of pounds around my middle.
With my salad boxed to go I took it back to the office and carried it upstairs. The idea of sitting at my desk to eat seemed, somehow, unsatisfying. I went back down, opened the front door to the balmy spring air and sat in one of the two wicker chairs that have been on the wide front porch for years, seldom used. It felt good to kick off my shoes and let the sun hit my feet while I munched at my healthful lunch.
A couple of birds trilled back and forth at each other, and the two little boys across the street came back out and took up their bicycles again. They gave me a long, suspicious stare, as if they’d never seen a barefoot woman eating a salad outdoors before. I gave them a little wave and they ducked their heads shyly.
By the time Ron came back I’d spent all the time I could justify in the warm spring air and a brainstorm of an idea had hit me. I logged onto the internet and began searching for David Simmon’s name, looking for anything, past or present, that might tell me something that neither his family nor his financial records had thus far provided.
A few newspapers archived old stories in text format, and I managed to find a couple that actually didn’t require a subscription to get into them. A California paper had carried a story, seven years ago, about the huge dotcom merger of Dyna-Genesis and Syn-Optic, listing David Simmons as the CEO of Dyna-Genesis. I toyed with the words, wondering if the new entity would have been named DynaSynGen or something equally silly sounding. There was one brief quote from David, saying how excited they were to build this dynamic partnership and the usual blurb about how the merger would not affect the status of the two companies’ four hundred employees. No photo accompanied the article, but I remembered the company name from something Amanda had told me. It had to be the same David Simmons.
So far, the timing fit with what I knew and logic told me that David himself had netted a nice profit from the merger. But this was more than three years before the huge deposits showed up in the accounts we’d discovered. I kept looking.
Mentions of Dyna-Genesis and David Simmons showed up several more times, local California stories that never quite made the national news. Going back in time, I found the notice of the company startup—now twenty years in the past—and the proud announcement that Wells Fargo Bank was financing the new venture, and a short piece that profiled David himself. I brought this one up and began reading carefully.
Simmons, an MIT graduate and computer whiz kid in the early days of IBM, is venturing out on his own this time with a new idea that he claims will set the computer world on its ear. Simmons took questions at a news conference today, but the thing that caught this reporter’s attention was the way his nine-year-old daughter, Amanda, stood by his side. Readers may recall that Amanda lost her mother only a few years ago when the family home was tragically destroyed by an explosion caused by a gas leak. Simmons barely escaped with the three-year-old Amanda clutched in his arms, but Samantha Simmons died at the scene. Today’s announcement . . .
My salad rose in my throat. Two gas explosions in one person’s life, two women dying—what were the odds?
Chapter 17
The words on the screen floated in dangerously waving patterns as I fought to digest their import. All my ideas about someone trying to get David fell aside at this new information. Had David pulled off a successful insurance scam once before and decided to try it again? Had he succeeded at getting rid of one wife and decided that Earleen’s dying would be cheaper than a divorce?
I called out to Ron but got no response. The sounds of clinking glassware drifted up from the kitchen and I waited until I heard his footsteps, upward bound on the stairs. I called his name but couldn’t bring my eyes away from the screen, in case the words somehow disappeared.
“Look at this,” I said.
He glanced at it, not focusing. “What am I looking for?”
I pointed at the word ‘explosion’ on the screen. His eyes grew wide.
“Whoa. When was this?”
“When Amanda was about three years old,” I said. “She told me her mother died in an accident and she barely remembered her. Obviously, she didn’t know about this.”
“Traumatic shock. An incident like this, she probably wouldn’t remember it.”
“Exactly. And David made up the other story for her. To protect her, or to hide his involvement?”
“Give me some time on this,” he said. “I’ve got some sources.”
While he went back into his office, I continued my internet search, but found nothing older, nothing dating back as far as the explosion that killed Samantha Simmons. I drummed my fingers on the desk, trying to put it all together.
Twenty-some years ago, the Simmons house had exploded, leaving David to raise a young daughter. He moved around a bit, went into business, put together a successful merger. Used the money from that to relocate to the mountains, remarried, built a showplace home, started a new business venture with his son-in-law. Just as this second business is about to make its big breakthrough, he disappears and his new home explodes. Big money appears in his bank accounts but there’s no sign of David. Years go by, David turns up dead. So straightforward, yet so complex. My head began to pound.
I could hear Ron’s voice on the telephone as I went into the bathroom for some aspirin.
“I got the story, but I don’t know how helpful it will be,” he said a few minutes later when he came into my office. “A contact at the Sacramento paper went back into the archives for me.”
He handed me a fax copy of an old article. A photo showed a dramatic shot of a house completely engulfed in flames. The piece told essentially what we already knew, that only David and Amanda survived the blaze.
“Insurance settlement?” I asked.
“My contact said he thought so. He’s looking for a follow up article now, thinks he remembers the paper running more than one piece on the story.” The phone rang and he dashed for it.
I heard him mumbling terse responses, which usually means he’s taking notes while he listens. He hung up and came back a minute later.
“Got the name of the insurance company. I’ll give them a call. The newspaper doesn’t know whether they paid the claim or not.”
“At least it’s helpful to have the name of the company, right?”
“We’ll see how much they can tell me. This was a long time ago.”
I let him work his magic with the phone while I took Rusty out for a short walk to the backyard. I strode the length of the yard twice at a quick clip, hoping to clear my brain and come up with some answers. I felt better for the brief stretch but still hadn’t reached any conclusions.
“Anything?” I said to Ron, noticing he was off the phone when I came upstairs.
“Not much. It’s Friday afternoon and some of the office staff have gone home. I reached a mid-level management guy who told me that they normally keep records for seven years. If a claim is paid without dispute the records are destroyed. If the claim was denied or went to court, it may have been kept longer, but he says this case doesn’t ring a bell with him. There are other people in the legal department who might remember more, but none of them will be in until Monday.”
“So what should we do next?”
He shrugged. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Amanda hired us to find her father.”
“Which has happened. She knows where he is.”
“Yes, but there’s so much more to it. I think she deserves to know how her mother died, don’t you?”
“Will it change anything?”
I felt my teeth clench. “Not materially. But if Continental Union discovers there was a previous house explosion in David’s life, it’s going to provide pretty strong reason for them to deny the current claim—as if they don’t have reason enough already. That would come as a pretty nasty shock to Amanda if she first learns about it from some suit-and-tie insurance adjuster. I think I better go back up there and meet with her, face to face.”
“I agree.”
“Plus, if she and Jake don’t get the insurance money on the current claim, they’re in deep trouble financially.”
“I already agreed, Charlie. You don’t have to sell me on the idea.” He leaned back in his chair. “You going to tell her about those other accounts?”
Over ten million dollars. I hesitated. “Not just yet. I want to see how a few things play out first. They’ve been secret all these years, another few days isn’t going to make a difference.”
“I agree on that, too.”
“You should have found Victoria sooner. You’re being very agreeable today.” I grinned and ducked out of the doorway just as a tiny notepad hit the frame.
Back in my office I printed out the article I’d found on the internet and put it into a folder with the other one Ron’s buddy had faxed over. Telling Amanda about this wouldn’t be easy and I decided that another night at home in my own bed was in order before I made the drive north again.
My neighbor, Elsa, spotted me pulling into my driveway and flagged me down. A guilty twinge hit me as I realized it had been more than two weeks since I’d last spent any time with her.
“Have you had dinner yet?” she asked. Her blue eyes sparkled and the white curls on her head bobbed as she leaned over to pat Rusty.
I thought fast. “I have some pasta and sauce. I could do up a quick dinner for both of us if you can come,” I said.
She offered beef stew that she said had been simmering all afternoon. That trumped my jar of Ragu, so I told her I’d be over as soon as I’d fed Rusty. We spent the evening as we used to, with me recounting my day and she listening in the special way that your grandmother has to listen to your childhood tales. As when I was a teen under her care, I left out some of the details and she pretended not to notice. Bless her, she never questioned me too far.
“So you’re going back to Watson’s Lake in the morning?” she asked, as we cleared the table and ran hot water into the sink.
“Afraid so. Well, with Drake away on his fire contract, I’ve got to stay busy.”
“Would it be okay for Rusty to stay with me?” This was her way of offering me a favor without my having to ask. She’d used the technique on me for years.
“Sure. He’ll like that better than trailing around with me in the car all day.”
She smiled benevolently at him and I knew he was in for a round of treats that would require several good runs in the park to wear off.
I left her place about nine, cut through the break in the hedge, and arrived home just in time to catch Drake’s call. I filled him in on my plans and he told me about the status of the fire. We both hoped we’d get a break by the following weekend and could catch up with each other somewhere.
By eight the next morning I found myself wide awake and antsy to get going. I delivered Rusty and his sack of food into Elsa’s loving care and stopped to gas up the Jeep before hitting I-25 northbound. Traffic was light on an early Saturday and I made good time. I threaded my way past a cluster of parked boat trailers which reminded me of the fishing derby. I was just in time to grab lunch at Jo’s; I took the only empty table.
She greeted me like I’d never been gone and filled me in on the latest. Earleen and Frank were back from Vegas. Jo’s own opinion was that they’d lost a bundle even though they were talking like typical gamblers, highlighting the big plays and forgetting the overall picture. Amanda was doing all right, but probably wouldn’t return to work for a couple more weeks. Rocko Rodman was reportedly in jail for drunken and disorderly, but what else was new? I hoped the hit and run had been proven, too, but didn’t say anything about that to Jo.
I finished my BLT and decided to drop my bag at the Horseshoe Motel before driving out to Amanda’s. Selena Gibbons, with all her little bluish curls still perfectly in place, didn’t even bother signing me in this time. She handed over the key to my same room and said she still had my credit card number on file. I moved right into the room as if it were my second home.
Jake’s gray Mazda was parked in the drive and Amanda opened the door before I’d quite reached it, startling me.
“News?” she asked.
“Yeah, let’s go inside.”
Her bruises from the accident were fading and she moved with a lot less stiffness as she led me into the kitchen. I declined the offer of a sandwich and she put the final touches on one for Jake and walked it out to the lab, giving me a couple of minutes to put my thoughts together.
I did accept a glass of iced tea and she made busy work, looking for sugar and spoons although I had declined both. She kept darting wary glances my way.
“I might as well just come out with it,” I finally said. “There really isn’t an easy way to tell you this.”
She stood at the sink like a statue.
“We came across information about your mother’s death and it wasn’t any ordinary accident. She died in a house fire when you were three. Your father managed to save you, but she didn’t make it.”
Her mouth worked without making a sound, her lips forming the word ‘fire.’
I took a deep breath. “Yes. There was a gas leak. An explosion.”
She went completely white and I had to lunge for her tea glass as her fingers went limp. I set the glass on the counter and put an arm around her.
“Come here. Sit.” I edged a chair out with my toe and steered her into it.
Her eyes stared widely at a point in space and her lower lip trembled. I knelt in front of her, waiting for the dam to burst. She transported herself back in time, her head waving back and forth, her eyes never leaving that empty spot.
Obsessions Can Be Murder: The Tenth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 12