“I’m fine,” he said, smiling as he dusted off his clothing. “It’s a good thing neither of us was speeding. Let’s try to get the cars out of the road, then we can exchange information.”
Most people would be furious, Carolyn thought, surprised at his pleasant demeanor. He was wearing a black turtleneck that looked as if it was made out of silk or some other kind of exotic material, pleated slacks, and a boxy, stylish jacket with a silver emblem on it, similar to the ones you saw on uniforms for pilots. Light reflected off his flashy gold watch. She was fascinated by the large, intricate watch face, having been unaware that Cartier even made watches for men. It looked good against his tanned skin. His hair had a few strands of gray in it, but he didn’t appear much over forty. “Shouldn’t we wait until the police come before we move the cars?”
“Why?” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Marcus Wright. Not exactly the most favorable conditions, but it’s nice to meet you, Ms….”
“Sullivan,” she said. “Carolyn Sullivan.” Fortunately, the Infiniti’s engine turned over, and she made it to the curb before it sputtered and died. The passenger door was dented and wouldn’t open, and the glass in the window was shattered. He drove up and parked behind her. She wondered what he did for a living. He looked like a movie producer, or someone who worked in the entertainment industry. He certainly wasn’t your average Joe.
Removing her insurance information from the glove compartment, Carolyn exited the car again and walked up beside him. He was talking on his cell phone, and agilely slipped out of his jacket and tossed it into the backseat. This was a handsome, charming man. He was probably married to a tall, willowy blonde, had two perfect children, and lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills. What was he doing in this part of Ventura? If he’d been near the marina, it might make sense. Then again, he didn’t look like a boater.
“Listen, Carolyn,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. She caught a scent of his cologne. It made her think of thoroughbred horses and leather saddles, with just a hint of something floral. “You don’t have to report this to your insurance company,” he went on. “All they’ll do is raise your rates. The damage to my car is insignificant. I don’t think we even have to report it to DMV.”
Carolyn walked around his car, noticing a streak of white paint across the fender as well a clear indentation. With a car this expensive, the repairs could cost a fortune. The dealership would more than likely advise him to replace the entire bumper. For all she knew, he was acting nonchalant because he was planning to sue her. She took out one of her business cards, flipped it over, and started to copy down her driver’s license number.
“You don’t need to give me that,” Marcus said, pushing the pen down and taking the card from her. “Is this you? Ventura County Corrections Services Agency. Wow, that’s a mouthful”
Carolyn nodded, bedazzled, feeling as if her tongue were two inches thick.
“Interesting,” he said, turning the card over in his fingers. “Are you a cop?”
“A probation officer,” she said, thinking her job title might as well have read janitor. She suspected he was wearing more on his back than she made in a month. “I’m sorry about what happened. The sun was in my eyes, and I wasn’t paying attention.” She heard an approaching siren. A passerby must have called 911. Several fire department vehicles pulled up and stopped. A man jumped off the back of one vehicle and another from the passenger seat.
“Ma’am,” the taller of the two firemen said to Carolyn, “we need to take a look at you. Please sit down here on the curb.” He opened up a large metal box that contained medical supplies, then put her through some routine tests for head trauma. “Looks like you have a cut under your chin.”
“Really?”
The fireman pulled out something to wipe the small amount of blood away. “You’re looking pretty good. The only thing you need is this.” He held up a Band-Aid. After applying antiseptic, he placed it over the cut. “Do you want us to call for someone to pick up your car and give you a ride home?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Marcus said, walking over to the fireman. “I’ve got a tow on the way. If you don’t mind,” he said, looking down at her, “I’d be happy to drive you home. That way, we can let these men get back to work.”
“Thanks,” Carolyn said, smiling.
“That settles it,” Marcus replied, turning his attention to the firemen. “You guys are doing a great job. Responding to a call in less than ten minutes—amazing. Simply amazing.”
Carolyn was thinking the same thing, but not about the fireman. She watched as Marcus walked alongside the men to the ambulance, saying a few more words to them before they left.
When the tow truck arrived, Marcus came over and interrupted the driver as he was asking Carolyn where she wanted the car towed. “I know a great place that isn’t very far from here,” he said. “The owner is fast, and his prices are competitive.”
“Okay, then,” Carolyn said, lifting her shoulders and then letting them drop. “I’ll take your word for it.”
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, September 16—12:47 P.M.
Marcus and Carolyn followed the tow truck to the garage. The shop was at the end of a dead-end street on the outskirts of Ventura, its lot filled with exotic cars of every make and model. She shouldn’t have allowed Marcus to call these people. Their fees must be outrageous.
A friendly-looking Latin man with EMILIO embroidered on his shirt greeted them. He treated Marcus like a celebrity. Rushing to open the door to the office, he asked them both if they wanted a cup of coffee, a soda, or some bottled water. When they declined, he said, “Have a seat. I’ll finish with this customer, take a look at the cars, and be with you in less than five minutes.”
“Emilio will have you back on the road by Monday,” Marcus told her, flashing a confident smile. “The guy works seven days a week. That’s why he’s the best. I respect a man who’s willing to work for a living.”
“Great,” Carolyn said, impressed.
“Okay, we’ll take care of it,” Emilio said, returning and taking a seat behind his weathered oak desk. “Anything for my friend, Mr. Wright. Should be ready by Wednesday.”
“Monday’s better,” Marcus said, glancing over at Carolyn. “She needs her car to drive to work. She has an important job.”
“No problem,” Emilio told him, looking flustered. “But that means I’ll have to paint it today so it can dry.”
“How much is it going to cost?” Carolyn interjected. “Can you give me a written estimate? You know, just so we don’t have any misunderstandings.”
Before Emilio responded, Marcus answered, “Since I brought you here, the repairs will be on me.”
“No,” Carolyn protested, turning sideways. “I caused the accident. If anything, I should pay for your repairs.”
Marcus stood and took her hand, leading her out the door. He gave a firm glance to the owner of the shop. “Do a good job on her car, Emilio. This is a special lady. I always take care of you, don’t I? Now you have a new customer.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Wright,” Emilio said, trailing behind him. “Don’t you want us to repair the Jag? I can give you an excellent loaner. I have a Mercedes or a BMW. Whatever you want.”
Marcus waved good-bye and ushered her out. Carolyn decided arguing with him over the repair bill was futile. He wouldn’t be around when she picked up the car on Monday, and she was sure Emilio, no matter how accommodating, would be more than willing to take her money. She’d slipped one of his cards into her purse and would make a point to call him and get an estimate as soon as she got home.
“Let’s forget about the accident,” Marcus told her, guiding her through the crowded parking lot. “No reason to ruin such a beautiful day, right?”
“What about your car?” Carolyn asked. “Aren’t you going to get it repaired?”
“Not now,” he answered. “I’ll drop it off when I get some free time. I have other cars I can drive. Where do you live?”
“Take the freeway to Victoria,” she told him. “I live close to Ventura College.” She thought about it, then changed her mind. “Maybe you should drop me off at the Barnes and Noble on Telephone Road. I’m selling my house, and my Realtor is showing it today. I’ll call a friend to come and get me in an hour or so. If push comes to shove, I can always walk home.”
“That sounds more like an opportunity than a problem,” Marcus said, another broad smile on his face. “Can I interest you in lunch? I’m starving.”
Carolyn didn’t want to seem overeager. “Sure,” she said, slowly meeting his gaze, “but under one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“I pick up the tab.”
Marcus laughed. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Don’t worry,” Carolyn tossed back. “I’m going to take you to the Olive Garden, not a five-star restaurant.”
What a strange set of events, she thought, leaning back against the plush seats in the Jaguar, the wind blowing through her hair. If she hadn’t left the house when she had, someone else might have crashed into her and she would never have met Marcus. She could also be dead. Or worse, her reckless driving could have cost someone else’s life. From all appearances, Marcus Wright was a gracious, intriguing man. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of married men didn’t wear wedding rings. Even if he wasn’t married, he surely had his pick of women. She pulled down the visor and glanced at herself in the mirror. Wasn’t this the way it always happened? She’d left her house to go to the beach. No makeup, her hair fresh from the shower, wearing a dress she should have discarded years ago. She started to pull out her lipstick, but it was too late for that now. He’d already seen the freckles on her nose, and had probably noticed that she didn’t have much in the way of eyebrows. She slipped her hands under her hips. Her nails were chipped, and she chewed on her cuticles, a habit she’d had since childhood. Seeing him staring at her, she said, “Your car is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Marcus said, his long fingers gripping the glossy wood steering wheel. “It has a fairly smooth ride. When I get out of it after a long day in traffic, I don’t feel like I’m climbing out of a coffin.” He peered out the window. “Am I going the right way? I know there’s an Olive Garden around here somewhere.”
“We just passed it,” she said, pointing. “Turn into that alley.”
Once they were seated and the waiter took their orders, Carolyn asked him, “Do you live in LA?”
“Not really,” Marcus said, “I have a home about thirty minutes from here. I only stay in LA when I get jammed at work.” He poured her a glass of red wine from the bottle he’d ordered. “I knew a guy once who was on probation. He had to report every month and be tested for drugs. Is that what you do?”
“Not very often,” Carolyn told him, resting her head on her fist. She then folded her hands in her lap, remembering how her mother used to tell her to keep her elbows off the table. Etiquette, she thought, wondering if anyone even knew what the word meant these days. The people in her income bracket couldn’t afford fine dining. They ate at places like the one they were at now, which offered casual dining at modest prices. “I work in a division of probation called court services. My job is to investigate cases prior to sentencing, interview the various parties, apply circumstances in aggravation and mitigation, and basically interpret the sentencing laws. When the judge imposes a sentence, he relies heavily on the investigating probation officer’s recommendation.”
“Fascinating,” he remarked, listening intently. “Do you have a law degree?”
“No,” she told him, taking a sip of her wine. “I completed my first year of law school, then I had to drop out. I wasn’t spending enough time with my kids, and the tuition was too steep for my budget. I’ll go back one day, maybe after I put my children through college.”
“What about your husband?” Marcus asked. “What does he do for a living?”
“Oh,” Carolyn said, her expression darkening, “I’ve been divorced for a long time. My ex doesn’t help out with the kids. It’s fine. He wasn’t a very good role model. Ah, what about you? Do you have a wife and family?”
“Nope,” he said, his knee brushing against hers under the table. “I’ve never been married. Not that I have anything against it.” He shrugged. “Just haven’t met the right woman, I guess. How about you? Are you seeing someone?”
Was her moon in Venus or something? Carolyn thought. Could this dream of a man, who’d seemingly come out of nowhere, actually be hitting on her? If she told him she hadn’t had a date in nine months, he would think there was something wrong with her. No one wanted what everyone else had turned down. “I was involved with a race-car driver,” she said, deciding to use her former relationship with Brad Preston. Why tell him they worked together and the affair had been over for years? It wasn’t really lying, more a sin of omission. “We decided to end it. I have plenty to keep me busy, so dating isn’t a big priority.”
Marcus gave her a questioning look. Carolyn felt like an idiot. She hadn’t been with a man in so long, she didn’t know how to act. Just before she opened up her mouth and said something else moronic, the waiter brought their food. She kept her head down as she ate her veal, trying to take dainty bites and dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.
“Couldn’t this be construed as a first date of sorts?” Marcus said, linking eyes with her.
Carolyn almost choked on her food. “Well,” she said, gulping down the rest of her wine, “yes…I think it could.” She waved her hand over the food. “We’re having a meal and everything.” She was trying to act sophisticated, but it was hard when she was so excited. She cupped her hand over her mouth and giggled. Marcus tossed his head back and laughed as well. The stress of the past few days was swallowed up by a wonderful sense of anticipation. She could tell when something was going to happen, and it was going to happen between her and this man. The chemistry was so strong, she wouldn’t be surprised if the waiter had noticed it. “We’re not kids,” she said. “We should be able to say or do whatever we want.” She saw his face light up, and quickly added, “I’m not talking about anything sexual, of course, just…”
“You’re cute,” he said, refilling their wineglasses. “Not only that, you’re intelligent.” He touched the tip of her nose. “I love the way your nose turns up on the end.”
“I like you, too,” Carolyn said, sucking in a deep breath. “I’ve never known a man with a dimple in his chin. How do you shave it?”
“Very carefully,” Marcus joked.
“I’m glad I ran that stop sign today,” she continued. “Of course, I’m sorry I damaged your car. And we’re lucky neither of us got hurt.”
“I’m glad you ran that stop sign, too,” he told her. “Are you ready?”
“Oh…yes,” Carolyn said, watching as he made a check mark with his hand and the waiter came running. She sat there with a giddy expression on her face while he tossed a handful of bills down on the table, then rushed around to pull out her chair.
A man had been watching her from an adjacent table. He looked vaguely familiar, but Carolyn couldn’t place him. Seeing her stand, he got up and walked toward her with an angry look on his face. As he got closer, she recognized him and knew this was trouble.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, September 16—1:47 P.M.
“Ms. Sullivan, I’m Troy Anderson,” the man said. “My wife, Tracy, was murdered about eight years ago. I talked to you about the court report. The man who killed her was Carl Holden.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said, extending her hand. She saw a young boy sitting at the table where the man had been, his dark hair covering one eye, a surly expression on his face. “That’s your son, Sammy, I presume. He resembles you. How are you doing?”
“Not very good,” Anderson said, his eyes drifting over to Marcus, then back to Carolyn. A small man, he was at least a head shorter than Marcus. He wore a blue denim shirt, jeans, and his
feet were clad in Nike tennis shoes. “I thought I saw Carl Holden on the street the other day, over by the courthouse. That couldn’t be possible, could it? I get emotional when I come back here. I’ve been living in Arizona for the past three years. Sam and I came to visit my mother. She’s in a nursing home.”
Carolyn felt a hard ball of tension forming in her stomach. “Weren’t you notified? Carl Holden was released two years ago.”
He took a few steps back in shock. “No!” he exclaimed, his jaw locking. “They were supposed to let me know when he came up for parole. No one told me anything, and now he’s been released. How is that possible?”
Carolyn started to tell Marcus to leave without her, but she couldn’t afford to take her attention away from Anderson as the situation was too volatile. “Holden’s conviction was overturned. When the DNA evidence was ruled inadmissible, the DA decided not to try him again. Did you let anyone at the DA’s office know you’d moved?”
“How could the DNA be inadmissible?” Anderson said, attracting the attention of several diners. “They verified it was Holden’s blood under Tracy’s fingernails. That scientist guy testified. I think his name was Appleby or something.”
Some other people were trying to leave the restaurant, but Anderson and Carolyn were blocking their way. Carolyn gestured for the man to step outside in the lobby. He told her he needed to check on his son first. “Don’t leave,” he said, leveling a trembling finger at her.
“You should go,” Carolyn whispered to Marcus. “I’ll catch a ride home. If I can’t reach someone, I can always call a cab.”
“As long as you don’t mind,” he told her, “I’d just as soon stay. This guy looks like he’s about to come unglued and slug someone.”
When Anderson returned, Carolyn picked up the conversation, speaking softly as she explained the situation with Robert Abernathy. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this happened.”
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 7