I smiled. “You didn’t just think of this idea, did you? It’s been simmering in that head of yours for awhile.”
She smiled back. “Yes, I guess it has.”
“So what have you found?”
“Well, it just so happens that one of the women in my reading group has a son here in Park City whose company just transferred him to South America, and he can’t take his dog.”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“He’s a real cutie. His name is Bob and he’s a four-year-old male Basset Hound.”
“Bob,” I laughed. “You’ve already seen the dog I take it.”
“I sure have, and I think Sara would love him.”
“Okay. Let’s talk to Sara about it at breakfast in the morning and see when we can all go over and introduce ourselves to Bob.” You don’t see many Basset Hounds in the mountain town of Park City. What you do see by the boatload are Labs and Golden Retrievers. So a Basset Hound named Bob sounded like a nice addition to our family.
The other news of the day was that my ex-wife called from Atlanta asking that I call her back. While my initial anger had receded, I still wasn’t sure if I could have a civil conversation with her. What was there to talk about? Short of my asking her to reconsider her decision to initiate the child custody action, it didn’t seem like there was much to say. And the likelihood that she would do a one-eighty on the lawsuit seemed extremely remote. Nicole was not the type of person to second guess previously made decisions. It just wasn’t in her nature. Besides, her parents had never liked the idea of leaving Sara in Utah, and they would probably be delighted to bankroll the entire fiasco. I decided to call my soon-to-be Atlanta lawyer, Allison Kittridge first.
At six-thirty in the morning, eight-thirty Atlanta time, I was on the phone with Allison Kittridge. Her style was no nonsense and she didn’t mince words. I liked that about her right away. She would be an aggressive advocate, of that I felt certain. I mentioned the call the previous evening from Nicole.
“I don’t have any problem with your talking to Nicole. In fact, if you can convince her to withdraw the lawsuit, it will save you both a lot of grief, time, and money. There are two things I want you to be cautious of. First, don’t get angry with her and lose your temper—just keep it civil. Anger might make you feel better, but it won’t help your case. Second, if she asks how Sara is doing, don’t go into a lot of detail. Just tell her she’s fine.”
“But she’s not fine,” I said, “and Nicole knows it.” I explained the problems Sara was experiencing and the fact that she was attending weekly counseling sessions.
“That’s all going to come out, and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s also all explainable. Don’t spend a lot of time worrying about it. I understand from my conversation with your family friend, Baxter Shaw, that Sara suffered another traumatic loss—the death of her grandparents.”
“That’s true. Both my parents were killed in an accident nearly three years ago.”
“None of these things, Mr. Kincaid, can be blamed on you. They are not a reflection of your parenting skills, your home, or your love for your daughter. Just as importantly, these tragic events do not represent a pattern in your or Sara’s life, nor were they predictable. All of that works in our favor.”
“Do you know the lawyer representing my ex?”
“Not personally. I do know the firm, Baker, Henley, and Wyatt. They’re an old law firm that’s been in business twenty-five, thirty years. Your former spouse is represented by one of the partners, Bill Wyatt. I haven’t called him. I wanted to speak with you first.”
“Okay, what happens next?”
“I’d like to fax you a retainer agreement, have you sign it, and fax it back to me. I’ll also need a $10,000 retainer. I charge $250.00 an hour. Is that going to be alright?”
“Sure,” I gulped. What the hell was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, I can’t afford you.’ “I’ll sign the agreement and get it right back to you. I’ll put the retainer in the mail later today.”
“Very well,” said Kittridge. “Unless this case goes away quietly, I think you should expect that I may need you here in Atlanta several times. I’ll give you plenty of notice so that you can plan your schedule accordingly.”
“Will Sara have to appear?”
“If this goes to trial, yes. Also, if we do go to trial, I, or one of my associates, will have to fly to Salt Lake City to depose a number of witnesses.”
“Anything else?”
“There is the matter of a home evaluation. We will have to retain a licensed clinical social worker to undertake an evaluation of your home and that of your ex wife. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We don’t have to worry about any of that today.”
Overwhelmed would best describe how I felt when I got off the phone. I needed time to process everything I had just heard. My savings account was about to become $10,000 lighter, but that was the least of my concerns. I didn’t bother calling Nicole. Call it procrastination, but, at the moment, I just didn’t feel like it.
I had breakfast with Sara and Aunt June. We discussed Bob the Basset hound, and agreed to go see him. I dropped Sara at her school on my way into the office.
It felt like the beginning of a very long day.
Chapter Nineteen
I spent most of the morning at the state prison returning phone calls and putting out fires on several SIB cases. I made repeated calls to the home of Robin Joiner’s mother, Betty, in Mesquite, Nevada. She didn’t answer. On the last call I left her a message asking that she call me back as soon as possible.
That done, I collected a mug shot of Joseph Bradshaw and drove to Joiner’s apartment complex in Salt Lake City. I located the apartment manager and showed her Bradshaw’s picture.
She looked at it and then looked at it some more. Finally, she shook her head and said, “This sure looks a lot like the boy I’ve seen Robin with, but I’m not absolutely certain. I saw them together a couple of times but he was always wearing a baseball cap. And I never actually met him.”
I left the apartment manager and tried to reach Tracy Sanders at home. She didn’t answer, so I left her a message and then tried her cell number. She picked up and we agreed to meet at an Einstein’s Bagel shop near downtown. I was starting to get a bad feeling about a possible connection between Robin Joiner and Joseph Bradshaw. Perhaps Tracy would be able to help clear things up.
Sanders was seated at a table near the back of the bagel shop when I arrived. She was drinking a cup of tea and seemed to be completely immersed in something on her laptop. She glanced up and flashed a tentative smile as I sat down.
“No coffee,” she said. “I thought all cops lived on caffeine.”
“Contrary to popular belief, some of us don’t. I try to limit myself to a couple of cups in the morning. For me it isn’t the caffeine so much as the fact that I turn the coffee into a liquid candy bar—too much cream and sugar.
“But what about you? Unless that tea is decaf, I’m going to assume that you’re not a member of the dominant religion. Otherwise, you’d be standing in the hot cocoa line.”
She smiled. “I grew up in the church, but I haven’t been active in years.”
We chatted like that for a few minutes, mostly small talk. Finally, I showed her the mug shot of Joseph Bradshaw. She heaved a sigh and said, “For Robin’s sake, I hoped that it wouldn’t be him. But it is. I’m sure of it.”
“And you only met him that one time, at your apartment, I think you said.”
“Only once, and that was the time that Rob let me borrow her lecture notes from a class I’d missed. I hadn’t met him before, and I’ve never seen him since.”
“But you’re sure it’s him?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?”
“Hmm. Not really. Like I said, he didn’t say much. They were only in my apartment for a couple of minutes—just time to give me the notes a
nd say a quick hello.”
“When did you meet him, do you recall?”
“Last spring semester.”
“Any idea how they met?”
“Sorry.”
I left the coffee shop after extracting a promise from Sanders to contact me if she thought of anything else.
***
I spotted Kate’s department-issued Dodge parked illegally in front of the law firm of Smith, Samuelson, and Wood. I met her in the lobby of the building. She had just come out of a meeting with one of the partners, Greg Samuelson. Samuelson was Arnold Ginsberg’s personal attorney, and Kate had gone to see him in the hope of learning the details of the victim’s estate.
“Well, did you manage to charm the information out of him?”
“No, but he wanted to meet me after work for drinks, dinner, and who knows what else. It’s going to take a warrant to get the estate information from Mr. Samuelson, I’m afraid.”
“And that takes probable cause, something we don’t have at the moment,” I countered.
She agreed. “We can work around this issue for the time being and come back to it if we have to. How did you make out with the photo identification of Bradshaw?”
“I got a positive ID from Tracy Sanders and a probable one from the apartment manager. The apartment manager never met him and isn’t one hundred percent sure.”
“So what do you make of the connection between Joiner and Joseph Bradshaw?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. We probably ought to go back over the reports of the armored car heist. The million dollar question, of course, is how exactly did Robin Joiner happen to end up at the scene of a violent crime that her friend, Joey Bradshaw, took part in?”
“Coincidence,” said Kate and then smiled. “You figure she’s involved, right?”
“Right, unless it’s one hell of a coincidence, which seems highly unlikely.”
“I’ll go over the reports with the detectives who handled the investigation and find out how Joiner surfaced as a witness in the case. Maybe we can jog somebody’s memory,” said Kate.
“It doesn’t track for me,” she said. “Think about it: A university student pulling a masters degree in a do-gooder field like social work. She’s had a difficult childhood but no significant criminal history—nothing in her background to suggest that she might become a part of something like this. As far as we know, she’s never been involved in polygamy or with polygamist groups.”
“I agree, Kate, but unless you want to go back to the coincidence theory, I don’t know how you arrive at any other conclusion.”
“It makes her failure to come in more understandable. And don’t forget that the Bradshaw boys are breaking their backs trying to find her? If she was involved, what was her role in the heist and why would she choose to run from Joey?”
“She could have acted as a lookout,” I said. “Maybe she was an unwilling participant. Do you remember the Patty Hearst case?”
“Vaguely. I think we studied it in the police academy.”
“So you think she was coerced in some way. Maybe you’re right. But there’s got to be something else.”
“I don’t know, Kate. How about true love? Sometimes love makes people do some crazy things.”
***
We hopped into her car and drove four blocks to State Street. She parked illegally again, this time in front of the State Street Office Plaza where Arnold Ginsberg had run his accounting business. The complex provided space for assorted law firms, accountants, and a large, commercial real estate business.
Ginsberg’s office suite occupied the top floor, which he shared with two other accountants. They also shared a secretary, the same secretary who had left Kate a message the previous day that she possessed additional information pertinent to Arnold Ginsberg’s murder.
We sat with Linda Beggs at a conference table in Ginsberg’s spacious office. The digs were first rate, great views of the Oquirrh Mountains to the west.
“Thanks for getting back with me so promptly. The information I’m about to share with you is information I withheld during our discussion several days ago.”
“And why did you do that?” asked Kate.
“Arnold’s privacy, I guess. Arnold was such a good man, a really sweet spirit. I’m going to miss him terribly. But he was also a very private man. He would have hated for this information to be revealed. I’d hoped the crime would have been solved quickly, so that this information need never have surfaced. But the case hasn’t been resolved quickly, and maybe it will turn out to be important.”
“Go on.”
“Well, about three months ago Arnold confided in me that he was concerned that his partner, Rodney Plow, had become unfaithful, and might be seeing someone else.”
“I remember your telling me that. What made him believe Rodney was being unfaithful?”
“I think he felt that the relationship was changing. Rodney was less affectionate and seemed to be distant and distracted. And, on several occasions, Rodney wasn’t where he said he was going to be. When Arnold pressed him about it, Rodney became evasive and angry.”
“Arnold told you all of this?”
“Yes, he did. He also said that he tried following Rodney on several occasions hoping that it might lead to this mysterious other man. Apparently it never did because about five, maybe six weeks ago, Arnold asked me to find him a private investigator.”
“Ostensibly to track the whereabouts of Rodney and determine whether he was being unfaithful?” said Kate.
“Exactly. He insisted on a female PI from one of those companies that claims they will discreetly determine whether somebody’s spouse is cheating on them. He didn’t want to meet here. He had me set up the appointment away from the office.”
“Sounds downright mysterious,” I said. “Why a female PI, and why not meet right here in the privacy of his own office?”
“To your first question, I think he was just more comfortable discussing the problem with a woman. Arnold could be a painfully shy man. To some degree, I think he found this entire incident embarrassing and humiliating. Meeting away from the office provided more anonymity, something I’m certain he wanted.”
“We’re going to need the contact information on the PI,” said Kate.
“I’ve got that right here.” She reached across the table and handed me a slip of paper. On it, she’d written, Susan Fleming & Associates, 590 South, 600 East, Salt Lake City, and a phone number. I didn’t recognize the firm.
“Did Arnold ever tell you what he learned from Susan Fleming & Associates?” I asked.
“That’s the funny part, and oh, so very Arnold. Not only did he not tell me what he learned, he didn’t even bother to tell me whether he hired Ms. Fleming. Never said another word about it.”
“And you asked him?”
“I did, twice actually. He changed the subject both times.”
I turned to Kate. “Did your search of his office turn up anything from a PI firm?”
She shook her head.
I looked around the office. “It looks like you’ve been packing some of Arnold’s things.”
She nodded.
“Have you seen any correspondence from Susan Fleming & Associates or any other PI firm?”
“Not a thing and trust me, I’ve been looking.”
Kate wasn’t quite finished. “Did Mr.Ginsberg ever tell you whether he had provided financially for Mr. Plow in the event something happened to him?”
“If you mean an inheritance, I wouldn’t be surprised, but I don’t know for sure. Arnold and I never spoke about it.”
“What makes you think he did?”
“Because Arnold was a very generous man. He donated significant dollars to a variety of charitable groups. I know that because I wrote many of the checks.”
“So you think because Arnold donated money to various charities that he wouldn’t have overlooked Ro
dney, is that what you’re saying?”
“Something like that, yes. Arnold had a lot of friends in the travel industry. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he left small, cash gifts to many of them in his will. He was just that kind of man. If I’m right about that, it would hardly be surprising if he left some part of his estate to Rodney.”
“Given his suspicions about Rodney, do you think in the last weeks of his life he might have been considering changes to his estate?”
“I don’t know about that. You’d better speak to Greg Samuelson. I did give you his number, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
***
On our way down the elevator, Kate said, “What do you make of the PI thing?”
“I think we’ve got a PI firm that ought to be our next stop.”
“I agree. And depending on what we learn, it might be time to serve a court order on Smith, Samuelson, and Wood.”
Chapter Twenty
The office of Susan Fleming & Associates was located a short distance from downtown in an old house that had probably been built in the boom shortly after World War II. It was a red brick, two story affair with a make-shift wooden sign over the front door that read: Fleming & Associates – Investigative Services.
We pulled into the driveway and parked behind a late model Lexus. Kate and I glanced at each other. “PI business must be pretty good,” I mused.
“Ever hear of Susan Fleming?”
“Can’t say that I have, you?”
“Me neither.”
“Assuming Ginsberg hired her, I think it’s a little odd that she hasn’t called you.”
“Even if he didn’t hire her, you’d think she might have contacted us. Maybe she doesn’t read or listen to the news.”
“Let’s go find out.”
A buzzer sounded as we opened the front door announcing our presence. The living room served as the business office. Two oak desks with high-back leather chairs faced each other from opposite corners of the room. A rectangular shaped Persian rug in the center partially covered reconditioned, hardwood floors. A female voice from somewhere in the back of the house said, “Please have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
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