Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I slipped around the corner and scanned the crowds at the one-armed bandits. Standing next to an avid middle-aged gambler was an attractive teary-eyed young woman. I approached her and, after a hasty bit of chitchat, learned that she had blown her daily allowance. I offered her twenty bucks if she would ask the elevator guard to guide her to the gift shops. The layout of the casino was a maze; getting lost wasn’t out of the question. The woman assessed me warily, but I could tell she was hungry to have another go at the slots.

  With money in her pocket, she approached the guard and toyed with her hair. She said something to him. The guard blushed and soon after guided her away from the bank of elevators.

  I slipped into the penthouse elevator and pressed the appropriate security code. The ride upward was interminable.

  As I reached for the doorknob to Finn Ambrose’s suite, the door opened and a group of Placer County Sheriff’s Office technicians marched out, the female with rust-red hair in the lead. None seemed happy.

  I stepped into the penthouse foyer and spied Jules standing in profile in the kitchen, the door wedged open. Her makeup was minimal, her hair barely combed. She was pouring a drink. Her lower lip was quivering. I inched toward the living room where Nick faced Finn Ambrose’s lawyer—Hawk Nose. Hernandez mirrored Nick’s defiant stance. The Placer County district attorney, a dapper guy with a pencil-thin mustache, stood on Nick’s left. Finn, sitting on the couch, poked at his teeth with a toothpick. Sorcha McRae was nowhere in sight. Did she know what was going down? Had she quit her job?

  “You have nothing, Detective.” Hawk Nose glowered with unbridled resentment. “No evidence whatsoever. You’re done here. Please leave.”

  The DA conferred with Nick. After a long moment, he said, “I’m sorry to have put you out, Mr. Ambrose.”

  Finn Ambrose grinned like he had won a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  I itched to blurt what I’d learned, but I owed it to Nick to follow decorum. I waited, tapping my fingers on my thigh. Nick registered my presence but kept his attention focused on the attorney.

  “This was an invasion,” Hawk Nose said. “A social injustice, which caused damage to my client’s character and to his business.”

  “Don’t blow this out of proportion,” the DA warned.

  Hawk Nose snapped his briefcase shut. “As for you, Detective Sergeant Shaper, may our paths never cross again.”

  When he swept past me, I got a whiff of Aqua Velva. Cheap stuff for a seven-figure guy.

  The DA followed him into the hallway, but I remained rooted to my spot.

  Nick, who looked better than when I’d seen him last, drew near.

  “What went down?” I whispered.

  “The arrowhead collection is intact. There is no brown horsehair rug, therefore, no fibers matching those at the crime scene. All of the service vehicles have been scoured for trace evidence. Zip. We struck out. We’ve gathered more trace evidence at the cave site,” Nick went on, “but nothing conclusive until the lab reports are completed. No DNA other than Laila’s in the canteen. Why are you here?”

  “I’ve got proof Ambrose’s ex-wife, Lana Vogel, died two years ago, possibly from abuse. She was twenty-eight weeks pregnant by insemination. Dr. Fisher was her doctor when she was based in Reno.” I held up the file.

  Nick took it and opened it. I directed him to the doctor’s notations. He read them. His eyes widened. “Why would Ambrose lash out now?”

  “Gloria looks a lot like Lana Vogel. I think he became fixated on her. When Gloria featured Dr. Fisher on her show, Ambrose caught the segment and something snapped. Maybe he felt the need to protect Gloria from the doctor because he blamed the doctor, not himself, for his wife’s death. After the first kill, the rampage started. He—”

  I stopped short. Pivoted. “No. I’m wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Tripp.”

  On the day of his father’s interview, Camille had sent Tripp to fetch her stopwatch from her office. He could have taken the piece of smudged paper used to write the third note. He could have borrowed Camille’s credit card information and ordered flowers. Tripp told Candace he had an older girlfriend. What if Tripp was the one who had become fixated on Gloria because she reminded him of his mother?

  Had Tripp learned his mother was pregnant with another baby? Had her pregnancy made him feel insufficient? Did he abuse her and cause her death? He’d turned to alcohol two years ago. Did he hope by killing Dr. Fisher he could expunge himself of his wickedness?

  Tripp was on the set when Gloria had interviewed his father. He learned from Candace that I was a private investigator. Soon after, Cinder was hurt. Candace had let slip that we lived near Homewood. Had she given him the exact address? Had Tripp hurt the dog to scare me so I wouldn’t dig deeper? The night he dropped by the cabin to deliver the lamp, Cinder had snarled at him.

  When I’d come to the penthouse to meet with Finn, I recalled Tripp slipping in. He’d heard me talking to Jules about the flowers. Had he sent them to Gloria? Did he think I’d figured out he was the killer? Minutes later, the elevator plummeted.

  If Camille realized that Tripp had used her credit card to order flowers, she might have asked him to come to her house to discuss it.

  As for Laila, it was possible Tripp was a member of a caving group. He’d joked about looking like an albino bat. Maybe Tripp and a group of other cavers ran into Laila that morning. Seeing him triggered her memory—he was the one who had hired her—so she left me a message. Unfortunately, he overheard her.

  “Mr. Ambrose,” I said. “Where’s your son?”

  Finn Ambrose folded his arms across his chest. “No comment.”

  “I’m not a reporter, sir.” I exited the penthouse suite and scanned the hallway. There was one other unit on the floor. Did Tripp live there? He had been wearing pajama bottoms when he’d interrupted Jules and me.

  Ignoring Nick and Finn’s shouts, I charged ahead, speeding past the DA and the attorney, who were queued up waiting for the elevator. I pounded on the door to the unit. No one answered. “Does Tripp live here?” I yelled.

  Nick hurried to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Tripp is left-handed.” When Candace had asked him to autograph the lamp he’d brought her, he’d used his left hand. I turned the knob. The door swung open.

  Let’s hear it for the rich and neglectful.

  “Don’t enter that apartment, young lady,” the lawyer ordered.

  I didn’t, but I peeked inside and hooted. In plain view, a brown-and-white pinto rug lay on the entry floor. Then I saw something on a side table to the right that made my insides snag—a pink-striped cross-body purse. I pointed. “Nick. That’s Candace’s purse.”

  He gazed past me. “Are you sure?”

  “See the cat charm on the loop? Positive. Candace, are you here? Candace!”

  Silence.

  I noticed other items next to the purse and my heart wrenched: Zorro’s dog collar; Laila’s bandanna; Dr. Fisher’s diamond necklace. Tripp had kept mementos of his kills.

  “Candace!” I shouted and clasped Nick’s arm in panic.

  “Where is she, Mr. Ambrose?” he asked.

  “Who?” Finn’s jaw was set.

  “Candace Adams. Aspen’s niece.”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  Nick said to the lawyer, “A missing girl is probable cause for me to enter.”

  “And the horsehair rug,” I stated. “It’s in plain view.”

  The attorney’s face flushed with indignation. “You have no right.”

  “We have a warrant.”

  “For Mr. Ambrose’s premises.”

  “For the entire building. Read the warrant again.”

  Nick forged ahead, searching left and right while calling Candace’s name.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and speed-dialed Candace. A phone jangled. In the purse. Meaning Candace didn’t have it on her.

  “She’s not here,” Nick said, returning t
o the foyer. He stormed into the hall. “Where is she, Ambrose?”

  “You knew your son was a murderer,” I said. “That’s why you covered for him with those ridiculous Alcoholic Anonymous alibis.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Finn shouted.

  “Your son owns a brown horsehair rug, sir,” Nick said. “Horsehair evidence has been found at the scenes of the crimes. I repeat, where is he?”

  “For heaven’s sake.” Jules burst into the hall, a glass of wine in hand. “Tripp is at school. Lake Tahoe Community College.”

  “That’s enough!” Finn took a menacing step toward her. She cowered. Finn turned to Nick. “Detective, my son is innocent. He attends classes and works for me at the casino. He has zero time to get into trouble.”

  Nick put Hernandez in charge of the warrant proceedings and then addressed the lawyer. “We will find Tripp Ambrose and sort this out. Neither you nor your client nor anyone in his employ is allowed to warn the boy. Have I made myself clear?”

  Chapter 45

  A handful of cars were blocking Nick’s Wrangler at the entryway to the casino.

  “Follow me,” I yelled. “I’m in the self-park lot.”

  We raced to my Jeep and scrambled inside. Nick secured his seat belt and, using his cell phone, dialed Kendra King. He gave her the rundown and asked her to bring backup to the community college.

  Driving south on Highway 50 with traffic moving at a nice clip, I said, “Remember how I told you Tripp brought a lamp to the house? He used medical tubes to encase the wiring for the lamp.”

  Nick frowned. “I’m not following.”

  “I saw Heather Bogart at Truckee Hospital, and she said her architecture teacher had signed her in. Tripp is taking architecture at the junior college. There might be no record of him visiting Truckee Hospital if, say, his class went on a field trip there. He could have slipped in and stolen a scalpel.”

  “That would only link the kid to Dr. Fisher’s murder.” Nick rubbed his neck. “Why kill Tony Vittorio?”

  “To avenge his father. He killed Tejeda because he believed her exchange with Gloria would get Gloria in trouble. Remember I told you he and his father were outside the studio that day. As for Camille, he killed her because he saw the letter in her office that she was going to fire Gloria. Either that, or Camille realized he’d used her credit card and she called him on it. As for Laila, he’d hired her to deliver a note to Gloria; he murdered her because she recognized him.”

  My cell phone rang. Anonymous caller. I answered anyway.

  “Aunt Aspen,” Candace cried. “I’m so sorry. I lied to you. I didn’t go shopping with Waverly.”

  “Where are you?” I could barely breathe.

  “At the Summit.”

  Where she was supposed to be.

  “My mom called back while you were putting on makeup. She said she was coming to Tahoe City today no matter what. I . . . I didn’t want to see her, so I made up the story about Waverly.” She whimpered. “When you left, I phoned Tripp. He told me he’d be my wheels whenever I asked.”

  I moaned. Boy, had I botched things. “Are you with Tripp now?”

  “No. He dropped me off here, and I didn’t realize until just now that I left my purse in his car, and my cell phone—”

  “Is in your purse.”

  “Uh-huh. So I went to the security office and they let me call you.”

  The steel bands holding my lungs in check released. She was safe. “Stay there. Don’t budge. I’ll have Max come get you.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “We’ll discuss this when I get home.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m with Nick. We’re looking for Tripp.”

  “About him.” Her voice cracked. “Um, remember how he said he had an older girlfriend? I think it might be Gloria Morning. He couldn’t stop talking about her all the way here. He said he was going to do something really fun with her after he left me. I didn’t like the way he said fun.”

  I thanked Candace, told her to stay put, stabbed End, and turned to Nick. His jaw was ticking.

  “Gloria called in sick this morning. What if Tripp kidnapped her?”

  “I’m on it.” While he contacted Detective King, I rang my aunt and told her about Candace’s situation.

  • • •

  Before the Y, I turned left toward Lake Tahoe Community College. The school was set on wooded grounds. We parked and made a beeline for the Admissions Building.

  A curly-haired seventy-something receptionist sitting behind a desk lowered her romance novel and studied us over bifocals. “Yes?”

  “We’re trying to locate a student,” I said. “Tripp Ambrose.”

  “Tripp. Such a sweet boy.” The woman dog-eared her book. “Very industrious. Works two days a week in the file room to make money so he can buy art supplies.”

  “Is he here now?” Nick asked.

  “Yes.”

  I squeezed Nick’s arm. We had him.

  “He brought that pretty girl with him,” she added. “The reporter.”

  To the receptionist, I supposed Gloria might seem like a girl.

  “She was quite pale, like she was under the weather, poor thing.”

  Gloria had taken an Ambien last night. Had Tripp dosed her with another one so he could manipulate her?

  “Where will we find him?” Nick asked. He had yet to show his badge.

  “Where he always is when he’s not filing. In the art department. I heard him tell his date he’s working on a ceramics project today.”

  We turned to leave.

  The woman cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Hold it right there.”

  Nick and I pivoted.

  She tapped a large tome on her desk and held up a ballpoint pen. “All visitors need to sign in and wear one of these.” She pointed to a basket filled with LTCC buttons. “Helps avoid crime.”

  After we signed the roster and donned a button, she gave us directions to the art classroom, which was located in the S Building.

  We raced to it. I peered into classroom windows and stopped at one. “Nick, I think this is it.”

  Bags of red clay sat on the counters. Statues, both elegant and crude, stood on display tables around the room. Half a dozen kilns lined the far wall. A youngish man about Tripp’s build and coloring was washing his hands at a sink, his back to us. I didn’t see Gloria.

  Nick opened the door, and the young man turned. It wasn’t Tripp. Nick released the door and hurried ahead.

  I grabbed the handle before the door closed and said to the young man, “Have you seen Tripp Ambrose?”

  “Yeah, a few minutes ago. He went to the machine shop.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “If you came from Admissions, it’s back the same way and down the inner hall to the left. S-119.” The guy pointed. “However, there’s a shortcut if you go that way.” He flung his other arm in the opposite direction, reminding me of the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz when giving Dorothy directions.

  I thanked him and searched for Nick, but he’d disappeared. Reluctant to lose a second of time, I made a U-turn and took the shortcut. I located a classroom marked Machine Shop, S-119. The door was solid with no windows. I heard something inside the room rumbling like a drier filled with rocks. I twisted the knob. The door stuck, but the handle wasn’t locked, so I tried again.

  The heavy door whipped open and bits of tin billowed in front of me. As I shaded my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, I flashed on the evening when Tripp had come to our house with the lamp. His tennis shoes had been dirty. Did they have bits of metal stuck in the soles? Metal like the evidence tracked into Camille’s house or other crime scenes?

  I yelled, “Nick! Over here. 119.” I stepped inside.

  Boxes marked Metal Scraps sat on shelves. Sculpting tools were laid out uniformly on trays on the counters. On the opposite side of the room, more than a dozen blades, which could be fitted into any of the cutting machines, hung on hooks affixed
to a perforated board. Beneath that was a counter filled with more tools. Art samples were displayed inside glass cases.

  “Nick!” I yelled again.

  Someone moaned. I turned to my right and spied Gloria behind the door, tied to a chair, her mouth gagged. Her eyes were closed; her head lolled to the side.

  I made a move toward her but someone from behind shoved me deeper into the room, and the door slammed with a clank.

  Chapter 46

  “You!” Tripp hissed at me. His gaze was wild. Steely.

  Years of counseling advice replayed in my head: Keep the patient invested in the conversation. Never lose eye contact.

  Tripp reminded me of many of the teens I’d counseled at BARC: wary, primitive, and troubled. What had he suffered in his young life? In his left hand, he wielded a self-made weapon, its handle like the grip of a bicycle, its blade the shape of an elongated arrowhead. Had he used it on Laila?

  “Hi, Tripp,” I said as calmly as I could, although my heart was jackhammering my rib cage and I was breathing high in my chest. Too high. If I weren’t careful, I’d pass out.

  “A little off the b-beaten path, aren’t you?”

  “Why did you bring Gloria here?” I asked. “Do you intend to kill her?”

  “No. I’m going to take her home and take care of her. I brought her here to show her what I do. I want her to be proud of her boy.”

  I moaned inwardly. Did Gloria represent his mother now? Was he suffering a classic case of transference? “She looks tired,” I said calmly, though my heart was hammering my chest. “We should find somewhere for her to lie down.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’m here with Detective Sergeant Shaper, Tripp. Did you meet him?” I positioned my arms in front of me. It wasn’t an overtly defensive stance—I didn’t want to threaten him—but I was ready to strike if he attacked. “He wants to ask you questions about the murders. In regard to your father. Would that be okay?”