by T. R. Ragan
“This is crazy.”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“No, I’m not. First, I said that you were crazy. Now I’m saying that what you are doing is crazy.”
“Thanks for the clarification.”
Jessica gritted her teeth. “I’ll take you to the shelter and I’ll wait for you outside.”
“After the shelter, I’m going to Rancho Cordova.”
The sound that emerged from Jessica’s throat sounded a lot like a growl.
Hayley tried not to laugh.
“What’s going on in Rancho Cordova?”
“I’ve been doing some research on Adele Hampton, the girl who was given up for adoption eighteen years ago.”
“Did you find her?”
“Not yet. According to the receipts in the file, she visited quite a few shops, all within a few blocks of one another. I want to show her picture around and find out if anyone recognizes her.”
Hayley expected flack, was surprised when she got a regular question instead.
“Do you think she might still live in the area?”
“I do.”
“That wouldn’t make sense, would it?” Jessica asked. “I mean, why would the girl stay in that city unless she wanted to be found?”
“Maybe she never thought anybody would ever bother to look for her.”
For five blessed minutes, it was quiet, until Jessica thought of something else she wanted to chat about.
“I have another problem I was hoping you could help me with.”
Hayley looked at Jessica’s profile and waited.
“I’m supposed to meet Magnus, the guy I told you about, for coffee tomorrow. I have no idea if can trust him, but I need to at least try to find out what he’s up to.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“After I meet with him, I’d like to find out where he goes next, but I can’t follow him myself because he knows what car I drive and this car of mine is hard to miss.”
“I’ll talk to Tommy—see if he can follow him.”
“You would do that?”
“I just said I would, didn’t I?”
CHAPTER 19
If I could dig up my mother’s grave, I’d take out her bones and kill her again.
—Joseph Fischer
Sacramento
Monday, May 28, 2012
Eli Simpson sat in his dad’s old Buick and stared at the house where he was sure his sister had died. His heart no longer raced out of control when he visited. He was empty. Well, not entirely empty. His insides felt bleak, maybe even ominous.
It was dark out tonight, but it didn’t matter because he’d been here often enough to know what the house looked like, even in the dark. The house was 1,400 square feet, give or take. It was old and neglected. The cracked path leading to the door, the dead lawn, and the oak with arthritic branches emphasized its decay.
He rolled his head from the right to the left, hoping to get the kinks out. He’d been sitting in the same position for over an hour. Although he had yet to see any movement inside the house, the kitchen light was on.
He couldn’t recall a time in the past five years when John Robinson might have had a visitor, which made sense since killers were not human beings. They were monsters.
Exhausted from a long day at work, he leaned his head on the headrest and shut his eyes. Visions of his sister popped into his mind—smiling, of course. Rochelle didn’t know how not to smile. He was her older brother, but only by ten months. He and Rochelle had always had a special connection, the same sort of connection people often talked about twins having.
Five years ago, when Rochelle first brought John Robinson home to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner, he’d known straight off that she was just being nice. Bringing the guy home was like bringing home a stray cat. Rochelle felt sorry for him. She probably thought she could feed him and give him some attention and he’d be a better person for it.
Compassionate—that was his sister in a nutshell, compassionate and caring. She was a true angel, one of those unique individuals who made a difference simply by existing. People wanted to be near her. Not only was she a great listener, she made everybody feel important.
The darkened street was suddenly lit up by twin headlights.
Sinking lower into the seat, he saw the garage next door to the house he was watching creak open, crying out in a slow eerie wail as if it were dying like the rest of the shit neighborhood. A woman with dirty-blonde, shoulder-length hair sat behind the wheel. The garage was tidy and neat. He couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had ever met the killer next door. He’d knocked on her door once or twice, hoping to ask a few questions, but she never answered.
The neighborhood was like a ghost town. Maybe most of Robinson’s neighbors were dead, stuffed in the attic or in an old freezer. As the garage door closed, he looked around again, his gaze stopping to focus on the house belonging to Claire Schultz, the only person who had ever allowed him inside their house. He had talked to her five years ago, in those dark months after Rochelle disappeared.
He’d shown the elderly woman a picture of his sister, and the look of surprise on Claire’s face had told him she knew something. She’d even proceeded to tell him what she’d seen the night John Robinson brought home a girl—the same girl in the picture.
Eli had asked her if she would talk to the police, tell them what she’d seen. She had agreed. And he’d been sure he would be able to prove that John Robinson had something to do with his sister’s disappearance. He thought he had a witness.
Eli shook his head at the remembrance. By the time the police finally talked to her, Claire changed her story and said she didn’t recognize the girl in the picture. Claire Schultz was suddenly adamant about the fact that she didn’t know anything at all about the missing girl. She told the police she didn’t recall one damn thing about the night John Robinson brought a girl home—the night she’d told Eli that she’d watched as John slammed a hand through a window and choked a woman. She claimed her memories had been foggy since her fall. She told the police all about her broken hip and how she’d spent longer than most recovering from surgery.
Somewhere between his talk with Claire and the police finally getting off their asses, she’d changed her story.
Why? What had John Robinson said or done to her to make her clam up like that?
Sacramento
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Yesterday, after the EMT had finished looking at Lizzy, she had followed the ambulance to the hospital, where an elderly doctor had checked her out: no X-ray or CT scan was needed. Her nose had stopped bleeding and it wasn’t broken. The doctor recommended ibuprofen, ice, and a nasal decongestant. Bruised and battered, she had been sent on her way. Lizzy had decided not to tell Jared about the incident in the park. She would tell him when he returned home at the end of the week. Overwhelmed and too exhausted to make a police report, she’d turned off her cell and gone straight to bed.
It was now Tuesday morning and Hayley was still sleeping, so Lizzy left her alone.
She climbed into her car. A peek into the rearview mirror confirmed that most of her face was black and blue. She looked like roadkill, but the bruises looked worse than they felt as she drove to the Sacramento police department. She wished she could say the same for her body. Every bone ached, every muscle was sore.
Lieutenant Greer was out for the day, which meant she would receive no preferential treatment today. Upon arriving at the station, she filled out a report about the incident in the park, and then she was led through a sea of desks to an empty chair in front of Detective Mark Goldberg’s desk. Her head was throbbing again, but since she was here, she wanted to see if they had learned anything about the driver of the truck who had hit her car.
As she waited for Detective Goldberg to finish with a call, she overheard a disgruntled man talking about his dead sister. The voice was familiar. The man was angry and he was talking loudly enough to be heard by anyone
who was inclined to listen.
Taking a peek over her shoulder, her breath hitched when she saw that it was Eli Simpson, the same man who had caught her peeking in the front window of his house.
None of the other detectives or officers sitting at their desks appeared to pay him any mind, as if they’d heard it a million times before. The officer assigned to listen to Mr. Simpson seemed to be merely going through the motions, nodding his head as he shuffled papers on his desk.
She turned away, hoping Mr. Simpson wouldn’t notice her, suppressing a cringe when she heard him relay the story about catching a woman looking through his window at his home. According to his neighbors, he said, the Peeping Tom had been trolling his house for days. He was certain that his sister’s murderer had put the woman up to it. Mr. Simpson wanted the police to set up camp in front of his house; he wanted protection for him and his dad.
Before she could decide whether or not she should go over there and set Eli Simpson straight, Detective Goldberg hung up the phone.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Looks like you’ve had a rough week,” he added, gesturing toward her face.
“I was attacked in the park yesterday morning. It’s all in the file,” she said, “but I thought since I was here I would check on another incident. About two weeks ago, a truck deliberately hit my car—more than once. I filled out a report, and there were half a dozen witnesses who did the same. I was hoping you could give me an update as to whether or not the truck has been located.”
He examined her closely, probably wondering how one woman could get into that much trouble. “Do you have the case number?”
She gave him the number as he typed the info into the computer. “The system is a little slow today, but if we’re patient, this shouldn’t take long.”
“That man over there,” Lizzy said, gesturing toward Eli Simpson, “I couldn’t help but overhear him talking about his sister. Is it true? Was she murdered?”
“As of today, she’s listed as a missing person. Been missing for five years now.” He straightened his spine and rolled his neck to get the kinks out. “Eli Simpson comes in here every month, rain or shine, to get an update.”
“Why does he think she was murdered?”
“His sister used to date a man he wasn’t fond of. She disappeared and Simpson is convinced his sister’s boyfriend had something to do with her disappearance.”
“Coming here month after month for five years…that’s a long time…could he be telling the truth?”
Goldberg shook his head as he reorganized files and papers on top of his cluttered desk. “We’ve been inside the accused man’s house on more than one occasion. The house is clean. That guy over there has also been inside the man’s house, which is why there’s a restraining order against him.”
“What’s the boyfriend’s name?”
“I can’t tell you that, ma’am. In fact, I’ve said too much as it is. And look here,” he said, squinting his eyes at the computer screen. “The truck that hit you was reported missing on the same day as the incident.”
“And it’s still missing?”
He nodded, still looking at the screen, his fingers clacking away at the keyboard. “Afraid so.” He turned the screen in her direction. “Is all of your personal information up to date?”
Nothing had changed since she made the report, so she nodded her head.
“Well, then, is there anything else I can do for you? I made a note that you were here to inquire as to the status of your case. If we hear anything, we’ll give you a call.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Eli Simpson’s tone increased another octave as he ranted about the entire police department being incompetent. Hoping to escape before he noticed her, Lizzy stood, thanked Detective Goldberg for his help, and headed for the door.
By the time Lizzy returned to her car, she’d changed her mind about avoiding Simpson and even decided to wait for him. She didn’t have to wait long.
“It’s you,” he said as he made his way through the parking lot and spotted her leaning against her car. “What happened to your face? No, never mind, don’t tell me. You were snooping around somebody’s backyard and you went and pulled out your gun.”
“No, actually, I was attacked in the park yesterday.”
“Maybe you should go home and put some ice on that face of yours.”
Before she could say another word, he narrowed his eyes and said, “What are you doing here, anyway? Are you still following me?”
“I realize it must look bad, but actually I was checking up on a personal matter.”
“You won’t get any help in there. Too many tax dollars being wasted inside that building.”
“I was talking with Detective Goldberg when I heard you talking about your sister.”
He didn’t respond. He just kept walking.
Lizzy followed him across the parking lot, trying her damnedest not to limp since one side of her body felt like Bruce Lee had used it as a punching bag. Before opening the door to his truck, he turned and pointed his keys at her. “What do you want, lady?”
“Like I said, I heard you talking to the officer in there. You don’t believe I was hired by Michael and Jennifer Dalton?”
He snorted.
“After I left your house,” Lizzy continued, “I thought about who might have used your name to apply for workers’ compensation. Whoever it is might be using your name for all sorts of illegal dealings.”
“And?”
“And you don’t care?”
“Listen,” he said, clearly frustrated, the veins in his forehead suddenly accentuated as he spoke, “I know exactly who’s using my name—the same guy who has been fucking with me for years. The same guy who I bet hired a private eye who’s this close”—he squeezed his fingers together for emphasis—“to prematurely firing her gun and losing her license for good.”
Lizzy sighed.
“I guess what I’m really wondering, Lizzy Gardner, is why you would care at all.”
“Like I’ve been telling you from the start, I’m just doing my job. I was hired and paid to find out if Eli Simpson was injured on the job. If not, I need proof, and then I need to let the insurance company know they don’t have to pay. That makes them happy and it makes me happy, especially when I stamp the file CLOSED and move on to the next asshole who’s trying to work the system. I already told you who hired me to watch you, and I really don’t understand what the big deal is. If you give me the name of the man who you believe is impersonating you, then I can watch him instead of you. It’s a win-win for you and me, Mr. Simpson.”
Eli Simpson relaxed a little, but he seemed to be doing a lot of thinking, which didn’t make any sense to Lizzy.
She tried once more. “Can you just give me his name?”
“Whose name?”
“The name of the man you think had something to do with your sister’s disappearance.”
“How much did Goldberg tell you?”
“Not much.”
“Well, the man in question didn’t take her, he killed her.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Nope.”
“OK, but you think he was the one who used your name on the workers’ comp claim?”
“No doubt in my mind.”
“If you give me his name, maybe I can help you, too.”
“And how would you propose to do that?”
“You’re not allowed to go near the man, right?”
“Is that what Goldberg told you?”
Damn. Eli Simpson was as stubborn as an ox. “Is there a restraining order against you, or not?”
He crossed his arms, but didn’t answer the question. “So what is it you think you can do for me?” he asked.
“I could watch the man’s house.”
“I’m already doing that.”
“What about the restraining order?”
“What about it? I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”
She sighed. “If he is the same man who is using your name, he could be arrested for fraud.”
Eli said nothing.
“I just need the man’s name and address so I can do my own investigation. Workers’ comp fraud is a huge crime in America. Billions of dollars are paid out in false claims every year. Scams like this are draining business profits and costing honest workers their jobs. I take my job seriously, Mr. Simpson, and I like to think that taking one bastard down at a time actually makes a difference.”
His eyes were intense as he stared down at her, making her uncomfortable. “If I give you his name, what’s in it for me?”
“I’m an investigator, remember? If you give me the man’s name and provide me with information about your sister—date of birth and Social Security number—I could do an investigation on the man you believe is screwing with you and see what comes up. No charge.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She nodded. “Have you hired an investigator in the past?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already know who took her.”
Lizzy tried not to grit her teeth. No wonder the police all but ignored him. “You give me the name and I’ll help you search for your sister. I would need to ask you some questions, find out if she has any identifying marks, like tattoos or piercings, who were her closest friends, did she have a cell phone or a pager before she—”
“She’s dead.”
Lizzy inhaled. “How do you know?”
“She would have called or come home if she wasn’t.”
“Well, then, in that case, if you can tell me everything you know about this man who you believe might have stolen your identity, I can get my people on it and we can put that fucking killer behind bars once and for all.”
“Now you’re talking, honey. Now you’re talking.”
Shady Coffee & Tea
Roseville
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
“I like you,” Magnus told Jessica within ten minutes of arriving at the coffee shop. He sat across from her, one hand on top of the other. “I’d love to take you out on a date.”