I tossed and turned, finally deciding to go into the living room again before I woke Greg. The ever-hopeful Wainwright followed me. Plopping down on the sofa, I pulled an afghan over me and opened a book. I read a few pages but couldn’t concentrate. My skin was crawling. Termites of doubt and anxiety chewed away at me, relentless in their damage to my nerves.
I kept going over everything I’d done, heard, and learned today. It had been a busy day, with lots of new faces and information, feeling more like five days squeezed into the past eighteen hours. There was something I’d missed—something I needed to revisit, like a movie that is so complicated you need to see it a few times before finally comprehending the plot. I kept telling myself to sleep—that it would come to me in the morning when my brain was rested and not so crowded. But, like most of my body parts, it wouldn’t listen. Instead, it nagged at me, flaunting that ghostlike piece of half-remembered information like a hooker strolling in front of a prison yard.
Casting off the afghan, I stood and started touching my toes. Up. Down. Up. Down. From his position on the floor, Wainwright stared at me like I’d lost my mind. Then I started in on lunges and arm twirls. I needed to wear myself out and clear my mind. If they weren’t so noisy, I’d be doing jumping jacks. Since I don’t exercise much outside of walking, I figured I’d be pooped in no time.
No such luck.
Huffing and puffing, I threw myself back down on the sofa. We’d have Lily tomorrow and she’d wear me out, but I needed that relief now. I considered hitting the liquor cabinet or, at the very least, taking a shot or two of NyQuil. Instead, I closed my eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, concentrating on fluffy clouds and soft kittens and raindrops on roses and all the other junk Julie Andrews sings about.
It worked, at least sort of. I felt my body relax and my head loll against one of the sofa pillows. Finally. Sleep couldn’t be too far behind. I smiled to myself as my mind organized my thoughts and put them all way, each in their own little cubby, until later.
All but one.
It stood there inside my head like the last kid picked for kickball. Looking for attention, it waved at me. Yoo-hoo, remember me?
I bolted straight up, my eyes wide, my brain on turbo, but instead of many ideas buzzing around inside my head, there was only one: Erica might still be in the area. She didn’t say she was leaving town, and no one said she’d told them she was leaving. We all assumed it when we couldn’t reach her.
My brain rewound until it came back to my visit to Erica’s house and my encounter with Racel Barlongo. I’d heard a noise in Erica’s closet when I was snooping, I was sure of it. And Racel had taken a long time to come to the door. She could have been helping Erica hide. The call to Alyce looking for Erica could have been a ruse, along with telling me Erica hadn’t paid her. I wished that I’d been able to look in the garage to see if Erica’s car was there.
I let out another deep sigh. Finally I had cracked what had been bothering me. Maybe now I could get some sleep and head back over to Erica’s in the morning to investigate. Greg and I could go there before we picked up Lily.
I was halfway to the bedroom when another thought hit like a slap. By morning Erica could be gone off somewhere or in hiding again. What I needed was the element of surprise. I had to catch her off guard when no one else was there to give her time to hide. I had to go there now.
Slipping back into the bedroom, I grabbed the jeans I’d worn to the party off the chair where I’d tossed them. Greg moaned and changed positions. I froze. He’d have a shit fit if he knew what I was up to, but I didn’t want to wake him and ask him to come along. He needed to sleep off his buzz. With no traffic, I could get down to Newport Beach, check it out, and be back in no time. If Erica wasn’t there, it would be a quick in-and-out. If she was … well, I’d cross that bridge when I got there.
Back in the living room, I pulled on my jeans, then snarled quietly when I realized I needed to go back into the bedroom for a bra and top. That would mean possibly waking Greg. I thought about checking the dirty laundry, but it was in our bathroom, just off the bedroom. Not to mention every time I went into the bedroom Wainwright followed me, his dog tags jingling in the silence and his toenails tapping on our hardwood floors like Gregory Hines doing a dance routine.
Giving up on the idea of dressing properly, I tucked my nightgown into my jeans. It gave me a bulky, diapered look around my butt, but this was not the time to be fussy. I stuck my feet into the old sneakers I kept by the back door and grabbed my jacket off the hook above it. As I slipped into it, I realized it wasn’t going to work. The jacket was bulky and sometimes made noise when I moved. I sloughed it off and grabbed the gray fleece hoodie on the peg next to it. It had stopped raining earlier, and I was mostly going to be in the car. The hoodie would have to do. I thought about snagging my cell phone, but that was a lost cause. It was in the bedroom, and it was dead.
Wainwright stood at attention, waiting for the signal we were heading out for our morning walk. It didn’t matter to him that it was still pitch-black outside. When I didn’t grab his leash, he let out a low whine.
“Shh,” I whispered to the animal. Tiptoeing to a low cabinet, I opened it and pulled a few Snausages from a box. Wainwright’s tail wagged with enthusiasm.
“Here, boy,” I whispered, holding out my hand. The happy dog gobbled them up. Then I pointed to his thick, pillowy bed set where the living and dining room areas met. “Go to your bed,” I commanded in a hushed voice. The animal looked at me with great disappointment. “Go on,” I urged. The obedient, loyal dog, his big yellow head lowered, made his way to the bed and lay down with a heaviness that just about broke my heart.
I made it from Seal Beach to Newport Beach in record time, thanks to the lateness of the evening. As I expected, the streets in Erica’s neighborhood were dead. Except for security lighting, most of the houses were dark, but every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of a light in one of them—maybe someone with insomnia like me. I made my way to Ceiba Place but didn’t turn onto the cul-de-sac. Instead, I turned around and parked on the street that intersected it, heading back out of the development. If Erica was home, I didn’t want to alert her to my presence by driving up to her house.
The damp chill of the night penetrated the hoodie and my nightgown as I walked the short block to Erica’s house. I stuck my hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt and shivered as I scurried along soundlessly on my sneakers, keeping as much as possible to the shadows.
There was definitely a light on inside Erica’s house, and it was too bright to be a night light. It shone through the closed blinds of two large corner windows as a testament to my theory that Erica hadn’t gone anywhere. One window faced the street; the other, the neighbor to the left. I tried to remember the layout of the house to get an idea of which room this light might be in. My recollection was that the living room was in the back, same as at Connie’s house, so that it looked out onto the patio. The kitchen was in that direction also and off to the right. That should make these windows part of the master bedroom.
Light also shone through the frosty narrow windows that framed the front door. I halted to study the bright glow, then looked back at the location of the bedroom windows. Lights had to also be on in the living room or the foyer for it to be this bright by the door. I could also hear music through the door. Someone had to be home and definitely was not in bed.
Should I knock softly or ring the bell? If I did, Erica might shut off all the lights and pretend she wasn’t home. She might also call the police. The element of surprise might be best, providing she didn’t keep a gun in the house. Then the surprise would be on me. It also crossed my mind that I should have brought along my pepper spray. When I was here this morning, I hadn’t noticed an alarm system, but I hadn’t been looking for it. And the keypad could have been by the back door that led to the garage. That’s where I’d seen it at the Holts’. In the end, I decided to ring the doorbell. It might ruin the element of surprise
, but at least I wouldn’t be in danger of getting my ass shot off.
I was having a bad case of déjà vu. No one answered the bell, just like this morning. I rang it again. Nothing. I pressed my determined finger against the glowing plastic button next to the door and leaned in, letting it ring for a full ten seconds. I could even hear it on my side of the door. Still, nothing. Either Erica was ignoring it or wasn’t home at all. Maybe Racel was in residence, using her boss’s home as a private getaway, and didn’t want to get caught. I glanced at the driveway. This morning a Ford Focus had been parked there while Racel was here. Now the drive was empty. I rang the bell again, followed by a soft knock.
“Erica,” I hissed in a low tone. “It’s me, Odelia. Please open up. It’s important.” I waited. Nothing. I repeated my actions, but again there was no response.
I went to bedroom window. It was no help. The blinds were shut tight. I returned to the front door. I’d already broken into one house today; why not go two for two?
I reached down to put my hand on the doorknob to the front door, then stopped. I’d forgotten to bring my gloves. I’d stashed the package in the glove compartment of my car. Looking back down the street, I weighed whether or not I should go back and get them, then decided against it. I was cold, and it was late. Sticking my hand into the pocket of the hoodie, I used the fleece to keep my prints off the doorknob. Much to my surprise, it turned.
I should have realized something was wrong right then and there, especially considering what I’d found at the Holts’, but instead I forged ahead.
Gently pushing the door open, I called out, but not too loudly, “Erica, it’s Odelia.” I took a step inside. “I tried the bell, then saw the door open.” Okay, it was a partial fib. Getting no response, I stepped fully into the foyer. “Erica?”
I glanced down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, then back in the direction of the living room. The place seemed empty and as neat as when I’d seen it this morning. I stopped and listened. Stepping slowly into the living room, I followed the sound of music, which seemed to be coming from the kitchen.
“Oh!” My voice stuck in my throat as I almost stepped into something on the carpet. It looked like blood. Lots of it. It was smeared and going in the direction I was heading. I followed the trail with my eyes as it led into the adjoining dining area and ended where a woman was lying in a pool of blood.
I dashed to her side. It wasn’t Erica and it wasn’t Racel, but whoever it was, she’d been shot in the chest more than once. Digging through my pockets, I swore as I remembered my cell phone was at home, recharging. I darted into the kitchen, looking for a land line and hoping Erica had one. A lot of folks were dispensing with home phones and only using cell phones. I spotted a cordless phone nestled in its cradle on the kitchen counter and grabbed it. With shaking fingers, I punched in 911.
sixteen
“So that’s the whole story?” asked Seth. “And by ‘whole,’ I mean everything?” He glared at me, eye to eye, to make his point about full disclosure, breaking the steely stare only when necessary to adjust his large frame in the small plastic chair. It wasn’t made for his size any more than it was made for mine, though Seth was definitely not stout, just tall and broad. He was folded into the chair, not seated. I guess most criminals are tiny. Either that or discomfort was part of the interrogation process. No wonder Dev, a man the size of Paul Bunyan’s blue ox, had opted to sit on the edge of the table.
“Yes, Seth,” I answered, tilting my chin up in defiance. “That’s everything. And it’s exactly what I told the police.” I paused. Both men, knowing me well, gave me looks that let me know they didn’t believe me. “Well,” I admitted, “I told you everything. I didn’t tell Dev, or anyone else, about searching the Holt house.” I paused. Again, they waited for the next confession. “And I didn’t tell them about taking stuff from Erica’s and the office and sending it to Clark for prints.”
“Thank God for that.” Greg dragged a hand through his thick hair. “No sense adding ‘breaking and entering’ and ‘theft’ to your rap sheet.” His sarcasm was as jarring as an off-tune piano. “And no sense getting Clark involved.”
I slapped the table with the palm of one hand. “I don’t have a rap sheet, Greg! The police are just questioning me.”
“Still,” my husband persisted, “I wished you’d called me or Seth immediately, Odelia, before you started spilling your guts to the police.”
I turned to my husband, my mouth open like a frog waiting for a fly. “I have nothing to hide, Greg. I didn’t kill that woman. And—”
“I know, sweetheart,” Greg said, cutting me off. “But cops have a way of twisting information until it sounds like a confession. Dev may be our friend, but he’s still a cop and has a job to do.”
Seth held out his hands as if breaking up a street fight. “All right, you two, simmer down.”
He turned his attention to me specifically. “Greg’s right, Odelia. You should have called as soon as they brought you in. With that said, let’s move on. What else didn’t you tell the police?”
My brain was dangerously close to shutting down from exhaustion, but I cajoled it into staying open a bit longer while I sifted through my memory of the last few hours. What had I said to the police? When they first brought me in, I’d been careful, but as time went by and their constant questioning wore me down, had I let slip something that might incriminate me? Hard to say. Detective Fehring had circled my every word like a vulture, just waiting for me to drop my guard so she could feast.
“I’m pretty sure I told them nothing about my snooping at Erica’s or at Connie’s. I told them I went to Erica’s to find a toy for Lily and to see if Erica was really at home, but I’m sure I didn’t say anything about going to Irvine at all.”
Seth shifted in his seat while he thought it through. “But you did tell Dev and the other detective that Carl Yates wanted you to check out Erica’s whereabouts and her relationship with this Mark guy?”
“Yes.” I looked from Seth to Greg and back to Seth. “Shouldn’t I have told them that?”
Seth shrugged. “It’s something they would have learned from talking to Carl anyway. So at least they know you weren’t lying about your motive for being at her house.”
My heart stopped, then restarted just as fast. Of course they would talk to Carl. Why was I so surprised? I was found in the house of one of Woobie’s partners, standing over a dead body, and I’d said another partner had given me the green light to snoop.
“Looks like Mark Baker and Erica can stop their campaign to get rid of me.” I said the words out loud and in a soft voice, almost to myself. “There’s no way the firm would keep me now.”
“You don’t know that,” Seth assured me.
“But why couldn’t you have waited until morning, Odelia?” The question came from an exasperated Greg. “We could have gone together. Maybe someone else would have found the body before then.”
“You mean, someone other than me, right?”
Greg’s face was flushed, and his voice climbed. “It would have been a nice change of pace.”
I was about to say something rude to my darling husband when there was a knock at the door. Before we could say anything, the door opened, and Detective Fehring waltzed in with Dev behind her. Dev glanced at each of us, but his face remained a blank. Fehring dropped something on the table. I groaned inwardly, pleased I’d hadn’t been verbal in my dismay. On the table was a plastic evidence bag. Inside were the gloves I’d purchased and stashed in my glove compartment.
“You recognize these?” Fehring asked.
I nodded, then looked at the two detectives with indignation. “You searched my car?”
My lawyer piped up. “You get a warrant for that?”
Dev pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and waved it at half-mast. He was doing his job and at the moment not liking it one bit.
“How did you even know where the car was?” I asked.
Dev answer
ed, his face still a blank wall. “You said yourself that you drove to the Mayfield house, and I know what you drive.”
“Lots of people drive the same make and model,” I protested, in spite of Seth poking me under the table.
For the first time all night, a teeny-weeny smile threatened to crack Dev’s tight mouth. “And how many of those folks have a license-plate frame that says I brake for Thin Mints?”
Seth leaned in and whispered, “Let me do the talking before you fry. Please.”
On my other side, Greg reached a hand under the table and squeezed my knee. From the pressure, I knew it wasn’t a gesture of affection but a request to keep my mouth shut.
Seth answered for me. “A lot of people buy rubber gloves, Detectives.”
“According to the receipt found in the bag,” Fehring announced with smug satisfaction, “these were bought yesterday afternoon at a Rite Aid in Irvine.”
“And?” prodded Seth.
“And,” answered Dev, “Connie Holt lived in Irvine.”
Detective Fehring dropped another evidence bag on the table. It contained a single pair of crumpled rubber gloves. “And these appear to be used. We found them discarded on the floor of the back seat of your vehicle, Ms. Grey. Could you tell us what you used them for?”
Dev rephrased the question. “What were you doing in Irvine, Odelia, during a workday?”
“Don’t answer that, Odelia,” Seth told me. He looked at the two determined detectives. “Are you charging Odelia with anything?”
“Depends,” Andrea Fehring said with a slight snarl, “if we find gun powder residue on the used gloves, or anything else incriminating.”
“You won’t,” I shot back at her, “and I think you know that.”
Seth started to say something, but I held up my hand, stopping him in his tracks. Under the table, my husband squeezed my knee so hard, I’m sure he was leaving a bruise. But I didn’t care. I’d had enough. Let them put me in a cell and throw away the key. At least I’d be able to get some sleep. This was Newport Beach, not South Central. How hardened could the female criminals be in here?
Hide and Snoop (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) Page 13