Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1)

by James Paddock

  "So, what's your plan?"

  "At this point, give her some space to patch it up with her husband or go forward with the divorce. I've got to go. Lucas is coming out of the bathroom so we'll be getting back on the road."

  "Lucas?"

  "It's all in my emails and my last voicemail? My nephew is spending a couple of weeks with me while his parents work things out. Got to go. We'll be there in a few hours. Bye."

  CJ closed the refrigerator door and returned to his computer. He read the emails about how Stella was running up to Albuquerque to bring her nephew back, that she should be back the next day, that there was chicken and potato salad in his refrigerator and that she'd call when she had a chance.

  He was feeling very stupid.

  In the middle of getting dressed CJ's eye caught the smiling faces of his two children, Trish and Josh—the six-year-old photo stared back at him from the top of his bureau—and he thought about how hard on them their parents' divorce was. They were adults now but his son moved back east—New York, then Boston, then parts unknown—shortly after the photo was taken. He'd dropped out of the University of Arizona, refusing to acknowledge that he had parents, while his sister, who still communicated on occasion, was attending the University of Idaho. Why Idaho, CJ had no idea, but at least it was on this side of the country, and he had her phone number. He tried to remember the last time he talked to her. Her birthday, January 25th. Not since. Here it was July and she didn't come home for summer break. Something about a summer job, her mother had told him. She talked to her mother, but she didn't talk to him.

  That brought him around to thinking about George and Brenda Lindendale and how they knew almost immediately when their daughter went missing. Trish could be gone for months before he'd know anything was wrong. What kind of father was he? At least her mother kept in contact, though not much more than once a month, she'd said. She was too busy with her new husband and three step-children to keep up with her own daughter. At least she had an excuse, lame as it was. He had no excuse at all.

  He wondered what Lucas was like. He was 9 or 10 years old, if CJ remembered correctly. Stella had mentioned him a couple of times. He supposed that sleepovers at Stella's, or vice-versa, would be on hold. That he didn't like. He didn't like that at all.

  And then he chided himself for that thought. First he went nuts over her disappearance, and now he was becoming jealous of a 10-year-old. Maybe a little time apart would be good. Maybe, after this case, he'd fly up to Idaho and visit Trish.

  Feeling better about himself, CJ made a pot of coffee, sliced three generous chunks off the chicken, dished up some of the potato salad and then sat down with his notes and the list Mrs. Lindendale gave him. When he finished eating he started making phone calls.

  Chapter 5

  CJ stood in front of a badly-in-need-of-paint ranch-style adobe home in a dilapidated neighborhood northeast of the university. He checked the address against his notes and then walked up the cracked and sun-beaten sidewalk. Not finding a doorbell, he knocked. He looked back at his car, parked at the curb, and thought about how hot it was going to be when he returned to it, and about the already overworked air conditioner. The high for the day, according to the radio, was supposed to inch toward 110 degrees. It already felt that hot and it was just noon.

  The door opened and an older Hispanic woman's face peered out.

  "Ms. Ortega?" CJ said.

  "Si."

  "I'm CJ Washburn, private investigator." He held up his identification. "We spoke on the phone."

  "Si."

  "Could I see Elizabeth Lindendale's apartment? You said you'd already spoken to her parents."

  "Si. ¡Adelante!" She pulled the door open and stepped aside. "Come in."

  He waited while she turned down the volume on a Spanish television program and then retrieved a key from a desk drawer. "Follow me," she said, heading down a hall. She turned left into another short hall that widened into a laundry room, stopping at a plain door. She poked the key into the lock and pushed the door open. "She have private entrance. No usan esta puerta." She looked up at him and saw his confusion. "She no use this door. You no speak Spanish?"

  "No. Sorry."

  She shrugged and went in. "She not home over week. She no tell me she leaving."

  "Does she normally?" CJ asked.

  "She tell me, si. No gone much."

  "How long has she lived here?"

  The old woman held up one finger. "One year next month. Already renew lease for one more year. You wish look round? I go."

  "Another question, first."

  "Si."

  "Did she have visitors very often?"

  She shook her head. "No. Not often. One boy she study with few months. No hacer el amor.... No make love together."

  "You sure?"

  She looked right at him. "Si. I sure. No boyfriend."

  "How about girlfriends?" he asked. "Did she pal around with anyone?"

  "She have friend until Christmas. No see since. No other friends. Just boy for study with."

  He looked about the room. "Thank you, Ms. Ortega."

  She nodded and left the apartment.

  When she was gone CJ began a slow walk around the little apartment. The first obvious note was the cleanliness. Not even Stella's apartment was this neat. Was it because she was on a planned absence and thus cleaned up before she left, or was she always this tidy?

  He opened the refrigerator, a small, inexpensive model with the freezer at the top in which were two trays of ice-cubes, a partial carton of ice-cream, chocolate revel, a bag of frozen mixed vegetables and a box of frozen hamburger patties. He opened the patties. There were two missing. The layer of frost in the freezer was very thin, as though it had recently been defrosted. The lower section of the refrigerator sported an unopened quart of milk, a six pack of diet Pepsi, one missing, two unopened bottles of water, a half jar of strawberry jam, and the usual condiments, plus a stack of individually wrapped cheese slices. No leftovers. No rotting vegetables. No guilty pleasure snacks. Basically, nothing.

  He closed the door and started going through kitchen cupboards. It was more of the same. Sparse and tidy. He did find an unopened box of Honey Nut Cheerios to go with the milk, peanut butter and a half loaf of bread to go with the jam, and hamburger buns to go with the patties. Two were missing. Her meals were efficient and sparse.

  The living area, separated from the kitchen by a short counter, revealed nothing more than did the kitchen. A love seat-size sofa was angled away from the wall, facing a 30 inch flat screen TV, also angled from the adjacent wall. In between was a large entryway into the bedroom. CJ stood in the entryway and noted that she could watch the TV from either the sofa or her bed. Convenient, efficient.

  The bedroom closet was, again, neat and organized. There was a small selection of various color blouses and slacks, two dresses and something that to him looked like a formal gown. A half dozen empty hangers were shoved to one end. Under the empty hangers stood a narrow, free-standing shelving unit holding folded blue jeans and t-shirts. On the floor on the other side was a shoe rack that would hold about eight pairs. There was a pair of slippers and a pair each of light brown sandals, black sandals and black high-heeled pumps. Four spots were empty.

  He thought about his own daughter and wondered what her closet looked like. He was certain it would be the opposite. Neatness was never one of Trish's traits. Or had she changed since growing up? He hadn't been fully involved in her life since she was fourteen.

  Bringing his attention back to the bedroom, he noted the small dresser. Feeling already like he was violating a young woman's personal space, he started to bypass it. However, if he was nothing else, he was thorough. He opened the drawers one at a time and moved things around. Nothing more than he expected.

  He turned back to the bed and got down on his knees. From under the bed he pulled out a plastic storage box. It had a few sweaters, a light jacket, a heavy ski parka, boots, gloves, and other assorted win
ter gear, if one were to go hiking in the mountains, or participate in any of a number of winter sports, or maybe to walk a mile to class on a cold winter day.

  He pushed the box back under the bed.

  The bathroom, which connected back to the main living area, was as expected, very neat and clean, sparkling even. Not even drugs, outside of aspirin and Tylenol.

  On the left, as he returned to the living area, was a coat closet with a broom, a small upright vacuum and a variety of cleaning products. A couple of hats sat on a shelf. Angled between the closet and the door to the outside—Lizzi's main entrance—was a bicycle. He stepped around it, unlocked and opened the door. Sitting just outside was a five or six year old silver Toyota Corolla. He walked around it and noticed the Missouri plates. He tried the doors, which were locked, and then peered in the windows. Nothing lying out except what looked like a charging cord for her cell phone. The car was as clean as her house.

  Back in the living area, on the wall between the kitchen and the door into the main house, sat a medium sized desk and a swivel chair. He sat in the chair and looked at the laptop computer, open but dark. Under a desk lamp sat a ceramic cup with a couple of pens, a pencil and scissors. Next to the cup lay her car key and remote on a University of Arizona Wildcats key fob. He turned on the lamp and opened a drawer. Finally, he thought to himself, a junk drawer. He was beginning to think this girl was perfect or never actually lived here. Finding nothing more than he expected—sticky notepads, glue sticks, binder clips, paper clips, pens, pencils, rubber bands, a penknife, two flashlights, batteries of various sizes, three travel-size tissue packs, and something that looked like some kind of feminine hygiene thing—he closed it and opened the file drawer. It was packed tight with what appeared to be school files. He noted labels that looked like class names and numbers, others he couldn't make sense of, and some he did, many of which started with the word, Whipple. This, he knew, referred to the Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory. The files were labeled: Whipple - Light Pollution, Whipple - MMT, Whipple - Tillinghast, Whipple - PAIRITEL, Whipple - Gamma-Ray Reflector, Whipple - VERITAS, Whipple - HAT, Whipple - MEarth, Whipple - Visitors Center, Whipple - Smithsonian.

  He closed the drawer.

  A small HP printer sat on the side opposite the lamp, a stack of paper next to it. To the right of the desk sat a freestanding bookshelf. It was packed with textbooks, school-related materials and a few framed pictures; Lizzi with parents and maybe her brother, Lizzi with friend, friend by herself. There were no fiction titles of any kind. He recalled that the only book on the nightstand next to her bed was a textbook.

  CJ pushed away from the desk, spun the chair to face into the apartment and thought about what he'd discovered. Elizabeth Lindendale was a very neat and organized young lady. After a bit he got up and returned to the bedroom closet. On the shelf above everything else stood a light blue suitcase. There was no matching carryon. He returned to the desk chair.

  She more than likely had a carryon to match the suitcase. If she had left for a planned get-a-way for a few days, or even a week or two, she might not need the large suitcase. There was no backpack so with that and a carryon, she would probably have everything she needed. He turned and looked at the desk. There was a cord, plugged in, the end waiting for something to connect to. Her phone, of course. The computer was already plugged in, as was the printer. If she was planning a long get-a-way, she'd have taken one of the phone chargers with her, this one or the one in her car, or else she simply forgot them.

  So, she left with a carryon and her backpack, which he assumed she had because every college student owns one, and possibly a purse. She left her car, specifically leaving her keys behind. Only other key she’d need if going with someone else would be her apartment key. Her parents said all they'd gotten when they called her was her voicemail. Phone turned off, or dead? In eight days it is likely dead. He walked back into the main house.

  "Mrs. Ortega?" he called.

  "Si." She appeared out of nowhere it seemed.

  "You said she didn't go away often. When she did, how long was she gone and where did she go?"

  "Oh, few days. Up at that telescope. She work there sometimes."

  "Observatory?"

  "Si. Observatory. It call Whipper, I think."

  "Whipple," CJ corrected. "Whipple Observatory."

  "Si. Si. That it. Only place she go all year."

  "Thank you." He looked at the apartment one more time and then said, "I think I've seen all there is to see. If I have any other questions, I'll give you a call."

  Chapter 6

  CJ knocked and then entered the door labeled, "Professor Steven Jarvosky, PhD, MS, BA, Assistant Research Professor, Deep Space Optics." CJ expected an older, slack-jawed man with half moon spectacles. Instead, he was greeted by a clean-cut young man, thick black hair, trimmed short, open collar shirt, penetrating eyes. CJ didn't know whether to call him doctor, professor, Mr. Jarvosky, or Steven. He stepped forward and extended his hand. "Professor. I'm CJ Washburn. We spoke on the phone a bit ago."

  "Yes sir. Have a seat." He pointed to the only other chair in the very cramped office. "Steven, please. You're not one of my students."

  "Thanks, Steven."

  Steven leaned back in his chair. "You mentioned Elizabeth Lindendale. I looked her up. A third year student. She's had two of my classes in the last two years, the last being this previous semester. You said that she was missing. I haven't seen her since the semester ended. It's summer break, you see, and," he pointed a finger at his computer screen, "I don't show her as registered for any summer classes. I don't know what else I could tell you. I would imagine she's off on holiday somewhere."

  CJ nodded. "On holiday? European term."

  The young man smiled. "Yes. I spent much of my youth in London. Claim Colorado otherwise."

  "Love the mountains of Colorado," CJ said. "Holiday is pretty much what I'm thinking, too. According to her parents she kept in regular contact with them. Now they can't find her."

  "How long has it been since they talked with her?"

  "Eight days."

  Steven made a face and shrugged. "I have students that disappear longer than that in the middle of a semester. She probably decided to go off with a friend and didn't want to answer parental questions."

  "Did you notice if she had a boyfriend, or anyone she was close to?"

  "I hardly remember her face... a name on my computer monitor is as much as I can tell you."

  CJ looked past the professor to a poster on his wall. Behind the words "Petal to Heaven" and "14,110 Feet" and "Pike's Peak" was a photo of a lone bike rider on a mountain road, racing into a blanket of fog.

  CJ pointed toward the poster. "You've ridden to the top of Pike's Peak?"

  The professor turned to look at the poster. "Not yet. It's on my bucket list. That's why I keep the poster there, to remind me of one of my goals."

  "You have other goals?"

  "Many. Shouldn't we all?"

  CJ stood. "Yes, we should." He extended his hand again and as the professor took it, said, "Thank you for your time. Good luck on reaching the Colorado summit."

  "Thank you. Next summer, I think. Good luck on your search. I'm sure Lizzi is off on holiday with a friend, but I understand her parent's concern."

  When the door closed behind him, CJ took several steps and then turned and looked at the name plate, thinking about Professor Jarvosky's last words. He looked at his notes and thought through the entire conversation he'd just had with the professor. He was certain that at no time did he mention Elizabeth Lindendale's nickname. Was it coincidental that Steven Jarvosky guessed that she was called Lizzi, or was it part of her official university records and Steven had simply made note of it from his computer screen while they talked?

  CJ knocked on the door again and then, without waiting, opened it and rushed in. The professor had no more time than to turn about in his chair. "One more thing, do you still have her records up on your computer?"
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  Steve looked back at his screen. "Well, yes I do."

  CJ proceeded around to the professor's side of the desk. "Can you see whether she has registered for fall classes?"

  Flustered, Steven tried to spin around, fumbling with his mouse. By that time CJ was peering down at the screen, scanning as quick as he could through the displayed data; her name, Missouri address, Tucson address, College of Optical Science, advisor: Clair Wingdom, major: Optical Science, stuff that made no sense to CJ's layman mind, and then the window went away to show only the computer desktop with a dozen or so icons. The desktop background was a collage of photos; family and friends obviously.

  "No. I'm afraid she hasn't registered yet for the fall semester, Mr. Washburn. If you have any other questions I'd recommend you visit the Dean of Students."

  Hearing the dismissal in the professor's voice, CJ backed halfway out and then paused in the doorway. "Did Ms Lindendale do any work or study up at Whipple Observatory?"

  Professor Jarvosky seemed to be surprised by the question. He opened his mouth to respond, closed it for a second, then said, "I really couldn't tell you. Like I said, take your questions to the Dean of Students."

  "Thank you," CJ said and then closed the door behind him. In the hall he opened his notes and wrote under the heading Professor Jarvosky:

  Knows Lizzi better than he lets on.

  He looked up at the ceiling and again thought through the conversation. He looked back down at his notes and added another note under the professor's name.

  Said she was probably off on holiday with a friend. Never alluded that it might be a boyfriend, even when I suggested such. He knows she is gay.

  As he walked out of the building, CJ tried to figure out why the professor lied to him. It would have been no big deal to admit that he remembered Elizabeth Lindendale and even knew her nickname. She attended his classes several days a week for two semesters, after all. The fact that he said he didn't remember her was suspicious in itself.