“The court, Odelia. Donny made a strong case that I wasn’t fit to raise a child, especially a boy. It was a morals issue.”
I was speechless.
On the other end, Sally sighed. “It’s rather ironic, actually.”
She paused. I waited.
“You see, Odelia, you were right all those years ago. I am a lesbian.”
Trying to listen to Dev’s advice and not panic, I made it to Wednesday. There was still no call from Greg, still no call from Mike Steele. Two boxes of Thin Mints and three fingernails had been sacrificed to the cause, along with a bit of my sanity. Tonight, I was meeting Sally Kipman to discuss Donny Oliver’s murder. Something told me that by tomorrow I wouldn’t have a box of cookies or a single nail left.
I know I promised Dev I wouldn’t get involved with Donny’s murder. And Sunday I told Greg I had no interest in it. But this morning, while walking with Reality Check around the Back Bay, Zee had taken me aside and insisted on knowing if I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. I couldn’t or wouldn’t give her a straight answer, which in itself was an answer. She had stared hard at me, hands on hips, for a long time. Then she shook her head, gave me a hug, and started walking after the others down the trail. Zee understood that when something bothered me, I couldn’t let it go until I had answers, and that I would be relentless in my search. I did this with both big and small issues alike. She also understood something about me that the men didn’t, or didn’t want to—that when I was in such an obsessive mindset, I would make up my own mind and do what I felt I should do, contrary to all good and sound advice.
Maybe Greg was right. Maybe I hadn’t been part of an “us” relationship. Maybe I never could be, after being alone most of my life.
As I waited for my computer to boot up, I mentally reviewed the situation. I had spent part of Tuesday digging through Steele’s desk, hoping to find a clue to his destination. I also searched the secretary’s desk, hoping he had given even a scant piece of information to Rachel and that she had jotted it down somewhere on a sticky note or scrap of paper. Both times I came up empty-handed. The only trace of his trip was a note on the calendar that he would be out of the office Monday, Tuesday, and possibly Wednesday. Behind closed doors, I even listened to all of his messages, including the saved ones, hoping to find a tidbit of information to grasp, but all related to issues he was handling for the firm. Even his e-mails hadn’t been picked up. All of them, from Saturday on, were marked unread—something else that was uncharacteristic, even when he traveled.
“Odelia,” someone said to me.
I turned away from my computer screen and toward my office door to find Carl Yates looking at me. Carl was a man on the brink of sixty, very tall and angular, with thick hair the color of fading flax. He had an easy smile and manner, which belied the tough, take-no-prisoners litigator beneath. His jacket was off, his tie askew, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His reading glasses were perched on top of his head.
“Has Mike returned from his trip yet?”
“I haven’t seen him.” I turned in my chair and gave him my full attention. “In fact, Carl, I’m quite worried. No one has heard from him since he left. That’s not like him. Has he called you?”
“No, he hasn’t, and I’ve left a half-dozen voice mails for him, both here and at home. The Silhouette matter is heating up, and I need his input.” He started to leave, then stopped. “And you’re right; it’s not like him at all. Hope nothing’s happened to him.”
“I don’t want to seem panicky, but maybe we should call his emergency contact. He was due back today.”
“Good idea, Odelia. Take care of that, and keep me posted.”
Tina Swanson provided me with the emergency contact information from Steele’s personnel sheet. It was for a Karen Meek in Santa Barbara. Tina didn’t write down what Ms. Meek’s relationship was to Steele, just her home and office number.
Looking at my watch, I noted that it was just about two thirty, so I tried the office number. A woman answered, “Karen Meek’s office.” She sounded young.
“Is Ms. Meek in?”
She asked my name and what it was regarding. I gave her my name, the firm’s, and Steele’s, and was put on hold. Shortly, another woman came on the line and identified herself as Karen Meek. Her voice was educated and efficient. I identified myself as Michael Steele’s paralegal and told her we were concerned because he had not returned from a trip. I further explained that she was his contact information.
“But I saw Mike this weekend,” she told me.
I sighed in relief. Maybe she was a girlfriend, although she didn’t sound like one of his usual bimbos. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Karen Meek was his sister or some other family member. “Do you know where he is now?”
“He told me he was going to spend a couple of days at the Inn. Said he needed to think some things through, something about work, a trial or something, and wanted to do it away from the office. He said he needed some downtime.”
“Downtime? Steele?”
The voice on the other end laughed, making me realize I probably shouldn’t have been so candid.
“Yes, even Mike needs downtime every now and then. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
I laughed lightly. Whoever this Karen Meek was, she sounded cool.
“Ms. Meek, we haven’t heard from Mr. Steele since he left Friday evening. That’s highly unusual for him, even when he travels.”
She laughed lightly again. “Sorry, but that was partly my fault. Saturday and Sunday he was at my house, and I wouldn’t allow him to use his cell. He seemed preoccupied, and I wanted him to focus on family issues. I don’t know why he didn’t call after he left. Maybe he enjoyed being untethered from the office and decided to continue it. Like I said, he seemed preoccupied with something. Maybe he decided he could think about it better without any disturbance.”
“You’re family, then? Are you his sister?” I stopped and rethought my question. “I’m sorry, I’m being too nosy.”
Again, I heard a light laugh from the other end of the line. “I’m like a sister to him, though not by blood. In reality, I’m his ex-wife.”
Well, that knocked me over. I knew Steele had been married before. It was a tidbit of personal information he had let slip once. I remembered him saying it was during law school and short-lived. I had assumed that he and the ex had parted permanently, not remained close friends. But that was my assumption, not a fact, obviously. I also remembered him saying they had no children, and I wondered what family issues he had in common with his ex-wife. But I had reached my nosy quota with Karen Meek, at least for now.
“Well, Ms. Meek, maybe you’re right about Mr. Steele deciding to remain incommunicado, but he hasn’t returned yet and was due back in the office no later than today. So I’m sure you understand why we are so concerned.”
“Of course,” she replied. “And I’m getting worried now myself. Mike is always where he is supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. It’s as much of a flaw as it is a good trait. True?”
I smiled at the comment. Yes, this woman did know Steele. “What was the name of the place he was going to? The Inn?”
“Yes, the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa. Do you want me to call them for you?”
“No, thank you, Ms. Meek, you’ve already been quite helpful. I’ll give them a call. Maybe he’s on his way back and is stuck in traffic.”
“It’s quite possible. But please keep me posted, won’t you? Or have him call me when he returns so I won’t worry.”
“Of course, Ms. Meek, thank you.” The list of people who wanted to be kept posted was growing by leaps and bounds.
I looked up the number for the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa and dialed it. I asked for Michael Steele and was told there was no guest registered under that name. When I pressed for more information, I was transferred to the manager’s office. I spoke to a Mr. Fernandez, who explained that he could only tell me that they had no guests registered under that name
at that time.
My next call was to Dev Frye. I received his voice mail and left a message, which he returned within twenty minutes. I told him about Karen Meek and the inn, and how Steele had not shown up yet and not called anyone here at the office. I carefully left out the fact that I was meeting Sally Kipman tonight for dinner. After all, my call to Dev was about Steele and Steele alone. I also wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. Dev told me to sit tight and he’d get back to me shortly.
Sitting tight is not in my genetic makeup. I was meeting Sally for dinner at seven at Houston’s in Irvine, just off the 405 Freeway, and I was dying to know what she was going to tell me. I was still shaken by her admissions that she was gay and her child had been fathered by Donny Oliver. I was actually more surprised about her connection with Donny. If she was a lesbian, why and how did Donny manage to impregnate her? For all his faults, he hadn’t seemed the type to force a woman. Maybe she wasn’t gay then. Maybe her experience with Donny had turned her gay? Then I dismissed my last thought as pure poppycock. I knew better, and after all, I had survived Donny. Seven o’clock just couldn’t come fast enough. I reached into my tote bag and grabbed some emergency Tylenol. All this sitting tight was giving me a headache.
Dev’s call came on my cell phone just as I was leaving the office for Houston’s. He had some information, although it wasn’t really anything regarding Steele’s whereabouts, just his non-whereabouts. It’s never a surprise to me that cops know other cops. Dev knew some of the detectives involved with Donny’s murder case, and it turns out he knows someone who knows someone in the Ojai Police Department. That person made a quick courtesy call to the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa.
According to Dev’s source, Michael Steele was well known at the inn and had a reservation for two nights, Monday and Tuesday, but had been a no-show. Generally, he brought a female companion with him, but this time the reservation had been for one guest only and included a Tuesday morning tee time. After telling me all he could, Dev suggested that either I or the firm file a missing person report and he would be happy to facilitate it.
A formal missing person report—yikes. That really elevated Steele’s absence to a new level, like the Homeland Security Advisory System upgrading its terrorist risk from yellow to orange and putting everyone on alert. I told Dev that I needed to discuss this with someone at the office and would get back to him.
Dev ended the call by asking me to dinner, but I demurred, saying I had a lot on my mind and needed some time to digest it.
I still wasn’t of the mind to tell him that I was about to add Donny’s murder to my already full plate.
I made a quick call to Sally Kipman, telling her something had come up at the office and that I would be about thirty minutes late. I offered to reschedule, but she said she’d wait. That taken care of, I went in search of Carl Yates. I wasn’t surprised to find him still hard at work. He was ensconced in a war room, a small conference room near his office that had been set aside to house the voluminous documents and work in progress for the Silhouette matter. With Carl were Joan Nuñez and Fran Evans. Joan looked up from the pile of documents in front of her and smiled at me. Fran frowned.
“I hope,” Fran said to me in her usual frozen demeanor, “that you’re here to tell us Mike Steele’s back. We really need his help.”
I ignored her and directed my words to Carl. “I have some information on that project you asked about.”
For a second his look was blank, then understanding filled his tired eyes and made them spark. He turned to Joan and Fran. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight, why don’t you both go home.” Joan nodded, but Fran started to say something. Carl stopped her. “Joan, can you be back here tomorrow morning around seven thirty or eight to go through those new documents that arrived today?”
Joan had already stood up and was rolling her neck and shoulders, loosening them. No doubt she’d been bent over documents close to ten hours today, with more facing her tomorrow. “Yes, of course, Carl. I’ll be here by seven thirty.”
“Good.” He turned to Fran. “I need to give Odelia some time, and then I’m heading home myself. Get some rest, Fran; you’ve been hitting it pretty hard.”
“But what about Mike?” she asked, looking from Carl to me. “Any news?”
“He still hasn’t called me,” I told her.
Before Fran could ask anything more, Carl directed me a few doors down the hall to his office. After closing the door, he took a seat behind his large, imposing desk and indicated for me to sit in a chair across from him. Carl’s office was as cluttered as the war room, with expanding files, boxes of documents, and file folders stacked on most flat surfaces. Interspersed between the documents and files on his desk and bookcase were numerous family photos.
“What do you have to tell me, Odelia?”
“It’s not good, Carl,” I started. “Not terrible, but not good.”
He leaned back in his chair, ready to hear more. Exhaustion was as noticeable on his face as his late-afternoon stubble.
“First of all, I called Steele’s contact person, Karen Meek, his ex-wife. She saw him Saturday and Sunday in Santa Barbara, but not since. She said he was heading to the Ojai Valley Inn. My friend, Detective Devin Frye of the Newport Beach police, had someone in the Ojai PD do some checking. Mike Steele had reservations at the inn for both Monday and Tuesday nights, but never arrived and never called to cancel.” I hesitated, swallowed, and continued. “The Ojai police also did a quick patrol of the roads, just in case Steele had an accident and went off the road somewhere, but they turned up nothing.” I paused again. “Detective Frye suggested we file a missing person report.” I started to say more, but stopped to get my thoughts in order.
“Anything else, Odelia?”
“Yes, Carl, something Karen Meek said.” He nodded for me to continue. “She said Steele was going to the inn to think in peace for a few days—said he was preoccupied about something having to do with the upcoming trial.” I paused, again trying to dig through my brain for anything I may have noticed before Steele left town. “I don’t recall anything unusual about the Silhouette matter, but then I’m not working closely with it, just here and there as Steele needs me. Do you recall anything unusual about it?”
“Interesting,” Carl said as he played with a pen, tapping it against the edge of his desk. “There have been some oddities here and there, but that’s with every trial.”
Carl leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Every now and then, he’d purse his lips. I knew he was mulling over the information, trying to decide how to proceed. Carl Yates had a methodical, orderly mind, not unlike a computer. He could quickly categorize information and yield a best course of action, all on the fly and with excellent results. I sat quietly and waited. After a few minutes, Carl opened his eyes, leaned forward, and looked me straight in the eye.
“So, Odelia, here’s what we’re going to do.”
I arrived at Houston’s exactly at seven thirty to find Sally Kipman at the bar toying with the stem of a nearly empty martini glass. She announced our table would be ready soon.
Waving her empty glass at the bartender, she said, “Grey Goose, extra olives.” He nodded and looked my way.
Oh hell, why not? After what Carl Yates just told me, I could do with three or four martinis. “The same,” I told him.
Sally looked good. She was dressed in neatly pressed light gray wool slacks and a pale blue silk blouse that accentuated her eyes and blond hair. On the back of her bar stool hung a matching gray blazer. She held her frame erect and her head high in self-confidence. The overall effect was quite striking.
We sat in silence until our drinks came. After giving her three olives a swirl in the alcohol, she lifted the glass in my direction. “Here’s to new old friends.”
I smiled slightly and clinked the edge of my glass against hers. She took a healthy swallow of her drink, and I followed suit. The strong alcohol caused me to sputter and cough.
“Somethin
g tells me,” Sally said after I recovered, “that you’re more used to drinking cosmopolitans and appletinis.”
“This … is fine.” I coughed again.
“Would you like something else?” Her voice was laced with amusement.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Truth is, I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking. But I do have an occasional fondness for cosmopolitans, thanks to watching reruns of Sex and the City, and I can’t remember the last time I had a regular martini, if at all. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Sally Kipman know that. I was gingerly taking my second sip when the hostess announced our table was ready.
We sat opposite each other in a booth and picked up our menus. We were doing everything but getting to the reason we were there. The waitress came and took our order: grilled salmon with asparagus, and caesar salad to start, for both of us.
“I owe you a big apology, Sally,” I told her after another sip of my drink, which I was really beginning to enjoy.
“For what?”
“For high school—you know, the lesbian thing.”
She let her chin fall a bit forward and laughed almost into her drink. “You don’t owe me anything, Odelia. You were right, I was a lesbian—am a lesbian. I knew it even then. You, on the other hand, were never pregnant, yet I told everyone you were.” She looked up, holding my eyes with hers. “It’s I who owe you an apology.”
“Why were we so hateful to each other, Sally? Do you even remember?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it probably had to do with us both being miserable and wanting to take it out on someone. I was angry about my parents’ divorce and moving to California. I also knew I was different from the other girls and was trying to cope with that. There wasn’t the support for gay youngsters there is now.”
Sally paused, took a sip of her drink, and continued as if stepping on glass. “As I recall, Odelia, your mother disappeared about the same time. Am I correct?”
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