Fatal Luck

by Dorothy Howell

I pulled the appraisal reports out of the manila envelope and found Patricia’s contact info paper clipped to the one on top. I punched her address into my cell phone GPS and saw that she lived off Clayton Boulevard on the other side of town, completely out of my way. I’d cleared an extended lunch hour with Manny, so I decided I could run the errand on company time and he’d be none the wiser. I could also avoid stink-eye from Inez by presenting the appraisal reports she’d been wringing her hands about for days.

  I flipped through the reports and saw that there were more of them that I was expecting. I looked closer and realized that Marsha had given me the appraisal reports for the Bonita branch, too.

  Eleven of them, I counted. Wow, no wonder Eric was Mid-America’s golden boy. The company standard was ten home equity loans per month for every branch—on top of all the personal loans each branch made. The month was more than half over and Eric still had this many equity loans going. Add these eleven to all the loans he’d already done this month and I could see why the profit he generated was among the highest in the company.

  I separated the reports for our two offices into piles on my passenger seat and picked up my cell phone to call Misty and ask her to unlock the back door again. The address of one of the properties caught my eye. It was a house in my parents’ neighborhood.

  I’d lived in the home my parents’ still owned since I was a kid. It was a quiet area of well-built houses that still showed pride of ownership. Sure, it was kind of old now but it had held up well over the years.

  I knew the area. My mom and dad had taken me trick-or-treating, holding my hand to cross the street. I’d ridden my bicycle with my friends, and I’d learned to drive there. So, just for gee-whiz, I checked the value that Jerry had given the property when he’d done his appraisal.

  “What the …?” I mumbled.

  I looked again at the street address, matched it to my knowledge of the neighborhood, and checked the value once more.

  “No way,” I said.

  The value Jerry had given the home was higher—much higher—than it should have been. Tens of thousands of dollars more. But how could that be?

  I flipped through the other appraisal reports and spotted three that were located in neighborhoods I was familiar with. Again, the values Jerry had assigned were out of whack, far higher than was reasonable for the areas.

  How could Jerry have made that kind of mistake? What was he thinking?

  Inez would have a complete hissy-fit if the appraisals Jerry had done for the Santa Flores branch were over-inflated—and nobody wanted to be around if that happened. I grabbed the appraisal reports for our branch and flipped through them. There were only three and I knew two of the neighborhoods. The values seemed okay to me.

  None of this made sense. What had happened with the appraisals Jerry had done for Eric? Why would the values be so unreasonably high?

  I gasped aloud as I realized what was going on. Jerry had deliberately overstated the values of the houses for the appraisals Eric had ordered.

  The amount of money Mid-America could loan was based on the appraised value, so the higher the value, the bigger the loan. The bigger the loan, the more profit the branch earned. More profit equaled a bigger monthly bonus for the manager.

  Another minute passed while I mulled everything over in my head, then it all fell into place.

  Eric and Jerry were in on a scam together.

  Eric had made at least one—and probably more—fraudulent loan. He’d used part of the proceeds to pay Jerry cash under the table for inflating the property values which, I suspected, was the source of the money Marsha had found hidden in his desk drawer.

  With the higher property values, Eric made more and bigger loans, and earned huge monthly bonuses.

  It was quite a scheme the two of them had going. Eric was the darling of Mid-America, his branch’s profit was high, as was his monthly bonus and his potential to get promoted up the corporate ladder. Jerry had made out well, too.

  I slouched in my seat and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

  So much for my theory that Eric had murdered Jerry. They were partners in a very lucrative, though unethical and deceitful, business arrangement. If anything, Eric would want to keep Jerry alive.

  That left Patricia, the ex-wife. In theory, she was looking pretty good as a suspect right now.

  And I was on my way to see her.

  * * *

  When I woke this morning I’d had a text message from Mom. “Huge misunderstanding,” it had read, and was followed by two rows of smiley faces. I’d smiled too.

  I hadn’t talked to Mom today, and going to see her right now seemed like a wonderful idea. With what I’d just discovered about Eric and Jerry and what I suspected Patricia of doing, visiting my Mount Rushmore mom was exactly what I needed.

  Pulling out of the alley, I circled the strip mall and turned left onto State Street. I turned up my CD player and buzzed down my window, hoping the beat of the music and the wind in my hair would chase away my troubles.

  That didn’t happen.

  As if I didn’t have enough on my mind, Ronald popped into my head.

  Tonight was the special date he’d planned for us. He was a really nice guy, in a lot of ways. I’d wanted a sure-thing for all the upcoming holiday parties, which was selfish of me—although I’d hoped we’d eventually click. But he wasn’t the right guy for me. I guess we’d been doomed from the start.

  Nick flew into my head. Had we been doomed from the start, too? Or was I being selfish again? Was my insistence that he reveal something from our distant past—ignoring his desire to keep it to himself—another example?

  I turned onto my parents’ street and pulled to a stop at the curb in front of their house. Another selfish thought came to me. Now that the misunderstanding between Mom and Dad had been cleared up, maybe Mom could help me sort out this thing with Nick.

  The house was quiet when I let myself in. A delicious aroma filled the air—another sign that Mom was happy again. I followed it into the kitchen and saw the crock pot on the counter. Inside was a savory roast.

  “Mom?” I called. “Mom?”

  I got no answer so I headed down the hallway. I didn’t see her anywhere, so I opened the door that led into the garage, thinking she was out there doing the laundry. Her car was gone.

  Seemed my timing wasn’t so good. I figured she might have run to the store for something quick, and since I had an extra-long lunch hour today, I decided to wait around for a while.

  I ventured into the family room and switched on the TV. Dad had recently upgraded to a flat screen, but other than that everything had been the same for years. It was a comfortable room, filled with lots of memories.

  Among the books on the built-in unit beside the fireplace, Mom had placed framed photos of Rob and me as we grew up—both of us in pajamas beside the Christmas tree; me with my two front teeth missing; Rob proudly displaying his first driver’s license. There were photos of the four of us squeezed into one shot on the beach, at Disneyland, and with Rob and me in our cap and gown at our high school graduations.

  My gaze traveled to the bottom row of the bookcase and I spotted a stack of yearbooks from Eastside High School. Mom had kept them for us. Somewhere, she’d also stored our tassels and graduation announcements.

  I pulled out the yearbook from Rob’s senior year and flipped through the pages. But instead of looking for Rob’s photo, I turned to the junior class and found Nick’s picture. My heart did a bigger than usual flip-flop.

  Memories of Nick exploded in my head. Tall, good looking, football star, charmer.

  I’d crushed on him big-time back then and, really, I’d been kind of jealous when he started dating my best friend Katie Jo. Then all that stuff had happened between them and I’d been crushed in a completely different way.

  Seemed Nick and I weren’t meant to be together back in high school, but we’d found each other several weeks ago and we’d felt a spark. If it hadn’t been f
or Nick’s involvement with Katie Jo, would we have gotten together back then? Stayed together?

  Maybe all high school romances were destined for the memory scrap heap.

  That made me think of Eric Hunter and his psycho girlfriend that my brother had mentioned. I figured Eric had been relieved to rid himself of her, but maybe she was the lucky one, given what Eric was doing now.

  I turned a few more pages in the yearbook and found Eric’s picture. He was a good looking man now, and he’d been a good looking guy back in the day. His features were harder, more angular now, as men got when they aged. Still, he was a head-turner.

  I wondered what a reportedly psycho high school girl had to look like to be able to snare a hot guy like Eric. High school was about appearances, if nothing else. I thought back to my conversation with Rob, trying to remember the girl’s name. Nora? No, it was Nola. Nola something.

  I searched through the photos and found only one girl named Nola. Nola Miles.

  She was attractive, but only a minor difference in her gene alignment would have made her beautiful. Her nose was a little wide, and chin was just a bit recessed. I could see why Eric had been attracted to her, though. Blonde hair, big eyes, and a beguiling smile that the photographer had easily captured.

  A smile that looked very familiar.

  I studied the photo for a long time, thinking and wondering where I’d seen her before. I’d lived in Santa Flores my whole life and Nola Miles probably still lived here too, so I might have seen her anywhere—the dentist’s office, grocery store, at the mall, maybe.

  Still, none of that seemed right.

  She wouldn’t look the same now, of course. She would have aged, changed her style. Maybe she’d even had some work done. I knew she wouldn’t have been happy with her nose. I imagined it shaped differently, and how beautiful it would make her. The image of her in my mind morphed until I pictured her differently.

  And I recognized her.

  “Oh … my … God …,” I mumbled.

  I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my pants and scrolled to the photo taken the night of Eric’s birthday celebration. I laid it alongside the picture of Nola Miles in the yearbook.

  Eric hadn’t dumped his girlfriend after high school.

  He’d married her.

  Chapter 12

  I knew Nick had checked the DMV records to determine if a small black car was registered to everyone who might be involved with Jerry’s murder—Eric, Gloria, Misty, Janine, his ex-wives, and probably Marsha. If he’d come up with anything, he would have told me. Nick would want me to know about, and be careful of, a possible murderer.

  But I was certain Nick hadn’t checked for a small black car registered to a Nola Miles.

  I drove away from my parents’ house with the high school yearbook photo looming large in my head.

  No doubt about it, Eric’s high school girlfriend was now Lourdes Hunter. Maybe that was her middle name; it wasn’t listed under her photo. Maybe she’d made it up because she liked it and thought it fit her new image, after having her nose and chin fixed.

  Whatever the reason, Lourdes had gone by a different name some fifteen years ago when the small black car that had run down Jerry had been new. It was possible Lourdes had purchased that car. It was possible she’d kept it all these years, never changed her name on the registration after she and Eric were married, and still owned it—also making it possible that I’d been right all along and Eric had killed Jerry.

  The only way I could confirm my suspicion was to check the DMV records. I had no way of doing that.

  But Nick did.

  I turned onto State Street and headed for the freeway entrance.

  I didn’t want to call Nick. I didn’t want to talk to him. We’d parted on bad terms the last time we were together and he’d made no attempt to contact me, to talk out our situation, or to try and make things better. He’d done nothing. This didn’t inspire me to turn to him, confide in him, or share info.

  Fortunately, I knew somebody who would help.

  As I merged onto the freeway I activated my Bluetooth and called Slade.

  Slade worked for Quality Recovery, the company Mid-America—and I—turned to when we were forced to repossess a customer’s car. Slade was one of their agents, known less politically correct as a repo guy.

  He was ex-Air Force Special Ops. He was a big guy, well over six feet tall and very muscular. His wore his blond hair cut short. I figured his age at around thirty. He had an earring. Tattoos, too, I guessed, but I’d never seen any. Not that I hadn’t wished I could look.

  These repo guys were badass dudes, in it for the rush. Things could get crazy during a recovery. The cops might show up. A nosy neighbor might try to intervene. The vehicle owner might take offense to seeing his car being towed away and come out swinging—or shooting.

  Quality Recovery was a part-time gig for Slade. I didn’t know what he did when he wasn’t picking up vehicles—nobody else seemed to know, either—but mercenary work in South America and anti-terrorism in the Middle East were definite possibilities.

  I’d known Slade since I started the job at Mid-America. We’d kept it professional—even the time he ended up spending the night at my apartment.

  Slade knew people. I was certain he could find out whether Lourdes Hunter, née Nola Miles, had a fifteen-year-old small black car registered to her.

  “Hey,” Slade said, when he answered my call.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Cool,” he said.

  Slade wasn’t exactly a big talker.

  “Have you got time for some company?” I asked.

  “Always,” Slade said. “Staking out a Caddie. Taco Bell. Serrano and Third.”

  “I’ll be there in a few,” I said.

  Slade didn’t answer, just hung up.

  I took the Serrano Avenue exit and drove a few miles west to Third Street, and spotted Slade in a black Blazer backed into a space at the Taco Bell on the corner. I parked and climbed in on the passenger side.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  His brief remarks were contagious.

  What Slade lacked in conversational skills he made up for in rugged good looks. Today he had on black jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt.

  “So you’re waiting for a Caddie to show up?” I asked, as I gazed out the windshield.

  He nodded toward the office building in the adjoining lot. “The guy’s an accountant. Didn’t make his payments. Dumbass.”

  Once Slade spotted the vehicle he’d call Quality Recovery and a tow truck team would immediately head this way. They worked fast. They would hook up the car and drive away in minutes, long before the accountant in his office knew what was happening. I’d seen Slade in action. Impressive.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to find out if a woman named Nola Miles has a small black car registered in her name. Old. The plate starts with a four,” I said.

  He didn’t hesitate, just picked up his cell phone from the seat between us and punched a number. Having a connection with a clerk at the DMV benefited Quality Recovery, although it wasn’t anything official. I suspected cash changed hands in the DMV parking lot after the close of business.

  Slade explained what he needed to whoever answered the phone. His gaze bounced between the office building parking lot and me while he held the phone to his ear and waited.

  “So who is she?” he asked.

  I wasn’t all that anxious to share my suspicion about Eric. Not that Slade would have told me to butt out, as Nick would have. I just didn’t want to make that kind of accusation until I had more info. But I wasn’t going to lie to Slade.

  “A friend of mine was killed. Hit and run,” I said.

  “Not cool,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I think this car might be involved,” I said.

  Slade turned to me, ignoring the parking lot and the Caddie he was watching for.
r />   “You staying out of trouble on this?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, then added, “as much as I can.”

  “Call the cops?” he asked.

  “If it pans out,” I said.

  “Thinking of checking it out yourself?”

  Slade picked now to start being chatty?

  “I just need to verify the owner of the vehicle,” I said. “For now.”

  He gave me a long, hard look. I thought he intended to say something more but the DMV clerk must have come back on the line because Slade pressed the cell phone closer to his ear.

  He listened for a few seconds then said, “Cool,” and ended the call.

  “Black Ford Fiesta,” Slade said. “Registered to your gal on Dorchester Street in Maywood.”

  Eric and Lourdes lived on that street. The car that had struck Jerry as described by Janine matched the description of the vehicle registered to Lourdes in her previous persona of Nola Miles.

  My stomach twisted into a knot

  I imagined Eric leaving for work that morning in the little Ford, parking near the entrance of the alley, waiting for the door to the insurance office to open, watching for Jerry to walk outside. Then revving up the engine, slamming the accelerator, racing down the alley.

  I guess Slade read something in my expression.

  “You cool with this?” he asked.

  I wasn’t, but I said, “I’m okay.”

  “Calling the cops now?” he asked. “That detective? Travis?”

  Slade had met Nick a few weeks ago during an incident outside the Mid-America office. Apparently he’d picked up on something between Nick and me; he’d never mentioned it until now.

  “Sure,” I told him.

  Slade gave me another hard look.

  “Want backup?” he asked.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Let’s roll.”

  Slade started the Blazer and we drove away.

  * * *

  Slade cruised down Dorchester Street. The landscaping was lush and the grass was green—folks in the area could afford to run their sprinklers year round. Harvest-themed wreaths hung on most of the doors, and corn stalks, pumpkins, and golden mum plants decorated the porches.