by Lee Bellamy
I was getting all her attention for a change. While I was growing up, my brother and sister got the lion's share. That's because I'm the middle child—the neglected child, the psychiatrists say, although I never minded and really never thought that was true.
Dennis, my older brother, was hyper-active, so starting at age five my parents gave him golf lessons "to settle him down." For years, my poor, flat-footed father plodded around the golf course with him. At ten, Dennis was winning junior tournaments, collecting trophies by the caseful. When he was fourteen, he was the subject of an article in the Fresno Bee, entitled, "Watch out, Arnold Palmer." As it turned out, Arnold had nothing to worry about. Dennis is The Fresno Handyman now. He hates golf and hasn't played a game since 1999. His trophies are gone. He told Mom they were stolen, but I know for a fact he called Good Will and had them hauled away.
My younger sister, Susan, was limber and petite, so for years Mother dragged her to acrobatics lessons. Susie was supposed to end up the Mary Lou Retton of Fresno. In fact, the Bee Sports Section once ran her picture on the front page, posed on a four-inch-wide beam, arms outstretched, her skinny, little body curved in an impossible back arch. The caption read: "Fresno youngster on her way to the Olympics?" She wasn't. She got married instead. Now she's got two kids, thirty extra pounds, and no longer poses on four-inch beams.
I was stuck in the middle with no talent to speak of. Nobody asked if I’d be the next anything. To be fair, my parents tried. Golf didn't work. At seven, after two lessons, I dug in my little heels and said no. What was so great about knocking a little ball around? For a few years I took lessons at Miss Severance's Dancing School. My tap and ballet were okay, but acrobatics? I was too tall, and I wasn't limber. I couldn't make an arch. My back bend resembled an unused staple.
I loved to read and go to movies, and still do, but for that you don't get your picture in the Bee.
"You look pensive, Holly."
"Maybe I need a new career."
"Who is this Perez person?" Mother asked, ignoring my self-pitying remark. "Isn't that a Hispanic name?"
I tried not to bristle. Mother's not a bigot; she just thinks everyone from south of the border is illiterate and poor. "Perez owns half of B & P. You're right, he's Hispanic. He's got a slight accent, but I don't know where he comes from."
"Hmmm." Mother made a little grimace. "Better stay away from those Latin men."
"Why?"
"They're too macho. They keep their women under their thumbs. Knowing you—" Mother made another face "—you're too independent to stand for much of that."
"He's my boss, that's all."
"Why did he go out of his way to rescue you last night?"
"Who knows? But you can bet when he tells Reece Barnicut, they'll never use me again."
"Maybe he won't tell. Maybe he likes you."
"He's crazy." I shoveled a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. "And besides, he's too short."
Mother looked pained, like she always does when her darling daughter shows signs of imperfection. "That's a teeny bit shallow, don't you think? There are lots of couples where the man is shorter. How about Tom Cruise—?"
"Perez is a bit taller than I am, but that's not the point. I don't think I can be a private investigator in this town." I jumped subjects because I like my men tall, really tall, so I can wear spike heels and still look up at them—a frivolous fixation my practical mother would never understand.
"Well, you know what you're doing. I could never tell you anything anyway." Mother peeked at the front page of the Bee. "Hmmm...it's time they stopped that silly war in Afghanistan." Moments later she remarked, "This private eye thing is just too dangerous. Better look for something safe. You shouldn't have any trouble. A U.C. grad? With a criminology degree?"
I gave her a scathing glance. "Big deal. That doesn't mean diddly-squat in this town. Instead of sending me to Berkeley you should have taught me how to cut grapes."
"Don't be bitter. You should just get a temp job, then you'll have time to look around."
Temp job. My spirits sank lower. Had I hit bottom? Would I end up a Kelly Girl? I forced a smile. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
In a gray funk I structured my day. I would stop at Barnicut & Perez first, write my bartender report and turn it in for whatever pittance Barnicut would pay. Then I'd ask if he had another assignment for me. If he didn't, and he probably wouldn't, I'd hit Kelly Girl and every other temp agency in town and dazzle them with my lightening typing speed and computer know-how. Oh, yeah, I'd have a job in no time. I dragged away from the table and went to take my shower.
An hour later, I was all jazzed up in a light green wool Evan Picone suit, silky white blouse, pearl necklace and earrings. I looked as good as I could look. If I was going to crash and burn, I'd go out in style.
The morning air was crisp, around forty degrees. The customary overnight fog still hung low over the wet streets. If it lifted, and if there wasn't too much smog, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada Mountains would emerge to the east in all their sparkling splendor. If it didn't lift, we'd have another sunless, dreary, soggy, Fresno winter day. And it probably wouldn't, I reflected, as I started east on Shaw Avenue, planning to hop onto Freeway 41 south, the shortest route to Barnicut & Perez. Driving along, I couldn't help speculating about Rudy and the girl named Delphine. She had disappeared in 2005. She told Rudy she came from Fresno. If she disappeared, there might be something in the newspaper about her.
It occurred to me that if I didn't turn onto the freeway and stayed on Shaw, I would soon reach CSUF—California State University at Fresno. And if I could find a parking space within hiking distance of the Henry Madden Library, I could visit the third floor where they kept the microfilm copies of a lot of newspapers, including The Fresno Bee.
I tried to talk myself out of it. Searching for Delphine was a dumb waste of time. But when I reached the on-ramp to 41, a strange thing happened—the Camaro refused to turn. Next thing I knew, I had parked in the university's far parking lot and trudged across pale, January-brown lawns to the library, telling myself how futile this was, feeling conspicuous in my dress-for-success outfit, amidst a multi-national stream of students, all with backpacks slung over one shoulder, mostly all in jeans and an assortment of grungy jackets, Adidas, and L.A. Gears.
I discovered at the reference desk that my quest would not be easy. No, the librarian told me, there was no index for the Bee—not like the ones for the San Francisco Chronicle or L.A. Times. Too expensive. But of course I was welcome to grind through the microfilm collection until I found what I was looking for.
Oh, swell. Discouraged, I took the elevator to the third floor and found the cabinets that contained microfilm rolls for the Bee. The 2005 drawer contained thirty-five boxes. I thought, forget it. I wasn't about to scroll through thirty-five boxes of microfilm, not even knowing what I was looking for. I turned away. Then I remembered Rudy saying something about April. Okay, so I would give April, 2005, a shot.
I pulled the April 1-10, April 11-20, and April 21-30 boxes out of the drawer and grabbed the last scanning machine, barely beating out a tiny oriental girl with long black hair who glared at me, declaring instant hatred with her eyes. I sat down, set up the first roll, and slowly rolled April 1-10 on the big screen in front of me. Even fast-forwarding past funnies, classifieds, and full-page ads, this was going to take time. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for. A disappearance? A murder? What? Suddenly, my heart gave a little leap. There, on an inside page of the Metro section for April 9th, 2005, was a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired, smiling girl, and a headline: CSUF STUDENT DISAPPEARS. The article was short. Crystal Hargrove, 28, had disappeared from her apartment near campus three nights ago. Crystal's roommate, Joy Daniel, came home late from the library and discovered her missing and had no idea why. "She was a quiet girl who didn't date much," Daniel said. "She was hardly ever out late at night." Detective Noel Diaz of the Fresno Police Department stated that the police were q
uestioning friends, neighbors and fellow students, but there was no indication of foul play. Police found Crystal's wallet, keys, money and clothing in the apartment.
I found the next article, dated April 13, on the April 11-20 roll. No picture, just a headline: HUNT CONTINUES FOR CSUF STUDENT. Police, continuing their investigation, revealed that two days previous to Crystal's disappearance, her apartment was the target of a drive-by shooting. Police had concluded it was random, probably gang connected, and had nothing to do with Crystal's disappearance. Relatives were not so sure. "She wouldn't have just walked away," said Crystal's sister, Velia Champion. "She was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl, without an enemy in the world. She must have met with foul play."
Velia Champion. The name leaped off the screen at me and I sat back. What an unexpected connection. Velia Champion was the wife of Rudy Rio's boss, Jay-the-hero-in-Afghanistan-Champion. And, surprise, surprise, she was the sister of Crystal, aka Delphine, the woman Rudy saw murdered—maybe—in a snuff movie. More than just coincidence there, had to be.
I fast-forwarded and sat straight in my chair again when I saw the next article, written on the 19th: REWARD OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO MISSING STUDENT.
"Jay Champion, owner of Champion's Commercial Trailer Sales, and his wife, Velia, have posted a $50,000 reward for information concerning the disappearance of Velia Champion's sister, CSUF student Crystal Hargrove, 28, of Fresno..."
She was pretty old for a student. I wondered what took her so long. The scanner room was still jammed. The oriental girl—Vietnamese I guessed—circled like a vulture, eyeing my machine. I ignored her and sat staring into space, considering the possibilities. Fifty thousand dollars. The very thought sent ecstatic signals to my tired and troubled brain. Fifty thousand dollars would pay off Visa and MasterCard. Fifty thousand dollars would... Hey, there was no sense even thinking about it. I might as well depend on winning the state lottery. But still... I wondered if the reward was still good.
The last article concerning Crystal, dated April 30th, said nothing new, only that she remained missing. I considered returning to the cabinet for May, June, and July, but Miss Saigon still lurked, ready to pounce on my machine. Better go with what I had. I rewound the film I'd already viewed and ran it through again, dropping quarters in the printer slot. When I left (barely off the chair before she skidded into my seat), I stuffed the copies into my purse. That's it, I decided. There were better things I could do with my time. The problem was, my resolution didn't work. I could not stop thinking about that reward. By the time I reached B & P, I had a plan.
"Hi, kiddo," Tish said when I walked through the door. "You want to do your report? Use Perez's terminal. He's not here. As usual," she added under her breath, as if it were her own private joke.
My curiosity about Perez surfaced. I couldn't help asking, "What does he do?"
"He's up in San Francisco a lot. Surveillances...a lot of undercover stuff for insurance companies...missing persons...polygraph tests. Jeeze, what doesn't he do!"
I wrote the report, not mentioning Mountain Man. If Perez hadn't told his partner, why should I? When I finished, I took the report to Barnicut's office. He was in his usual pose—cigarette hanging from his fingers, feet resting on the desk. He wore exactly what he had on yesterday—same suit, same tie, same everything. Had he even gone home?
He read my report silently, drumming his fingers in that annoying way of his. Finally he looked across the desk at me and asked, "You're sure about the bartender?"
"Quite." I waited. If he so much as mentioned Mountain Man, I'd tell him—
"Well done, Holly. I'll have Tish cut you a check. Three hours, right? And expenses."
"Fine." This was known as having the wind taken out of your sails.
"I've got another little assignment for you..."
What do you know, I could still play P.I. Not that Barnicut was handing me the moon, it was just a routine case from an insurance company. An old lady had fallen and broken her knee cap in the produce department of a U-Save-More grocery store. She'd tripped over the corner of a wooden pallet that held a barrelful of nuts. I was supposed to go around to other grocery stores and photograph pallets, to show how common they were and how that old lady should have watched where she was going. Poor woman, she wouldn't stand a chance against U-Save-More's insurance company now that they'd decided to fight. It wasn't the most exciting assignment in the world, but at least I could postpone a visit to Kelly Girl.
Barnicut gave me a camera to use. He was acting almost cordial. I decided this was the moment to get chatty. "Oh, by the way, I found out something really interesting about your Jay Champion..."
I told him about yesterday's visit to Rudy and today's visit to the CSUF library. When I got to the part about the girl named Delphine could very possibly be a missing girl named Crystal Hargrove, Barnicut interrupted. "I know all about that. I'd give you odds some pervert got hold of her. She's nothing but bones by now, buried deep in the forest up in the Sierras—so deep they'll never find her."
I asked, "Did you know about the fifty thousand dollar reward?"
Barnicut shrugged. "I don't remember it."
"Maybe this new information about the snuff movie gives us a lead. What if I at least checked to see if the offer is still good?"
Barnicut swung his feet off the desk and sat up straight. "Fifty thousand, eh?"
I gave him the photocopies. "That's what it says."
He skimmed them swiftly. "How do you know she's still missing? That was back in '05. Maybe she's been found. Maybe someone's already collected the reward."
"Maybe."
"You could—" Barnicut made a face "—naw, what's the point. It's a time waster. The whole thing's too bizarre."
"We'll split," I said.
"Split?"
"I want to try and find Crystal. If I do, we'll split the reward. Twenty-five for you, twenty-five for me."
Barnicut's expression got crafty. "Why the generosity? Why can't you do it alone?"
"I'm not stupid. I need Barnicut & Perez."
He dropped his precious pencil, steepled his fingers and gave me his little smirk. "That's true, unless you have another office handy that's got WorldSearch."
"You know I don't." I couldn't do it alone. Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe got by with a desk, filing cabinet, and a couple of street-wise connections. That was in the good old days, but everything's high tech now. Private investigators need companies like WorldSearch Unlimited that can trace someone through a vast data base system in a dozen different ways, providing far more information than a simple search on the Internet. The problem is, these companies charge a lot of money for their services, which is one of the reasons I couldn't open my own office without a big investment up front. "Just give me the backup. I'll find Crystal."
Barnicut picked up his pencil. It looked like the same one he had thoroughly scrutinized yesterday. Apparently it needed further study because he began rolling it around in his fingers again, really absorbed.
I persisted, "What have you got to lose?"
"Not much." His face remained impassive, but I could see I'd gotten through. He reached towards the phone. "Was there a police detective mentioned in those articles?"
I didn't have to look, I remembered. "Detective Noel Diaz."
"Yeah, I know him. Let's call and see."
The number for the Fresno Police Department must have been programmed into Barnicut's data bank. He punched a button and in no time was chatting with Diaz. "Do you remember a girl named Crystal Hargrove?"
"Sure." Diaz's voice came through low and gravelly on the speaker. "She's still missing."
"Have you turned up anything new?"
"The case is still open. Why? You got something?"
"Just asking. What do you know about the fifty thousand reward?"
"That the Champions offered? Far as I know it's still good. You'd have to ask them."
"Okay. Check with you later, Noel."
Barnicut turned his attention back to me. "You've got a good lead with that snuff movie. Go ahead, try to find her—after you've finished your pallet pictures, of course."
"Of course." I felt suddenly buoyant, but kept stony faced so he wouldn't know. "It's a deal. But first I'd better find out if that reward's still good. I need to talk to Velia Champion." The thought struck me again that somewhere in the news just recently, I'd heard her name. "Do you have her phone number?"
Barnicut did. In the outer office, I dialed Velia Champion's number. A woman's high, sweet, flute-like voice answered. I introduced myself. Her silence stretched into a couple of seconds before she asked, "Yes? And how can I help you?"
"It's about your sister, Crystal. I understand she's still missing, and I'd like to know, uh..." I paused. How could I not sound crass?
"You're wondering if we're still offering the reward," Velia graciously supplied. "But of course we are. We're still prepared to pay $50,000 for information leading to Crystal...dead or alive."
"I'd like to come see you."
"Oh, indeed yes. Anything I can do to find my sister—" She stopped abruptly. I had the impression she was about to cry. Finally, her voice subdued, she continued, "Come see me any time." She gave me her address.
"I'll be there in an hour."
"That's just fine."
Back in my car, I restructured my day. First, I would visit Velia Champion. Then I would stop at every Safeway, Vons, Gong's, Save Mart, etcetera, in town and get Barnicut's pallet pictures out of the way. Third...
I dug out my cell and made an appointment for a brush-up lesson at the Golden Tiger Karate School.
Chapter 6
You live in The Bluffs, you live in such a classy neighborhood. From the priciest view lots you can observe the mighty San Joaquin River wending its way west from the Sierra Nevadas. Maybe "mighty" isn't quite the right word for the San Joaquin. The Mississippi River it is not. Except for maybe a little tubing, it isn't navigable. Sometimes it's just a trickle. It's the only river Fresno's got.
Luxury homes lined the Champions' shaded street, each one beautifully landscaped, each one unique. I found the Champions' spacious Mediterranean style home at the back of a cul-de-sac. In front, a huge yellow bow sat atop the fancy brick mail box by the winding driveway. Over the front door, an American flag flapped in the breeze. A long banner stretched across the front of the triple garage. Its gaudy red and yellow letters announced: HOME OF JAY CHAMPION, OUR HERO IN AFGHANISTAN.