Relatively Dead

by Cook, Alan

  “Be very careful. One problem. If the murderer is the same man who scammed your grandmother, he knows your name and your relationship to the deceased. If he’s part of the crowd the young Jason hung out with, he might get wind that you’re looking for him and decide to get rid of you. If he killed once, he could kill again.”

  I decided to be candid with Kyle. “He’s already tried to kill me.” I gave a quick summary of the event at the motel, and added that he threatened to kill me in the letter and when he was talking to Grandma. “Actually, he’s probably aware of two of my names: Carol Golden and my birth name, Cynthia Sakai. However, I have a third name I’m sure he doesn’t know about—Aiko Murakawa.”

  Kyle laughed. “No wonder I like you. Where did you come up with that one?”

  “I used it for a swimsuit video I made when I was young.”

  “Is it on the Internet? What’s the URL?”

  “You men are all alike.”

  “Mr. Ault would l-love to see it.”

  I’d actually made Kyle, the unflappable, stammer. I quit teasing. “It’s on YouTube under ‘Aiko Murakawa.’” I spelled the name for him and watched him write it down.

  “I used that name for most of the two years I lived in England. Of course, I don’t remember that period, but I have a British driving license, as they call it, spelled l-i-c-e-n-c-e. Fortunately, the woman I lived with in England saved it for me.”

  I fished it out of my wallet and handed it to Kyle.

  “Well I’ll be damned.” He looked at the picture on it and then at me. “It looks like you with longer hair.”

  “It is me. It’s valid. I could use it there tomorrow. And if anyone asks about me being English, I can put on my ‘enry ‘iggins accent.” I sang a line from My Fair Lady: “Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?”

  Kyle laughed again. “You’re full of surprises. Would you like a gun to carry? I can fix you up with one and even square it with the police.” When I looked at him doubtfully, he continued. “Working with Mr. Ault gives me a few connections.”

  “I don’t know how to use a gun. Anyway, it would be impossible to hide it in these tight jeans, and I don’t want to be forced to wear a jacket. But thanks, anyway.”

  “You could always carry it in your purse. But maybe you’re right. You should get trained before you carry a gun. At the risk of repeating myself, be careful. If you get into trouble or need any strings pulled, call me. Let’s trade cell phone numbers. It’s usually faster to reach me that way than calling the house.”

  Kyle gave me a business card with his number on it and entered mine in a phone he took from an inside jacket pocket. Then we hugged. Kyle let me go, reluctantly, still holding my arms, and looked into my eyes. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.” I wanted to say more but decided against it. “I had a lovely time, to use an English expression. Thanks for all your help.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  His fingers trailed down my arm as I turned away, touched my fingers briefly, and then I broke the connection. I remembered he’d offered to help me when I was trying to regain my identity. Maybe I should have taken him up on that. Maybe I’d be able to use his help this time.

  CHAPTER 11

  I rose before the Ramirez family left for work, feeling guilty because a guest should do more than just sleep at the home of her hosts. I’d talked to Rigo last night when I got back to the house, regaling him with an edited version of my day and showing him my poison oak. I tried not to give any of them a reason to worry about me. I explained to all of them that I was going to the home of their friend, forensic genealogist Frances Moran. That sounded innocuous.

  At least the scammer didn’t know where I was staying now—I hoped. After breakfast and a phone call home to North Carolina to find out how Grandma was doing, I drove the Porsche into Orange County and found the home of Frances Moran all by myself. Well, the GPS helped. Previously, when I’d come to see Frances during my search for my identity, Rigo drove me. Now he was working. That was fine with me. I liked the freedom to be able to do what I wanted without depending on others.

  I parked the car on the street and walked up the driveway to the small house. Frances came to the door and I hugged the petite woman, thinking not for the first time that men, especially big men, must have to be careful when hugging people, or they could cause a lot of damage.

  “Come in.” Frances held the door for me. “I’ve got tea on. We’ll go to the back room and trade information.”

  The back room was a sort of family room, with soft couches and chairs. I took a seat on a couch and saw Frances’ laptop computer sitting on the table in front of her. She must be working on a case.

  Frances entered from the kitchen with a tray filled with the items necessary to make tea from teabags. She asked me to tell her about the memorial service and which members of the Boyd family I’d met. I said I’d been introduced to several, but hadn’t really talked to them, except for Jason senior, and briefly, to Jason’s sister. I told her what I knew about Jason senior.

  Colleen absorbed all this and then started talking. “This Jason’s over seventy. The two males who were murdered were both in their twenties. If there’s a link between the murders, age may be part of the equation.”

  “Jason told me he’s never heard of the branch of the family still in Northern Ireland. Neither has my grandmother, or at least that’s what she claims. Since she has signs of dementia, I can’t be certain of that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother, but I’m not surprised the separated branches of the family are estranged. In my experience, it’s common that when one or more siblings leave the old country there may be some sort of schism between them and the relatives left behind, and they may lose touch with each other.”

  “But if the killings are related, someone knows about both lines. And since age may be a factor, does that make me a candidate?” I hadn’t told her about my recent experiences, partly because I knew the information would get back to Rigo, Tina, and Ernie.

  “I hope not.” Frances took a sip of tea. “We don’t know enough. You don’t have the Boyd name, but it was easy enough to find you in the ancestry databases after you told me Mrs. Horton’s maiden name was Boyd. If I can do it, other people can. Don’t be too concerned but keep your eyes open.”

  I had to laugh. “Don’t worry but watch my back. All right, I guess I can live with that. I’ve had experience being careful, from when Michael was stalking me. I have one other piece of information that might fit into this puzzle.” I told her how Grandma was scammed, and without mentioning the letter or my accident I said that Jason and I thought the scammer might also be the murderer.

  Frances listened, intently, expressed sympathy for Grandma, and wrote some notes on her computer while asking occasional questions. When I was through, she thought about it.

  “That’s very interesting. He—our scammer—apparently lives close to where Jason lived. He knows the Boyd genealogy, at least the American part. He scams the older members of the family and kills the young ones. If he is the killer, there’s no doubt he’s got a grudge against the extended family, which includes you. Since he threatened you by name, I’m upping the urgency of my previous statement about whether you’re a target from yellow to red.”

  For some reason this increased my stress level, even though I already knew I was a target. “May I see the Boyd ancestry information you’ve put together?”

  Frances brought up a tree structure on her computer. “Before you leave I’ll give you a printout of all these charts. We’ll call the first Jason Boyd, Jason I. He was born in 1864. His grandson is Jason Boyd II, Mrs. Horton’s first cousin, and his grandson, the one who was murdered, is Jason Boyd III. That way we can keep track of all the Jasons. Given names tend to repeat over and over again in family trees, making it very confusing.”

  I studied the charts. “So Jason I had three sons, not just the two who came to
the U.S.”

  “Correct. Your grandmother is the daughter of one of the sons who came here and Jason II is the son of the other one. As you know, Mrs. Horton and Jason II are first cousins. You and Jason III are third cousins.”

  “Right.” I already knew that, and I wanted to appear to have learned something from the lectures Frances gave me when I was searching for my identity.

  “There are various other cousins in most of the generations, although the Boyd name may be in danger of dying out, especially with the demise of the two young Boyds. However, it appears that Timothy, the one who was killed in Northern Ireland, has a brother named Jason, believe it or not. We’ll have to call him Jason IV.”

  “Do you think he’s next?”

  “That’s a possibility. I’m trying to find an address for him. He’s listed in the obituary for Timothy, but it doesn’t say where he lives. If I can find this Jason, I might send him a warning. I can always try to contact his parents.”

  I believed she’d do it. Frances was known for calling people all over the world and saying things like, “You don’t know me, but I’m looking for information on someone who might be a relative of yours.”

  “Do you know how Timothy was killed?”

  “The online news reports I found say he was apparently stabbed with a knife in a park somewhere south of Belfast, although no weapon was found.”

  “Are you going to contact the police there?”

  Frances shrugged. “No evidence. Besides, I don’t know which police to contact. He may not even have lived in Northern Ireland. Same thing with the police here. I want to maintain my credibility with them, which means I need some evidence that there’s a connection between the two killings before I shoot my mouth off. My theory is based on my belief that these killings are too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  I thought back to what Frances told me about DNA. “The two men who were killed had the same Y chromosome. Only males have Y chromosomes. As long as there are male Boyds, descended from Jason I, they will have the same Y chromosome. If the Boyd name dies out, so will that Y chromosome, at least in the descendants of Jason I.”

  “Good job.” Frances smiled. “We’ll make a DNA expert out of you yet. Maybe the killer has something against that Y chromosome.”

  “The scammer apparently talked about the male Boyd line to my grandmother as if there were something special about it, or at least the name Boyd. However, he also made a threat against me, although that was to get Grandma to cough up the money.” I was tempted to say more, but suppressed the urge.

  “Let’s not assume anything. Be very careful Even though you don’t have a Y chromosome, you could still be a target.”

  “I have a question. If somebody who is a novice at genealogy and doesn’t have you as a friend wants to find out the same information we’ve just been looking at, how does he go about it?”

  “In other words, if the theory about the killings being related holds water, how was the killer able to find out more information about your family than either your grandmother or Jason II know? In California, there’s the California Genealogical Society, which has its headquarters in Burbank. They often have meetings where people who are researching their family trees can come in and ask questions of the more knowledgeable members.”

  I had another thought. “Since we’re interested in males with the same Y-DNA, wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a record of that DNA on an Internet database like the ones you’re in charge of?” Frances agreed. I had an idea. “If you have a DNA testing kit available, I’ll buy it from you and test Jason II.”

  Frances had two kits she’d been saving for when she needed them. I purchased both of them.

  ***

  Jason II had returned to Idyllwild that morning. He didn’t know about the third line of the Boyd family descending from Jason I. I wanted to show him the tree charts printed by Frances from the Internet with all three lines, including some dates of birth and death. It was too much information for a phone call. I would have to go to Idyllwild. Idyllwild sounded like an idyllic spot, up in the mountains. Probably how it got its name. Jason had invited me to come and stay with him at his cabin. I wanted to but I had work to do before I went.

  Since I was in Orange County, I should take advantage of it. I went for a long but slow run along Huntington Beach, trying to keep my poison oak from itching too much. I also went shopping in one of the huge Orange County malls and bought a new pair of jeans, among other things.

  My next order of business was to take care of Rigo. I’d gone to Ault’s house last night instead of spending the evening with him. He tried to put on a brave front, but I knew he wasn’t happy with my decision. I wanted to make it up to him.

  Rigo would get off work in a few hours. I’d be there to meet him. I took the onramp to the 405 freeway north and headed in his direction.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jason’s description of the Venice apartment building where his grandson had lived and died was right on the money. I stood on the concrete beach walk and gazed up at the top of the four-story structure with its multi-colored bricks, ranging from red to yellow to almost-white, a jigsaw puzzle with a geometric design.

  The vertical fire-escape ladder that went from the small fourth-floor balcony to the roof was several feet out from the wall, unshielded and unprotected. Even assuming the metal ladder was safe, and the age of the building belied this—it probably dated from the heyday of Venice: the forties, or even the thirties—an acrophobe like me could never climb it.

  I shuddered and lowered my head. Looking almost straight up made me dizzy. People walked or jogged past me, enjoying a cool but sunny March afternoon on another magnificent California beach. A few bicycles whizzed along the separate bike path with spandex-clad riders. From this vantage point it appeared everyone in L.A. was healthy and well exercised.

  A young woman went up the steps to the apartment entrance. I quickly crossed the path, snaking among several walkers, and followed her to the door.

  “Hi.”

  I spoke in my cheeriest voice, and the woman, who was putting her key in the door lock, turned her head slightly and returned the greeting with a slightly puzzled expression.

  I smiled and spoke again. “Do you know Evan Hunter?”

  The woman, who was about my age, with long red hair and freckles, appeared to think for a moment. “Evan. I believe he lives on the third floor.”

  “Oh, good. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but I don’t have his phone number or anything. Perhaps you could show me his apartment.”

  Which meant letting me into the building. Actually, I did know his phone number and apartment number. Jason II gave me that information. I’d tried to call Evan a couple of times, but nobody answered. I didn’t leave a message.

  She was beginning to look a bit suspicious. Time for me to launch into my cover story.

  “My name is Aiko Murakawa. I’m a reporter for an E-zine—an Internet magazine—and I’d like to do a piece on Jason Boyd. His death was so tragic…”

  I watched the eyes of the woman. She reacted to hearing Jason’s name with a look that had a touch of something—grief, sadness?

  “Did you know Jason?”

  A nod. She opened the door and beckoned me to precede her inside. The hallway we entered was narrow and had a musty smell. Inadequate lighting contributed to an effect of age and slight decay, even though the walls were freshly painted. She led me up the stairs. At a landing she turned and took a good look at me.

  “You were at Jason’s memorial service.”

  I couldn’t remember seeing her there. But there were so many people… “Yes, I was. I—I didn’t want to do the reporter thing—it would have been inappropriate—but I did listen to the nice things people said about him. He must have been a-a really nice guy.” I was almost stammering. I wasn’t cut out to be undercover.

  “He was.” That seemed to satisfy the woman. She continued up two flights of stairs. A
s we entered the third floor corridor, I asked her name.

  “Nelly McIvor.”

  I also got her apartment number as we stopped in front of a door. I was prepared for Evan not to be there—five-thirty p.m. on a Friday—but strange music issued forth from the room as Nelly knocked.

  Nelly lowered her voice, almost whispering. “Evan is—how shall I say this?—a bit weird. But he’s harmless.”

  She must know him better than she’d let on. She went to Jason’s service. She must have some sort of relationship with his roommate. The haunting music continued and reminded me of an instrument like a flute played by a snake charmer. The door remained closed. Nelly knocked again, harder, and called out.

  “Evan, you’ve got a visitor. Open the damn door.”

  After a few seconds the music stopped. I heard footsteps and then fiddling with door locks. The door finally opened and a head stuck out covered with long, uncombed, blond hair. A smell like burning rope assailed my nostrils. Marijuana? The eyes of the young man didn’t seem to be able to quite focus on me.

  Nelly frowned at Evan. “Evan, this is…” She turned to me. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Aiko.”

  “This is Aiko. She’s a reporter. She wants to do a story on Jason.”

  Evan was still trying to focus on me. “You want to do a story on Jason? S’tragedy what happened to him. He was a good roommate.” He stood there, blinking.

  Nelly became impatient. “Aren’t you going to let him in?”

  “C’mon in.”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone with him. I glanced at Nelly. Nelly seemed unconcerned. She’d said Evan was harmless. He appeared to be spacey enough so that was probably true. I followed Evan into the apartment.

  As I entered, Nelly spoke to me in a low voice. “Come see me when you’re through here.” She told me her apartment number again.

  Evan’s apartment was dimly lit. Torn curtains covered the window I saw. There were apparently two rooms in addition to a bathroom. It wasn’t furnished in any traditional sense. Cushions were flung here and there on the bare floor. A surfboard, a wetsuit, and various items of clothing occupied some of the space. The wetsuit was wet. A few posters hung on the walls, apparently of rock stars. A calendar had a photo of a naked girl on it.