"It's okay," I told him. "Seamus fought off coyotes in the bay before coming to live here. A large, friendly dog should be nothing." I laughed. "I think I've spoiled him. He's gotten too used to the soft life."
"By the way, your cat is green."
"Uh-huh," I commented. "I'll tell you about that later."
Something smelled good.
Greg asked me to point him toward the kitchen and off he went. I followed and laughed again when he started pulling cartons of Chinese takeout from the large knapsack that hung on the back of his chair.
"Frye's not due for another hour," he explained with a grin, "so I thought we'd have some dinner first. I'm starved. Hope you like Mongolian beef."
"It's one of my favorites."
"Good. I got that, orange chicken, and shrimp with vegetables. Just in case. I figured I'd hit something you like."
"Looks like you're planning to feed an army."
My mouth was getting juicy as the delicious odor filled the kitchen, and my stomach did a jig of joy. With all the commotion over Danny Ortiz, I never ate lunch. Now I was famished. Quickly I set out dishes and flatware. I offered him water, a beer or soda. He chose the beer, so I got out two.
Just as we were dishing it out, the door bell rang. Opening it, I found Detective Frye standing there, filling every inch of the opening.
"I know I'm early. Hope it won't be a problem," he said politely.
"Ah...no, Detective. Please come in. We were just sitting down for dinner."
He followed me into the kitchen. If he was surprised to see Greg, he hid it well.
"You probably remember Greg Stevens," I said, offering Frye a chair at the table.
"Yes, you're the one who called in the nine-one-one on London." The two men shook hands. "I didn't know you and Ms. Grey knew each other."
"We don't," I said quickly. "Or rather, we didn't until Sophie died. It kind of brought us together."
"A common cause, so to speak," Greg added more calmly.
Police make me nervous. There was no particular reason why. I hadn't done anything wrong. But even the sight of a cruiser waiting next to my car at a red light could make my legs rubbery. It occurred to me that Greg and I together might look suspicious. Oh, hell! This is stupid, Odelia, I told myself.
"I see," Frye said, sitting down, his face impassive.
Everything about Frye was large and abundant. His hands, his features, his blue eyes, even his blonde hair, which was thick and curly and laced with gray. His voice was distinct, like a cement mixer on low. I placed him in his early fifties. He was chewing gum. It was another thing I'd noticed the first time I'd met him—he was a gum chewer.
He looked Greg over openly and with no apology. Then he did the same to me. I could tell he was appraising the situation, trying to determine our true relationship in his cop way.
"Would you like to join us?" I offered. There was a slight shake in my voice. I groaned silently.
"No, that's okay. I'm sorry I interrupted you folks. But it's not often I get to leave the office this early."
"How about a beer, Detective?" I asked.
His eyes found mine and he gave me a small, closed-mouthed smile. I automatically smiled back and felt myself blush. I looked away quickly. "Or a soda?"
"Sure, why not. A Coke, if you've got one, would be great."
"Diet Coke okay?"
He nodded. I handed him a glass of ice and an open can of Diet Coke. He thanked me and took a big swallow right from the cold can.
"Gawd, that's good," he said with pure enjoyment. "It was a scorcher today." He took another drink. With two more swallows he drained the can. I went to the fridge to get another. This time he set the can on the table in front of him. Greg and I looked at each other, waiting.
"You know, Ms. Grey," Frye began, then belched, politely holding it back behind his closed fist. "Excuse me. You know that Ms. London's death was determined a suicide?"
"Yes. But I..." I answered, hesitating. I pointed a finger back and forth between Greg and myself. "We...we don't believe it was suicide. And I think that the accident with Danny Ortiz today, the one I told you about on the phone, is somehow connected."
"Yes, I checked that out with the Santa Ana PD. Poor kid never had a chance. Car ran a red light, then swerved into the driver's side of his truck while he was getting in. They're holding some guy on manslaughter. His blood alcohol level was over three times the legal limit. Not his first offense, either."
I looked down at my plate, not all that hungry any more.
"I interviewed Ortiz following Ms. London's death. Nice kid, polite. Too bad these things happen."
"Please, Detective, take off your coat and join us," Greg insisted. "We have plenty of food and a whole slew of theories to run by you."
The big man hesitated, sizing up the food with a hungry eye. Before he could refuse again, I got another plate and set of utensils and placed them in front of him.
"Dig in, Detective," I encouraged. "We have lots to tell you."
"Well, I didn't have much lunch and this sure does smell good."
In no time, I relaxed around Frye. He was a very pleasant man, and it was obvious he knew his business.
Between bites, Greg and I took turns telling him about Hollowell and Olsen, Iris, and Danny Ortiz. Though it was clear that the detective had already met the cast of characters, he took it all in, patiently listening to our side, stopping us here and there to ask a question. Occasionally, he would jot notes in a small spiral pad he'd pulled from his inside pocket before taking off his jacket.
After dinner, I made some coffee, half-decaf, and served it in the living room, along with some fresh fruit and cookies. It had been years since I'd had two men over for dinner at the same time. Except for the topic of murder, the evening appeared to be nothing more than a casual dinner among friends. I was only sorry it had taken Sophie's death to bring such good male company into my life.
About two hours later, Frye got up to leave. He thanked me for my hospitality and shook both of our hands.
"I'll look into everything you've mentioned," he said standing at the front door. "But honestly, everything still points to suicide. The gun was hers. The wound self-inflicted. There's absolutely no doubt about that at all. Considering her history with this Hollowell character and her estrangement from her son, maybe she just reached her limit. Unfortunately, it happens all the time."
After Frye left, Greg and I went into the kitchen to clean up. While I scraped plates and rinsed them for the dishwasher, he packed the leftovers and shuttled things from the dining table to the kitchen counter. There was an uneasy silence between us as we worked. Wainwright had followed us from room to room earlier and was currently flopped in a corner of the dining area watching us over crossed paws. Seamus was still missing in action.
"Odelia," Greg finally said, "did you ever look at Sophie's site?"
Before answering, I put the last dish into the dishwasher, closed the door, and wiped my hands on a nearby dish towel. I was stalling.
"Yes," I said. "But I only got as far as seeing her face on the opening page. I couldn't go any further."
He wheeled over to me and took one of my hands in his. "I think it's important that you see it. It might help you understand some of the things she did."
"Well, maybe." I sighed. I felt depression edging in on me. Frye still obviously thought it was an open and shut case of suicide. Maybe it was.
"Come on," Greg said, pulling me away from the kitchen. "Let's look at it together. I think you might feel better."
"Okay," I said, giving in.
Whatever was in the site contents, Greg definitely thought I should see it. Why not? It might help me to have someone there when I did. I headed for the stairs, took a few upward, then stopped. I looked down at Greg in his wheelchair.
"I'm sorry, Greg, but the computer's upstairs in the spare bedroom."
He looked perplexed for a moment, then smiled. "We'll just use Sophie's. Her place i
sn't far from here and the computer's still hooked up, isn't it?"
I nodded and smiled back at him, and off we went.
Chapter Fifteen
SOPHIE'S HOUSE WAS quickly losing its personality as a home. Without her day-to-day warmth and hospitality, it had been reduced to merely a handsome structure with charming landscaping and a picket fence. Like a shy child reluctant to join in on the fun, it seemed to stand aloof from the other houses on the quiet, tree-lined street.
As soon as we entered the front door, I disarmed the security system and snapped on some lights, hoping that Iris Somers didn't notice the activity and decide to come over with more complaints. Greg went straight to the back room and the computer. I followed slowly behind.
While Greg wheeled in behind the computer, I went to the kitchen to retrieve a chair for myself. Together, we waited nervously for the machine to kick into action. He navigated the Internet browser deftly, bringing up the opening page of Sassy Sophie in short time.
I was emotionally torn. On one hand, I did want to see the site. On the other, I wasn't sure I was ready to see it. I decided to trust Greg's judgment that I shouldn't put it off any longer.
Greg had already posted the memorial. Instead of altering the existing pages, he had merely created and inserted a new opening page.
At the top, in a large, stylized font on a lavender background, were the words We Will Miss You! Below that, to the left, was the short memorial paragraph we had drafted together. To the right of the writing was a playful and sexy photo of Sophie I had never seen. She was reclining in a black, sheer lace negligée, shown only from the waist up, with her large, round breasts and fully erect nipples bulging for the camera. Her head was tilted back, showing off the graceful curve to her neck and jaw line. Like a golden curtain, her hair hung loose away from her head. Her mouth was partially open, and over her full ruby lips she dangled a rosy plump strawberry.
It was a wonderful photo. Very erotic yet sweet, capturing her impishness. I had to admit, I could see the Sophie I knew posing for such a picture.
Under that section of the page was a small block in which viewers could submit their feelings and sentiments. Greg explained that every evening he would go through the offerings and post the appropriate ones to the site. He scrolled down the page a bit more and there they were, the heartfelt words of her viewers, both men and women, recorded for all visitors to the site to see. I started skimming a few until my eyes blurred from tears.
"These people loved her," Greg whispered to me.
"I'll read them later," I told him, with a lump as big as a grapefruit in my throat.
He moved to the next page. This was the beginning of the site as it had been when Sophie was alive, the page I had seen and closed quickly. It was well laid out, with a very feminine and stylish design.
Under the site's large, scripted heading was a montage of about a half-dozen photos of Sophie in various poses, each one overlapping the other in a very esthetically pleasing format. All the pictures were cheerful, ranging from playful to boldly erotic. Some were nudes. Others showed her in lingerie. Directly under the photos were buttons for hyperlinks to other pages of the web site—Members Only, Guest Gallery, Guest Cam, and Mail Bag. Under those had been placed a smartly written paragraph about the beauty of women of all sizes, shapes, colors, and backgrounds. There was even a dedication paragraph in which Sophie committed the entire site to ending prejudice against large and overweight women in particular.
This was what Greg wanted me to see. This had been Sophie's purpose.
I asked Greg to go to the Guest Gallery page. There we found another half-dozen erotic and beautiful photos of Sophie. This page also contained words of adoration about women, particularly large women.
I was beginning to understand, though it wasn't the route I'd have chosen to make my statement.
"What went on when the camera was running?" I asked Greg.
He shifted slightly in his wheelchair and I could see he was getting a bit uncomfortable.
"Well, most of the time she'd be nude or near nude in front of the camera and would chat live with visitors to the site in a special chat room. Most of the time she used a headset and spoke directly to them instead of typing messages. They could see her and communicate with her through typed dialogue or voice chat at the same time." Greg looked around the desk until he located an odd round ball that looked like it had three legs. A cable was attached to the back of the ball.
"See," he said, showing it to me. "The camera is attached to this tripod and has an extra long cable. That way Sophie could move it around the house so viewers could watch her sleep, read, watch TV, and eat. Sometimes they would even get to see her shower."
"They?" I looked at him, my lips tight, trying to keep from laughing.
Normally, I would have been too embarrassed to view such photos with another person, let alone a man I hardly knew. But tonight was way over the top for normal. Looking back, I realized I hadn't drawn a routine breath since that Sunday in the supermarket when Seth had called with the tragic news.
"Uh..." Greg began, running his fingers through his hair. I had already picked up that this was his particular physical sign of nervousness; a dead giveaway of internal squirming. Fingers through the hair; he did it every time. Right now it was accompanied by an undeniable blush.
"Yeah, okay, you nailed me," he said chuckling. "Yes, we'd watch her in the shower, though I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of perv, who habitually visits adult sites. Sophie and her site were different."
"Uh-huh," I said smiling. Actually, I had gotten past the idea of Greg being a sicko with a problem. He was normal and healthy as far as I could see. "What about sex? Did she perform sexually for the camera?"
He clicked back and hit the Members Only link, then typed in a password at the prompt. I assumed it was his own personal membership code.
Up popped a welcome page with more photos, a short biography of Sophie and more hyper links: Web Cam, Archives, and Gallery. Greg clicked on Gallery.
This time the photos were graphic, many even hardcore. There were links to several pages of photos, all erotic and sizzling. Still each page contained words of praise for women of soft, round flesh. Most of these photos were obviously taken with the computer camera, others looked professional. They chronicled Sophie's domestic life, showing her doing everyday things, mostly unclad or nearly so.
One of the last Gallery pages displayed photos of Sophie in bed with a man. I felt my face flush from the neck up, until my hair felt like it would burst into flames like dry brush. Yet, I couldn't look away.
Totally disregarding Greg, I stared at the photos, wondering who the guy was. In each picture, his face was always well hidden. I motioned to Greg and he clicked on the last Gallery page. Here, too, were several photos of Sophie and her partner, again with his face out of view.
Greg broke my concentration. "He likes you, you know."
"Huh? Who?"
"Frye."
Puzzled, I looked at Greg, but he kept staring at the computer screen.
Where in the hell did this come from, I wondered.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Detective Frye. He likes you, and not in the usual suspects kind of way. I noticed how he was looking at you." His eyes finally met mine. They were crinkled around the edges from teasing, yet sad at the same time.
"You're nuts," I said, returning my focus to the photos. "Besides, he's married. Didn't you see the ring?"
"He had a wedding ring?"
"Yep. Girls always notice little things like that. Gender hazard, or occupational, depending how you look at it."
"Are you saying you always check to see if a guy is wearing a wedding ring?"
"Do you notice boobs?" I asked, turning to look him in the eye.
He grinned slyly and reddened, giving me my answer.
"Well, there you go!" I declared. "I also noticed he was doing a great deal of listening and not much talking. Did y
ou catch that? Frye has interviewed all the people we were discussing, yet he never disclosed one single tidbit about anything he learned."
"So, he's a cop. His information is probably confidential."
"Probably," I said. Yet something about Frye's concentration was nagging me. If it was a simple suicide, why was he still so interested in what Greg and I had to say? "But maybe he's trying to tie up some loose ends of his own."
"You mean an on his own time kind of thing?" Greg asked.
I could see I had captured his interest in the subject. "Sure, it's possible. It happens on TV, why not in real life?"
We looked at each other and laughed. Greg and I laughed a lot together. It was one of the things I enjoyed most about our budding friendship.
Greg continued to move throughout the web site, coming to rest on a page called Archives.
"The archives," he explained, "hold captured photos from live sessions. You can set the camera to take still shots in timed increments, then post the pictures or use them anyway you like."
"Really?"
This was new territory to me and I was finding it fascinating. The only drawback was that it concerned a dear friend. I pushed the who out of my curious mind and focused on the what.
"Show me," I told him.
He pointed and clicked with the computer mouse. The next page contained dates with a small thumbnail size photo showing a sample of the content for each date.
My mind was in overdrive. What if...
"Greg," I began, speaking slowly as my next thought was quickly conceived, incubated, and born via my mouth, "do you think Sophie captured photos the day she died?"
He stared at me, his mouth partially open. His fingers swept slowly through his long brown hair.
"Shit," he said. "I never thought of that. If she did, they'd be in a stored file on the computer. The police would've shut down the computer and the camera. But the photos would've been filed as they were taken."
I watched as his fingers moved the arrow-shaped cursor around the computer screen. He went to the file manager, opening the listing of files on the hard drive, scanning names for clues. My eyes browsed the file names along with Greg's. At one folder he stopped and turned quickly to me.
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