"Odelia, are you sure you want to see this? I mean, if the photos are here, they'll be of the day she died, even of her death itself. I've seen it. It's memorable, but not in a good way."
I hadn't considered that.
"I'd be glad to view the files and photos for you, so you won't have to," he said gently.
I shook my head slowly. "No, Greg. But thanks for the offer. I don't want to see this, but feel I should. Not to mention, two sets of eyes have a better chance at spotting some offhand clue than one."
"All right." He reached out his left hand and took my right one, squeezing it. "I think this might be it."
He clicked on the file icon and up popped a listing of photos with dates and chronological numbers. The date matched the date she died—May 3rd.
Chapter Sixteen
JOHN HOLLOWELL LIVED in a very expensive, very upscale part of Corona del Mar, a small unincorporated beach community bordering the south of Newport Beach. The homes in his neighborhood were gorgeous, painted and landscaped in money.
With Sophie's address book next to me, I identified Hollowell's home and pulled over. It was a two-story modern structure in light coral with large picture windows on both floors. The upstairs level had a deck, which I imagined afforded the residents a spectacular view, especially since the home was situated on a slight rise across the street from a park that perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Two large bougainvillea, exploding in fuchsia, grew along the front of the house.
Glancing at my watch, I noted the time—six-ten. I had an appointment with Hollowell at six-thirty. We were meeting in the bar of a restaurant located at Fashion Island. I just wanted to see his home first.
My day at the office had stretched as endlessly as a desert highway. I couldn't wait for it to be over so I could begin moonlighting as a detective. As usual, my heavy work load was a godsend, keeping my mind focused away from the speculations that now clogged my brain like a head cold.
I had arrived at the office early this morning, then worked straight through lunch. Munching on a fluffer-nutter, I continued plowing through the files and projects that were my responsibility. I planned on doing the same tomorrow and the next day until the backlog was caught up. Steele, still giving me the silent treatment, which, for me, was actually more of a treat, wasn't helping matters by continuing to pile new work on my desk.
For those of you not familiar with fluffer-nutters, it's a peanut butter and marshmallow crème sandwich; a comfort food from childhood that had survived the trip into middle-age. Or maybe I had survived to middle-age because of comfort foods like these. It was a chicken/egg conundrum. Either way, I still eat them from time to time.
I had missed enough work recently for people to wonder what was going on. Except for the usual vacation days and an occasional sick day, in the past fifteen years, I had hardly ever been absent, giving me one of the best attendance records in the firm. Now, in less than two weeks, I had taken two-and-a-half personal days off, and had given the office manager a heads-up that I might need a bit more time while Mr. Wallace was away.
Shortly before I left for the day, Tina had called me into her office and, after closing her door, asked directly if I was looking for another job. She seemed on the edge of panic.
Woobie's office manager is Christina Swanson. She's close to my age and is as highstrung as a Chihuahua on crack. But she's a good manager, treating everyone as fairly as possible. I don't know how she does it. A few years ago, when our last manager left, I was offered the position, but turned it down. Attorneys are not easy to deal with, not even when they're on your side. I had my hands full with Michael Steele on a part-time basis; no way was I going to juggle a whole firm of the creatures. Kind of makes me wonder...was Tina nervous before she got to Woobie, or did Woobie make her nervous? Guess that's in the same category as the chicken/egg issue.
I planned to be partially upfront with Tina, saying I was just having a tough time coping emotionally with the death of my close friend and was attending to many of her personal matters as well. The part about playing amateur gumshoe and sticking my nose into a possible murder would be edited out. But before I could say anything, Tina had pounced on me.
"Someone told you, didn't they?" she'd asked.
I had no idea what she was talking about, so being lost for words, I had simply shrugged my reply.
"It was that darn Michael Steele, wasn't it?" She all but spat out his name. "I warned him something like this would happen. I told him to wait until Mr. Wallace returned and could speak to you personally."
Whatever it was someone supposedly told me and wasn't supposed to, I could tell it was big. And I hate being left out of big, juicy news, especially when it concerned me.
"Well, Tina, you know how Steele can be," I had said, ignoring the truth that Steele had childishly not spoken to me for a couple of days. As I said, I have no poker face, so I kept my words brief.
"Odelia," she said, "you're a valuable employee. We don't want to lose you over this, but we need you to be flexible right now. We need you to be a team player."
"When have I ever not been a team player?" I asked.
"Always," she quickly confirmed. "That's why it's even more important now that Mr. Wallace is leaving."
I was still stumped, but tried hard not to show it. I already knew Mr. Wallace was retiring in a few months. But everyone knew that. Again, I shrugged. "What can I say, Tina?"
"Mr. Wallace was going to tell you before he left on vacation, but you were out. But now you know, I'm asking you to give it a chance."
Tina really thought I was quitting the firm. She was sure Steele had told me something that would make me leave. I combed my brain for what that could be. What would make me leave Woobie after all these years?
Suddenly, my mental fog lifted and I did not like the view. There was only one reason I could think of that would make me want to quit my job. One reason and one reason only—Michael Steele.
I was in shock. Without confirmation from Tina, I knew they were assigning me permanently to Steele when Mr. Wallace left. Without a word, I got up to leave. Just as I put a hand on her door knob, Tina spoke again.
"The position comes with a raise, Odelia—a nice one."
I paused and considered it without turning around. Raise? Did someone say raise? Hmmmm, but would the extra money really be worth the extra aggravation?
"It's a full-time paralegal position," Tina continued, trying to woo me.
Without taking my hand off the door knob, I turned slightly around. "But Steele will be my supervising attorney?"
"Yes, that's true," she said quickly. "But for all his faults, he is a brilliant attorney. Think of how much you can learn from him. And, Odelia, Mr. Steele asked for you to be assigned to him. He wants to work with you and no one else."
"Lucky me," I said with false gaiety.
Tina smiled tightly at my remark. "Please, Odelia, give it a chance."
I thought about it, quickly turning over the possibilities without losing my lunch.
"I want a private office," I told her. "There's that small one on the floor below." Although most paralegals had to make due with cubicles, some had tiny offices. Anything with a door would suit me. A door could be closed, preferably in the face of an obnoxious attorney. I was getting good at closing doors on annoying people.
But Tina shook her head. "Sorry, but Mr. Steele wants you right outside his office, next to his secretary's desk."
I turned the door handle. "It's been great working here, Tina, but the answer is no."
The door was open and I was halfway through it when she spoke again. "How about the one at the end of the hall? It's a few doors down from Mr. Steele."
I knew the office. It was currently being used for storing case files for a large litigation matter. It was close enough to Steele to be convenient, but far enough away he couldn't bellow for me from behind his desk. To talk to me, he'd either have to walk down to my office or pick up the phone.
&nbs
p; "It's the best I can do, Odelia," Tina said in a strained voice.
I paused, gave it quick thought and turned to face Tina. "It's a deal, Tina. I'll give it a chance, but the office is non-negotiable. So is the raise. There'll be no horse trading one for the other."
Mike Steele as my supervising attorney; now that was something that could make a gal go postal.
AFTER CHECKING OUT chez Hollowell, it didn't take me long to coast up Pacific Coast Highway to Fashion Island. The restaurant was situated on the outskirts of the mall, on Newport Center Drive, across from a large parking structure and office buildings.
I was nervous. My curiosity was piqued. The Sophie I knew was a warrior of causes, a loving leader who stood tall in the crowd, a door mat for no one. So, who was this man and what kind of spells did he weave? I could understand a teenage Sophie being smitten. Even a young woman with a head full of romantic fantasies could be enticed to run off with a dubious suitor. But Sophie had been tied to him for over twenty years, and had even given up her son for him. However, according to Greg, she'd been trying to break away from Hollowell.
Olsen had said Hollowell had used Sophie, physically and emotionally, since they were in high school. Greg referred to him as Sophie's addiction. I had lots of questions for John Hollowell. So many, I had entertained the idea of jotting them down on the palm of my hand like crib notes. From what I'd seen and heard of him so far, a bad taste had already formed. But I knew I'd learn nothing if I came across like a Rottweiler having a bad day. And, after all, it might not have been as Olsen and Greg had said. Jealousy is a powerful motive for spreading blame and dislike. Maybe Hollowell and Sophie had been star-crossed lovers trying to build a life together in spite of unfortunate circumstances.
Yeah, right. My logical side kicked my romantic side in the ass and told it to get real.
Hollowell had agreed to meet me almost immediately after I telephoned this morning. I had baited him, saying Sophie had left him something I wanted to deliver in person.
She hadn't left him anything.
Considering that the two of them had been so close, if not bonded in some sick and unholy alliance for over two decades, I had been surprised at the lack of mention of Hollowell in Sophie's final requests. But rummaging through her things, I found something that might be a believable token. It was a thick gold bracelet with both of their initials engraved on a small round disk that dangled from one of the large links. I had discovered it at the bottom of one of her dresser drawers, tucked inside a black velvet jewelry case.
The bar was moderately busy. A quick scan showed Hollowell's movie star face nowhere in sight. Over the phone, I had given him a sketchy idea of what I looked like. Sitting at a small table near the bar, I ordered a strawberry margarita and watched the entrance for him.
I didn't have to wait long. He showed up just as my drink was being served. Catching his attention, I gave him a small wave.
Dressed in impeccable casual business attire, he was even more good looking than I remembered. He strolled over to my table. He was tall and lean, but not skinny. His handsome face was brown from the sun, with slight creases feathering the outside of his eyes. If asked, I'd have guessed that he either golfed or sailed, or both.
I extended my hand, trying to keep my shakes from being too noticeable. Just as Zee had said, I was out of my league. Sophie had seemed invincible. Like Superman, but with red pumps and a handbag to match the cape. I was a mere mortal standing on the precipice of menopause, trying to cruise in an ill-fitting bra.
"John Hollowell, I presume," I said, trying to be jaunty. It came out corny.
"Yes." He chuckled slightly, giving my hand a firm but not tight shake.
His voice was cultured, not too deep, rolling off his tongue with confidence and perfect diction. Had he spoken with a British accent, I would have melted on the spot into an adoring puddle.
Get a grip, Odelia, I warned myself silently. This man is most likely an emotional predator, possibly a killer.
"It's nice to meet you, Odelia." He flashed a perfect smile.
I indicated the chair across from me. "Please, have a seat."
Ignoring my offer, he took the chair immediately to my right and pulled up conspiratorially close. Power and control emanated from him like a heady aftershave. It made my nose crinkle and my brain go on alert.
On his left ring finger was a medium width gold band with a square cut diamond set flush in the middle. I thought of Greg and our discussion about Detective Frye and smiled.
The waiter came over. Hollowell ordered a Chivas on the rocks, water on the side.
I looked at him and blushed. It was a direct reaction to his uncommonly good looks and proximity. I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for a pretty male face. After spending under three minutes with the man, I was beginning to understand how Sophie had gotten roped in.
I seemed unable to find my voice to start the conversation, but he helped me out.
"I remember you from the service," he said, looking at my face, studying it with a slow, lazy smile. Moving only his large brown eyes with their long lashes, his gaze trailed down my neck and rested momentarily on my chest, then traveled back to my face.
I felt naked.
Before I sat down I had taken off my suit jacket. Today I had worn a lightweight sage green suit with a cream silk tank top underneath. I thought about reaching for the jacket, but dismissed the action as too obvious, a sign of discomfort and running scared. I only prayed that the cool air moving through the bar didn't bring up my nipples through the thin material.
"You knew Sophie a long time?" he asked, keeping up his end of the conversation in spite of my silence.
"Almost three years," I croaked out, then repeated it much clearer. "Three years."
Some detective, I scolded myself. Amateur or not, if you're going to do this, Odelia, do it right.
"I understand you knew Sophie since high school," I said, managing to summon some confidence in my tone.
He smiled another slow smile. "Yes, we've been very close all these years." He reached out a hand and lightly patted my forearm. "I'm sorry Sophie never introduced us."
My skin sizzled as his cool, dry fingers lingered.
This man was good and obviously knew just what buttons to push. Olsen had called him smooth, but, until now, I hadn't known what smooth truly meant. Between his good looks, powerful yet casual demeanor, and silken voice, he was a lethal weapon. I felt my resolve and purpose being sapped.
The waiter came with Hollowell's drink. It gave me a chance to shake the spell off.
I took a long drag on my margarita. After sucking up a fair amount of strawberry flavored determination, I steeled my shoulders and scooted my chair discreetly away from him just a tad. Then I reached into my bag and brought out the long velvet box.
"I believe Sophie wanted you to have this," I said, placing the bracelet directly in front of Hollowell.
He took the box and opened it, letting loose with a deep chuckle when he did.
"Figures she'd leave me this," he said, his voice edged with sarcasm. He took the bracelet out of the box and dangled it, playing with the fluid links. It cascaded over his fingertips like golden water.
"It's very beautiful," I commented. "I assumed you had given it to her."
"Yes, I did." He chuckled again and looked at me. Again, the lazy, sly smile. "She hated it. Said it reminded her of manacles."
I was silent. Manacles? Chains for a slave? I wondered.
"So, Odelia, what do you think? An expensive bracelet? Or a single shackle?"
I shrugged. "It's very beautiful, Mr. Hollowell. Maybe it just wasn't Sophie's taste."
"Now, I told you on the phone to call me John."
"Okay, John." I gave him a small, forced smile.
With a quick jerk, he pulled off the engraved disk. Then, in a single, gliding, underhanded motion, he tossed it across the room, away from the other tables. He did it casually, as if skipping rocks on a pond. It struck the far wa
ll of the structure and disappeared behind some potted plants.
Did he dispose of Sophie as calmly? There was no doubt in my mind that he was capable.
"Here, it's yours," he said, offering the jewelry to me.
"Mine?" I was shocked.
"Sure. I certainly don't need it. And it would be a nice keepsake for you to have. Beautiful jewelry should be worn only by beautiful women." Again with the disarming smile. He dangled the gold in front of me as if offering a treat.
Okay, so where was the trick?
"I don't think so...John. But thank you just the same." My natural stubborn streak and my built-in bullshit detector were powering up, getting ready to be put into service. "Besides," I lied, "Sophie wanted you to have it. As a remembrance."
He chuckled to himself. So much chuckling. It wasn't a nervous little laugh, but rather a short expression of self-satisfied amusement garnished with a hint of scorn.
"I have many memories of Sophie, but this isn't one of them. Not exactly what I wanted, you might say."
"Well," I said, hoping to sound helpful and innocent, "I'm sort of in charge of her things at the moment. If there's something in particular you'd like, a photo, item of clothing, or piece of furniture that hasn't already been given to someone else, perhaps I can help you out. Most of her things are being liquidated anyway."
"The money going to the boy?"
"Ah...yes, to her son."
At that very instant, I could've sworn something happened to Hollowell's face. There was a change in his look, an almost imperceptible alteration of his expression. Then it was lost. It happened so fast I couldn't identify the emotion, but I knew I had seen something peeking out from behind the ever-present smile.
"Didn't Sophie leave anything else for me?" he asked in a soft, pressing tone, reaching out again to touch my arm. "A letter perhaps? Maybe some words in a note?"
I shook my head.
"Did you check her safe deposit box?"
"Yes. There was nothing left for you," I said, then quickly added, "except the bracelet."
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