Too Big To Miss

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Other sounds, faint and static, were coming from somewhere else. It broke the iciness engulfing and immobilizing me. The phone...it was on the ground near me. In the darkness, I could see the digital display with its glowing yellow-green light. I groped around in its general direction until I succeeded in picking it up.

  "Odelia. Odelia, answer me!" I heard Greg screaming on the other end.

  "Help," I said in a small voice, then collapsed, unable to speak further.

  Time passed in waves of undulating pain. I never lost consciousness, but seemed paralyzed from the neck up. Greg's voice was no longer coming from the phone grasped in my hand. I willed myself to move, giving my body orders one muscle at a time until I managed to at least get to my knees.

  Shit, my head hurt! It felt on fire on the left back side. I reached up a leaden arm and felt the aching spot. Ouch! But it didn't feel wet, the skin not seeming to be broken. I felt a little woozy, saw a few stars, but not a galaxy.

  I turned my attention to Iris. She was still and the moans had stopped. My heart rat-a-tat-tatted like a machine gun as I placed my fingertips on her neck just behind her jaw. Never having checked a body for life before, I hoped I was doing it right. I picked up nothing, but kept softly probing the area, while I used my other hand to dial for help.

  Finally! There it was, a very faint, weak pulse.

  "Hang in there, Iris. Help's coming."

  Sirens splintered the peacefulness of the neighborhood just as I punched the phone buttons for nine-one-one.

  "Thank you, dear God, thank you," I whispered into the darkness. "Come on, Iris, just a few minutes more."

  I stood up and tried to make my way to the front, to flag down the authorities. It was the police, two cruisers worth. Greg must've called them. My head felt like a granite monument.

  Leaning against the side of the house, I waved to them as they pulled up to the front curb in a bouquet of flashing lights.

  The security truck was gone.

  THE ICE PACK the paramedics gave me made my head hurt in a different way. The deep, tooth-cracking ache was still there, but the cold was numbing the surface pain. They told me I was lucky. Seems the blow glanced off my thick skull instead of making powerful and deadly contact. There didn't seem to be any concussion, but they advised me to go to the hospital just to be safe, especially if I experienced any nausea or dizziness.

  Iris Somers wasn't so lucky. She was taken to the hospital in a coma. I was told she had received several hard blows to the head with a heavy object.

  Greg arrived about twenty or thirty minutes after the police. As soon as he saw me, he gathered me into his arms. I clung back. Now he was next to me, an arm around my shoulders, talking with Detective Frye, telling him everything. Wainwright was asleep next to Greg's wheelchair, oblivious to the police milling about. I had already told my story to the police and then repeated it for Frye.

  The big detective turned his attention back to me. "Tell me again, Odelia, what you saw after you found Iris."

  Just as I was about to answer him, I remembered something, not something about the evening, just something out of place.

  "Weren't you supposed to be on vacation or something?" I asked him.

  Frye looked at me oddly, then answered. "I took some personal time, if that's what you mean."

  I nodded my head slowly, very slowly and carefully. "Yes, Greg and I tried to reach you, to tell you about the photos. Why are you here if you're supposed to be off?"

  Frye was sitting on a chair directly in front of me. He looked at Greg, his face volunteering no expression. Then he leaned forward, taking my free hand gently in his big paws.

  "My wife is ill. She's in the hospital," he answered patiently. "My daughter is with her now." He looked at Greg again, this time communicating something just between them, maybe concern, then he focused back on me. "Take your time, Odelia, and think about what you saw after you found Iris. I want you to tell it to me again."

  "I'm sorry," I told him, squinting past the throbbing in my head, "about your wife, I mean. Sorry you had to come out here tonight."

  He thanked me politely, then gently urged me back on track.

  I continued. "I didn't see anything but a form. A man in black maybe."

  "Think hard. Did you see his face? His shoes? What type of pants he wore?"

  I dug deep into my aching head, looking for a hidden piece of memory untouched by the assailant's blow.

  "His face was black," I finally said. "Not his skin, but his whole face."

  "Like he was wearing something, a mask maybe? Or makeup?"

  "Yes, maybe a ski mask, or dark stocking, but it was totally covered. I couldn't tell any features. But I only got a slight glimpse before he hit me."

  "Great, Odelia, you're doing fine."

  Frey patted my hand and released it, then said, "So far, the only thing we know is missing is the computer. The monitor, printer, everything else seems untouched, just the hard drive's gone. Also, it looks like some storage disks might've been taken. Whoever did this came only for one thing and knew how to get in and out. We haven't found any fingerprints or other evidence yet. Guy knew about the security system, too. He cut out a section of the sliding glass door in the back, never touching the sensors. He also seemed to know where the motion detectors were positioned. He'd been in this house before, I guarantee it. You were very lucky, Odelia."

  That word kept cropping up. I didn't feel lucky at the moment. But I knew I could've easily been bludgeoned into a coma like Iris. I moved the ice pack over a bit to avoid freezer burn to my scalp.

  "What about the security truck?" I asked.

  "It was stolen, probably just before the job. The company didn't even know it was missing until we called them. The truck and its usual driver checked back into the yard around eight tonight."

  An officer came into the room and leaned his head down close to Frye's. He said something, whispering the words into his ear. The two carried on a short conversation in hushed tones, then Frye looked back at me. "The truck was just found abandoned near Crystal Cove. Greg," Frye said, turning to him, "you say the photos you copied from Ms. London's hard drive are at your office."

  Greg nodded. "Yes. I burned a CD and locked it in my safe, along with enlarged prints of the ones we felt were important."

  "And no one knows these copies exist?"

  "Only Odelia and I. Oh, and Boomer, my assistant. He's the one who actually did the enlargements."

  Frye thought a moment. "You feel they're safe? At least for tonight?"

  Greg grinned slightly. "Even if they're not, I can assure you two other sets are."

  Frye looked impressed. "Good, then I'd like a set of the prints tomorrow. I'll stop by your office and pick them up. How about ten o'clock?"

  Greg told him fine, he'd be there.

  "Also, I'd like your password to Ms. London's adult site. It's not necessary, but it'll be a whole lot easier and faster than trying to gain access using a hacker. Unfortunately, without the hard drive we won't be able to check out other photos that might possibly have been stored there. But we can at least have our lab go over the pictures of the men posted to the site."

  "Sure, glad to help," Greg said.

  Frye stood up, unwrapped a piece of gum and shoved it into his mouth. Then he remembered us and offered us each a piece. We declined.

  "I don't want you to be alone tonight, Odelia," Frye said, chomping the gum every couple of words.

  "The paramedics said I probably didn't have a concussion," I said.

  "Doesn't matter. Either have Greg here stay with you, or go to another friend's, or even your family if they're around."

  At the thought of going to my dad and Gigi's, my head starting throbbing more. It was almost two in the morning, too late to call Zee and Seth. I looked at Greg's chair. I had extra space for guests, but it was upstairs.

  "You're coming home with me," Greg said, almost reading my mind. "I have an extra room."

  "Good," sai
d Frye, closing the deal on my behalf. "I'd feel a lot better about that."

  "So, Detective," I said, reaching out and placing a hand on his jacketed forearm, "do you believe us now?"

  Frye sat back down in front of me. I put down the ice pack. This time he took both of my hands, the cold and the warm. He looked at me, then at Greg, and gave us both a small, sad smile.

  "Odelia, I always did believe you. From the beginning, I thought this whole suicide thing smelled bad. But until now, we just didn't have enough possible evidence to keep pursuing it officially. Unofficially, I never put it to rest."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "GREG, YOU ASLEEP?" I whispered, standing partially in the doorway to his bedroom.

  Muted light came through a window set high over the bed. It was enough for me to make out the outline of the body in the bed located in the middle of the large room. Wainwright, curled up on a rug, gave me a few encouraging wags.

  "No, Odelia, I'm not."

  His voice was normal and clear, surprising me. Not a sign of sleepiness, even though it was three in the morning. He turned on the small lamp on his night stand, filling the room with a soft, non-glaring light.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yes, just can't sleep."

  "Me, neither."

  Using his strong upper body and arms, he scooted up until he was sitting. The sheet slipped down to his waist, exposing his well defined chest and shoulders. His torso was nicely covered with hair. Not too much, but enough to make a girl sigh. He reached up and pushed his long hair back and out of his eyes. Looking at him like this, it was difficult to remember he was paralyzed from the waist down. The only giveaway was the vacant wheelchair standing sentry next to the bed. He smiled softly at me.

  "Is your head all right?" he asked. "Do you feel sick?"

  "No. I'm fine." Reaching up to touch the epicenter of my headache, I felt a good-size goose egg taking shape. "I'm going to have quite a knot, though."

  After Frye let us go, Greg had followed me back to my place. Quickly, I changed from my evening clothes into jeans and a short sleeved shirt, and slid my feet into sandals. I threw some toiletries and makeup into an overnight bag, along with clean underwear and a nightshirt. The last thing I did before leaving for Greg's was to feed poor Seamus. Wainwright had waited in Greg's van.

  Greg had wanted me to leave my car at home, but I insisted on taking it to his place. I didn't want him to have to drive all the way back to Newport Beach tomorrow. It wasn't all that far, about twenty miles, maybe less, but chauffeuring me around wasn't necessary. My injury would be fine. No danger lurking there, just a week or so of gradually subsiding pain and tenderness. Besides, tomorrow I had plans. Plans I didn't think would meet with Greg's approval. I wanted to visit Clarice Hollowell, especially knowing that her husband would be out of town.

  Greg and I stared at each other awkwardly. I was in my jammies, a knee-length, oversized satin nightshirt, blushing like a school girl.

  "Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if I could join you?" I asked. "I mean to talk."

  Pulling open the covers on the other side of his king-size bed, he said, "You can join me to talk or sleep. Really, if you'd feel better sleeping here rather than in the other room, be my guest."

  Walking around Wainwright, I went to the empty side of the bed and gingerly climbed in. It had been a long time since I'd been to a slumber party. It seemed almost as long since I'd had a bed partner, though that wasn't true. It just seemed that way.

  Cautiously, I settled in and tried to arrange my doughy body in the best attractive position possible. It wasn't working; my bulk wasn't cooperating. I gave up and settled a pillow against the headboard and leaned back, shoulder to shoulder with Greg.

  "I really am sorry, you know," he said.

  "About what?" I asked, turning slightly to look at him. He was so handsome, both inside and out. Quite a switch from Hollowell.

  "About not telling you about Sophie's...ummmm...former occupation."

  "It's okay. I know you did it because you thought it best for me. I'm just glad you were there when I really needed you to come to my rescue."

  He lifted up his left arm, inviting me to snuggle close. Gladly, I took up his offer. As his arm went around my shoulders, I turned and rested my head against his chest. His other arm curled around the front of us both. I felt his lips carefully graze the top of my head near my forehead. The whole scene felt cozy and warm and natural, but most of all safe.

  "Greg, something's bothering me."

  He chuckled softly. "Something, as in singular? I'd have thought you'd have an entire laundry list of nagging thoughts."

  "Well, yes, I do," I said, laughing slightly. "But one thing in particular is gnawing at me right now." I paused before continuing. "If Robbie is Hollowell's son, don't you think Sophie would've used the kid as a pawn to keep Hollowell, at least in the early years?"

  "Mmmmm maybe, but keeping Hollowell wasn't the goal. She already had him in a way. They were together over twenty years, longer than his marriage."

  "Maybe Hollowell didn't know Robbie was his. He never indicated to me that he knew."

  "It's a possibility. If he knew, he might not have used her like a prostitute. After all, she was the mother of his child."

  "Trust me, Greg, John Hollowell would hawk his own mother if he thought he could gain from it."

  He tightened his arms, giving me a squeeze. Mmmmm, he felt good.

  "The Olsens are afraid of him, afraid he'll come for Robbie now that Sophie's dead." I snuggled closer and tried to keep my mind on the topic at hand. "That seems to indicate he knows. If that's true, why didn't he claim Robbie during all these years? Hollowell's a proud guy. The type who'd show off a smart, handsome kid like Robbie like a trophy."

  "Maybe he doesn't like kids. He may have had something to do with his other son's death. You said yourself that you think he's behind both that and Woodall's death."

  I thought about that, then a light went on inside my bruised head.

  "Like I said, Hollowell's a proud man, not given to tea and sympathy. Jonathan Hollowell was a Down's baby, damaged and embarrassing goods to a man like Hollowell."

  I shifted my body so I was facing Greg, leaning across his strong torso, looking into his face.

  "My guess is Hollowell is in the habit of disposing of people he views as a threat to his power, even a tiny baby born with an extra chromosome. Somewhere along the line, Sophie decided to break ties with Hollowell. Perhaps she threatened to tell all if he didn't leave her alone. From what Glo Kendall said, Sophie got angry when Hollowell showed up at her door. Hardly the behavior of a woman trying to cling to a relationship."

  Thanks to the pain relievers I had taken less than an hour ago, my head was beginning to feel better. My battered mind was trying to wrap around the facts and possibilities known to date and tie them together somehow. Greg let me ramble on.

  "And, I think you're right, Greg," I said, continuing. "I don't think the men in the photos had anything to do with Sophie's murder. Hollowell's got to be behind this."

  Greg leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

  "I bet," he said, his lips resting against my skin, "if we find tonight's burglar, we'll find out he's in Hollowell's back pocket. Maybe Hollowell had the computer stolen to protect his business associates."

  Without thinking, I kissed Greg's chest, just below his neck. We held that position while we thought, his lips planted on my forehead, my mouth on his body. He smelled so good, so masculine.

  "Or to blackmail them," I said. "But that doesn't make sense, either. If he was going to blackmail these men, wouldn't you think he'd have done so a long time ago? And exposing them would hurt his business more than help it. I don't think Hollowell is about money—that alone doesn't float his boat. It's power and control that gets him off, and power makes money. He needs those business contacts to further his ambitions. And he told me that Sophie was getting too old for a lot of their tastes. They wante
d younger women. He's still interested in keeping these guys happy."

  Greg kissed my forehead again. This time with several small pecks. "You know what that means, don't you?" he asked between smooches.

  "Yes, it means he's still in the procurement business. Just with other girls as his closers."

  "Uh-huh, that's my guess."

  He put a hand under my chin and raised my face to his. His eyes looked into mine for just a heartbeat before he brought his mouth down onto mine for one smooth, quick kiss.

  He was making it difficult for me to think.

  "Sophie was trying to break away from Hollowell. That much I know for sure," Greg said, pulling me close. "Had been for a while, and I got the impression from what she told me that he was having a tough time letting her go. That would fit with what your friend Glo witnessed. Maybe he didn't care about the business end of their relationship anymore. Maybe he was worried about something else, something she knew."

  "Like the deaths of the baby and Woodall."

  "Exactly. Maybe she was blackmailing him."

  "Maybe they were blackmailing each other," I said in return. "And what about Ortiz? Who killed him, or was it really a coincidence?"

  A flashback from just two days ago struck me like lightning, frying what was left of my brain. Two days...felt more like two years.

  "I just thought about something else Glo said, something I meant to look into and forgot. Glo told me the drunk who killed Ortiz was someone from the company she works for, an executive, very high level."

  "Do you know who she works for?"

  "Let's see, I think so." I ransacked my memory. "I know this. I know, I know this," I said, squeezing my eyes tightly. "It's a state, an Indian name." This is important, Odelia, I told myself silently. You've got to remember. My eyes sprang open in triumph. "Dakota! That's it, Dakota Industries."

  Greg had a computer at home. The legal research site could be accessed from anywhere with my Woobie password. I could take a look now.

  "Greg, if there's a connection between Dakota Industries and Hollowell, I'll find it. Trust me."