The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  The chainsaw cleared the far side of the trunk. Chad extracted the bar and pushed the tree with his foot. As it started its fall away from him, he turned and sought out the vehicle, which had now stopped at the edge of the field where he was working, maybe five first downs away. It pulled in through an opening in the fence that he had created by removing a stretch of barbed wire and stopped beside his old Ford pick-up truck. It was a newer model SUV, looked like a Toyota; not a car he recognized. He held the chainsaw at his side, finger off the trigger so as to still the spinning chain. He removed his goggles and waited to see who his visitor might be.

  The driver’s door opened and a young woman stepped out. He flipped the switch to kill the saw, ripped off his goggles and ear muffs, dropped the saw, and raced to the SUV.

  Teri met him in the middle of the meadow in a strong, sweaty hug.

  Teri paced while Chad perched on the edge of an un-reclined recliner in the den of his ranch house. Through sliding glass doors, a view beckoned that was not unlike that from Teri’s house in California, but instead of the smog of Los Angeles and the low-hanging smoke that lingered from the recent fires, this was pure, unspoiled Texas Hill Country. The house perched on the edge of a low bluff, overlooking a valley below that featured the Medina River. Water rippled effortlessly down a small waterfall, no more than a foot or two high, but just enough to create the kind of natural sounds that “sleep machines” and “white noise” makers replicated and that sold like wildfire to city dwellers.

  Chad held a coffee mug with both hands, the liquid long since cooled. Teri looked as if she had aged thirty years since the last time he had seen her, though it had been but twenty. But while the stress that settled on her face robbed her of youthfulness, it had no impact on her beauty. Not even the broken nose and black eyes. At least not as far as he was concerned. He waited without interrupting for her to finish her story—a tale that he struggled to grasp and, quite frankly, to believe.

  At last she finished her recitation and turned to face him. “I had to come home,” she said. “I just got in the car and kept driving until I got here.”

  “I like hearing you use that word: home.”

  “It hasn’t felt like it in a long time. But now...” Her voice trailed off. “Tell me what to do, Chad.” He thought for a moment, any number of thoughts, admonitions, and advice struggling for prominence.

  Stay here, turn back the clock...Marry me.

  He shook off that last one as he found his voice. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’ve just been running on coffee.”

  “When was the last time you had any sleep?”

  “I don’t know. Before I left Los Angeles. Twenty-four hours ago, maybe?”

  “The first thing you do is get something to eat and some sleep. Then we’ll figure it out from there.”

  “A shower and a nap do sound nice. Any chance I can get some of those famous huevos rancheros of yours?”

  “I’ll fire ‘em up while you shower. Take my bedroom. There should be fresh towels in the bathroom. I’ll bring in your bag from the car.”

  As Teri started toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, Chad watched her walk away. Her gait had a new spring in it since she arrived, and her face had brightened, as if the mere act of unloading her story lifted the burden that weighed her down during her drive from California. Or maybe it was because he was shouldering that burden with her.

  She stopped and looked back at Chad.

  He met her eyes and waited for her to speak.

  “You’re the only one who always believed in me, no matter what,” she said.

  Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

  CHAPTER 43

  Swafford sat at a rear booth of Nate’n Al’s Deli on Beverly Drive, pancakes half-eaten on the plate before him, his coffee mug nearly empty. The two CHP detectives entered and looked around for a moment. Swafford waved to get their attention then gestured at the waitress as they headed his way. They slid into the booth across from him as the waitress brought menus.

  Nichols looked at Swafford’s plate. “Breakfast? You know what time it is?”

  “It’s never too late or too early for pancakes.”

  “Point taken.”

  “So what happened to Capalletti?” Stillman asked.

  “One between the eyes, contact entry, and the gun in his hand,” Swafford said. “And blowback on his wrist.”

  “No one does it that way,” Nichols said. “You either eat the gun or put it to the side of your head.”

  “I know all we usually get here in Beverly Hills is littering, loitering, and parking violations—except as of late—but even I figured that one out,” Swafford said.

  “So the scene was staged by someone who doesn’t have much experience at it.”

  “Or someone who wants to confuse us,” Stillman said. “You think Capalletti really pulled the trigger himself?”

  “Somebody could have put it in his hand and then fired it. We’re gonna run a tox screen and see if he was knocked out first. But either way, I’m betting someone else was in that room with him.”

  “Somehow this has all got to be tied to whoever tried to take out the actress, right?” Stillman asked. “And her friend?”

  “Contrary to movie dialogue, sometimes there are such things as coincidences.”

  “You and me eating at the same In-N-Out last weekend, that’s a coincidence. Identical screenwriters taking headers off cliffs, people shooting at actresses and their BFFs, then the actress’s boyfriend getting his ticket punched and the boyfriend’s boss eating a truck grill—that’s not a coincidence; that’s a pattern.”

  The waitress returned and took their orders: two coffees, two short stacks, and eggs over easy for both of them—another coincidence a vindicated Swafford noted as the detectives followed his lead and ordered breakfast in the middle of the day.

  “Here’s something else to throw into the mix,” Nichols said after the waitress left. “We got Bob Keene acting like he was in a trance; we got Annemarie Crowell with a license to do hypnotherapy back in her home state; and guess who we’ve got on camera lurking around Keene’s building the same time he buys it?”

  “Do tell.”

  “You get one guess, so make it a good one.”

  “I think I know the answer to this one: Annemarie Crowell.”

  “Give that man a cigar,” Nichols said. “She’s our next stop. You want to come with us?”

  “I don’t want to be a third wheel, but just try and stop me.”

  “It’s out of your jurisdiction. Don’t want you to stretch your leash too far from BH.”

  “It’s not a leash; it’s a bungee cord. I think I’ll survive both the fall and the rebound.”

  Swafford thought the apartment complex where Annemarie Crowell lived was equally as drab as Mike Capalletti’s house was elegant. Though exactly how elegant did any house look with a dead guy in the master bedroom?

  He wheeled into the parking lot and found a space directly in front of the apartment that also bore an “Office” sign on its door. He got out and stood next to his car while waiting on the CHP officers. He scanned the complex, the parking lot in bad need of re-paving, the stucco in bad need of updating, the doors in bad need of paint, and the whole thing in bad need of a wrecking ball.

  The CHP guys came along a few minutes later. They parked next to Swafford’s car then got out.

  “You boys get lost?” Swafford asked.

  “And I guess you got here like a homing pigeon,” Nichols said.

  “GPS.”

  “They check your passport at the border?”

  “No, but they told me I had to switch to polyester. You got an extra suit I can borrow?”

  “Trade you for an Armani,” Nichols said.

  “Okay, now that we’ve all sufficiently insulted each other, let’s go talk to this mesmerizing witch. You got an apartment number?”

  “Just the street address.”

  Swaffor
d pointed toward the “Office” sign. “Then let’s see what we can find out here.”

  He pushed open the door and led the way in.

  Rondell, the apartment manager, stopped with a bean and cheese burrito halfway to his mouth, feet propped on a small coffee table, blackand-white western reruns on the television.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?”

  “It says ‘office,’” Swafford said. “I never knock at a place of business.”

  “It’s also where I live.”

  “Then may I make a modest suggestion. Add a sign under ‘office’ that says ‘please knock.’”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that,” Rondell said. “You’re the second person to make that suggestion this week.” He took a big bite of the burrito then spoke while he chewed. “You po-lice?”

  “The bad haircut give it away?” Stillman asked.

  “Something like that,” Rondell said. “But you ain’t from this part of the city. Clothes are too fine.”

  “Beverly Hills,” Swafford said, flashing his badge.

  “You know you in Los Angeles, right? Don’t got no jurisdiction outside of Camelot.”

  Swafford stepped aside and, with a sweeping gesture of his hand, ushered Stillman and Nichols to the front. “Ahh, but these gentlemen are state cops, and they have jurisdiction all over this fine city and beyond.”

  Rondell squinted, swallowed the mouthful of burrito, and took his feet off the coffee table. “So what business you got here?”

  “Annemarie Crowell.”

  “The crazy lady.” Not a question; a statement of fact.

  “So you know her?”

  “Yeah. What’d she do?”

  “She live here?”

  “Not no more. Like I told that actress, she moved out.”

  “What actress?” Swafford asked, though he felt like he already knew what the answer would be.

  “Teri Squire. Annemarie said she’d be around, and she left me an envelope to give her. And I’m like, yeah, right, Ms. Oscar gonna come slumming around here. Then damned if she don’t show up. She’s the one who told me about the ‘please knock’ sign, by the way. So, anyway, I gave her the envelope and she left without so much as a thank you.”

  “What was in the envelope?” Swafford asked.

  “Don’t know. Never looked. It just had a name on the outside.”

  “What name?”

  “Peggy Tucker.”

  “Who is Peggy Tucker?”

  “Hell if I know,” Rondell said as he took another bite of burrito. “Shook up that actress, though, when she saw it.”

  “Shook her up, how?”

  “You know, she looked kinda surprised and she got all red in the face.”

  “She open the envelope?”

  “Not in front of me. Just took it and skedaddled out the door.”

  “We need to see Annemarie Crowell’s apartment,” Swafford said.

  Rondell took a key from a hook on the wall behind his head. “Like I said, she done moved out a few days ago, but the apartment’s empty. Just follow me.”

  He led the way out of the office, then up a flight of stairs to a concrete walkway that looked to be hanging on for dear life. Swafford walked beside Rondell, the two state cops behind.

  “How long you been managing this place?” Swafford asked. “Hell, must be better’n five years now. It ain’t much, but it’s rentfree.”

  “You know all the tenants?”

  “Most of ‘em. Course, most of ‘em come and go, so by the time I learn their names, they done split.” He pointed to a door badly in need of a fresh coat of paint, which hardly distinguished it from any other door along the way. “Here it is.”

  He inserted the key and pushed the door open, then stepped aside. Nichols and Stillman went in first, followed by Rondell, then Swafford. The bare apartment consisted of a cramped living area that combined with a kitchenette to create one long, but narrow, room. On one side of the kitchenette, a doorway led to a bedroom, with a matcher on the other side. Threadbare brown carpet covered part of the floor, with linoleum the base for the kitchenette. Early American Depressing-as-Hell.

  “How long did Ms. Crowell live here?”

  “Longer’n most. Few years, I guess,” Rondell said. “Maybe a little more. Her and her loser son moved in with Leland a little bit before he offed himself.”

  Any distractions created by the rundown apartment disappeared in an instant as all three men suddenly found themselves riveted by what Rondell was saying.

  “She lived here with Leland?” Nichols asked.

  “Yeah. Her and Leland’s brother Rodney moved in at the same time. Rodney and Leland was twins, I think. Damn sure looked like each other, if they weren’t.”

  “Did you know Rodney?” Swafford asked.

  “Not too good. Not like I did Leland. Leland was a good dude. Pretty much kept to himself. Writing on that computer of his. Always writing. Kept saying he was gonna be a famous writer some day.”

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Nichols asked.

  “In the bedroom over there,” Rondell said, pointing to the left of the kitchenette. “Ain’t but one. Don’t know whose idea it was to put only one bathroom in this place, then stick it inside one of the bedrooms.”

  “Okay, we got it from here,” Nichols said. “We’ll lock up before we leave.”

  “I should stay here with you,” Rondell said. “It’s my ass if—”

  “If what?” Stillman asked. “If the Beverly Hills cop takes out his pocket knife and helps himself to a hunk of this fine carpet?”

  Nichols snorted.

  “We’re cops, man,” Stillman said. “What are we going to do?”

  “I seen cops search places before,” Rondell said. “I’ve seen how they trash ‘em.”

  “We’ll put everything back like we found it,” Stillman said. He looked around then raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, that’s right. There’s nothing here to put back.”

  “All right, I got ya,” Rondell said. “You the funny cops. Just let me know when you leave.”

  With that, he exited the apartment. The three detectives stood in a triangle and exchanged glances. “So,” Nichols said at last. “Anyone else interested by this little turn of events? Our dead screenwriter has himself a look-alike brother. What do you want to bet he was our latest cliff diver?”

  “I think we need to get moving on an exhumation order, do a little DNA comparison,” Swafford said. “We—”

  His cell phone interrupted him. “Swafford,” he answered.

  “Detective,” a voice on the other end said, “we got the phone records for Capalletti. The last call he made was to Teri Squire’s cell phone.”

  Swafford tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder then extracted a pen and notepad from his coat pocket. “Give me the number. Then I need you to check out a name for me: Peggy Tucker.” A pause, then, “I don’t know who that is, but she’s got something to do with Teri Squire.”

  While Swafford talked on the phone, Nichols wandered into the bathroom, which was hardly more than an indoor outhouse. A small sink supported by aluminum props, a mirror that doubled as a medicine cabinet, a toilet with no lid, and a porcelain bathtub with shower curtain. All in all, no more than five by five—twenty-five square feet for the hygienic needs of three people.

  And from the looks of the facilities, not much hygiene was involved. Orange rust stains marred the sink and tub, and other stains marred the toilet, which looked like it hadn’t been flushed in a couple of days. The reflective surface of the mirror had flaked away right in the center, as if designed to prevent anyone using the sink from actually looking himself in the eye. Nichols wondered if there was something psychological involved, like a guilty conscience at work, at least metaphorically.

  He pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket along with a plastic bag, tools he always carried with him. You never knew when you might run across evidence during the day. From h
is pants pocket, he extracted a pocketknife. He paused for a second as he considered whether to cut loose a hunk of carpet just to prick the apartment manager around.

  He sat on the edge of the tub, opened the knife to expose a blade about an inch-and-a-half long, and probed around the perimeter of the shower drain. The pop-up plug was loose, so he pulled it all the way out and put it aside. He inserted the blade into the drain, scraped it around the sides, and pulled it out. Several clumps of hair stuck to the side of the blade. A single long gray strand, at least ten inches long, dangled beneath it. He lifted the blade and pulled the single strand all the way out, then inserted the entire clump in the plastic bag, sealed it, and tucked it in his pocket.

  Swafford was dialing his cell phone under the watchful eye of Stillman when Nichols returned to the main living area.

  “Got enough for a DNA match for someone,” Nichols said. “Got at least one belonging to a female.”

  “Annemarie Crowell,” Stillman said. His partner nodded.

  “All right, here goes,” Swafford said as he punched the speaker button on the cell and held it out so all three men could hear.

  Rather than going straight to voicemail, the phone rang. And rang and rang.

  Then the ring tone abruptly ceased as someone answered on the other end, but said nothing.

  “Hello?” Swafford said. “Hello? Ms. Squire?”

  CHAPTER 44

  Teri didn’t know when a shower had felt so good. The events of the past forty-eight hours had wearied her like nothing she had ever experienced since...well, not since the events that drove her from Texas to California twenty years earlier. The big difference was that, back then, she understood what was happening. She didn’t understand why it had happened, but she certainly understood the what. But now, she didn’t understand either the what or the why—or the who or the how or the what-the-hell-was-going-to-happen-next.

  Hot water came out in a muscular stream, the kind that massaged as well as cleaned. She turned her back to the showerhead and let pinpricks of water pulsate against the base of her neck. She had never tried acupuncture, but if it was anything like this, she might be willing to give it a shot. She struggled to clear her mind, to chase away extraneous thoughts and emotions, to crystallize the events that brought her back to Texas.