by K. A. Tracy
“Thanks again,” Sam said. “I hope everything works out for you.”
She watched Kim drive off and wrote down her license plate number in case she needed to contact her again.
Sam got in the car and stared out the window, lost in thought.
Joe put his hand on her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
“That Jeff Rydell was a man with a whole lot of secrets, and one of them got him killed.”
Chapter Eleven
Sam didn’t get to bed until almost three in the morning, but her brain pulled an all-nighter with a vivid working dream that kept repeating the same images and situations, as if on an endless loop. She woke up before dawn, edgy and exhausted.
She tried to fall back asleep, but images of Ellen kept intruding her thoughts. It was the memory of watching her mouth when she talked, the scent of her perfume, the intelligence and humor in those eyes that twisted Sam’s gut with yearning.
She turned on her side, a folded pillow wedged between her legs. Sam imagined Ellen was next to her, their skin touching, hands exploring. Her hips rocked, pressing against the pillow, but in her mind it was Ellen’s caress sending her to the edge…
Sated and strangely comforted, Sam quickly dozed back off, this time to a dreamless sleep.
• • •
Sam moved her glass of iced tea to the corner of the desk and pushed her notebooks off to the side. She opened the envelope containing Rydell’s receipts and dumped them out. Once again she separated them into piles, this time sorting them by type: fast food receipts in one pile, gas in another, and so on. She picked up a credit card receipt and called Nate.
His voicemail picked up. “Hey, it’s Sam again. I’m sitting here looking at credit card receipts apparently belonging to our recently departed friend from Tennessee. The only way he could have this card and it not show up in his report would be if this was a reloadable card, which it is not, or he’s not the primary account holder. If that’s the case, I’d like to know who is. So I’m hoping you might be able to get the info from the card number.” Sam read the number off to him, along with its expiration date. “As usual, the sooner, the better.”
Still holding the receiver, Sam reached into the second manila envelope and retrieved the software flyer. She punched in the phone number doubting she’d get a live person on the other end. Her pessimism was aptly rewarded. An automated recording announced: The party you are calling is not available. Please leave your number at the tone.
“Hi, Argo, my name is Sam. I saw one of your flyers at the club and was interested in getting some more information. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. Thanks.” She left her cell phone number and jotted down in her notebook the day and time she called. She opened the other envelope and took out the local map. She went to the file room copier and made an 11x17 enlargement of the area from the tram to the sharp turn where South Palm Canyon turns into East Palm Canyon and heads towards Cathedral City. Sam put the copy on her desk and chose red and blue Sharpies out of her drawer. She went through each stack of receipts and further separated them by date—those before April 1 and those after—and put them in two piles.
Sam picked up the after pile first and went through each receipt, marking the location of the business with a blue dot and writing its name down in her notebook along with the number of receipts. She went through the same procedure with the before pile, except with those she used a red dot. Any receipt that was from outside the designated area Sam ignored and set aside.
After notating each receipt, she studied the map. The blue dots mostly started from the area near Konrad’s headquarters and moved east, the direction of Cathedral City. But the red dots were concentrated on the right side of the map, west of the tram turnoff, south of Racquet Club. Of particular interest to Sam was where the blue and red dots overlapped: the Desert Diner.
Sam numbered the businesses from least frequented to most frequented in her notebook then rolled up the marked map and secured it with a rubber band. She locked the receipts in her desk drawer, turned off the music, and headed out. Her plan was to stop by the places Jeff frequented and see if anyone knew him. If she was lucky, she’d find Jerry.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Sam grabbed the car door handle and let out a yelp, shaking her hand in pain. The metal handle was scalding hot. The display on the bank across the street read 112 degrees, and it was moving-in-molasses muggy. She used the bottom of her shirt as a mitt and gingerly opened the door, stepping aside to avoid the blast of searing air rushing out of the heated interior. She covered her leather seat with a towel before getting in.
At Vista Chino, she turned right and slowly navigated the streets of her targeted area, making a mental note every time she located a store from the receipts. She also jotted down the name of three motels she passed that looked like the kind of place a shallow-pocketed visitor might choose. She decided to work her way through the list of businesses from the least frequented to the most frequented.
The first two were gas stations. Sam couldn’t imagine the numbing boredom of sitting in a six-foot square cubicle for eight hours, so it didn’t surprise her when the cashier at the Shell on Racquet Club was unhelpful and uninterested. The second gas station was a mom-and-pop place called Gas 4 Less, a few blocks from where Palm Canyon turned into Highway 111. It had a large, well-kept mini-market and an attached do-it-yourself car wash. The cashier was a middle-aged lady wearing a shirt monogrammed with the name Marge. She exuded the no-nonsense demeanor of a bowling alley cocktail waitress or truck stop server. Sam waited until the customer left before introducing herself and showing Marge two photos of Rydell.
His DMV photo had all the personality of a mug shot. The other headshot was cropped from his photo with Ellen. In it, he looked proud and full of life. Sam wondered if it was from doing work he thought was important or from simply standing next to someone like Ellen.
Marge nodded in recognition, “Sure, I know him. He’s one of my regulars although I don’t know him by name, just by sight.” She handed the photos back.
“His name is Jeff Rydell, and he was killed early Sunday. I’m writing a story about it and am trying to find people who might know something about him.”
“You’re saying he was killed just this past Sunday? Killed how? Car wreck?”
“He was murdered.”
Marge’s eyes widened briefly then narrowed. “What time did it happen?”
“The police estimate he was killed sometime in the early morning hours Sunday.”
“I knew something wasn’t right!”
“What do you mean?”
“That night—” She stopped when a customer entered to get their change. Marge practically threw the money on the counter to hurry them out. She waited until the door closed. “Saturday night I worked the four-to-twelve shift, but my overnight guy ran late, as usual, and didn’t get here until almost two o’clock. Claimed his wife had some kind of emergency but I think he’s got a new girlfriend on the side. Anyway, right before he showed up that fellow stopped in for gas,” she pointed at Jeff’s picture. “I remember thinking This is unusual, because I had only ever seen him during the day.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Nothing other than to say hi when he paid. But he seemed kind of odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
“Kind of…excited. And a little edgy.”
“Scared?”
“No, not that. Just hyped up. I remember he looked over his shoulder a couple times at the other car.”
“What other car?”
“A black car pulled in right after he did and parked over by the air pump. It must have been waiting on him to get gas because when your guy finished and drove off, it followed him.”
“Which way did they go?”
Marge pointed towards the open expanse to her right. “Out Highway 111.”
The information was significant; it meant that other than the killer, or killers, Marge was prob
ably the last person to see Jeff alive. “Could you see the driver of the black car?”
Marge folded her arms and stared off in thought. “It’s real dark at night over there. I never got around to replacing the light bulb in that lamp post. It looked like a man was driving, clean shaven, and from what I recall had dark hair and was wearing a white shirt.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Well, in a business like this, you learn to keep an eye out. Twenty-four years and we haven’t had one robbery,” Marge rapped the counter with her knuckles. “There was some blonde woman with him. Even in the dark you could see she was blonde, hair in a long pony tail, well past her shoulders. Couldn’t tell you how old she was.”
Sam noticed two cars pull up to the pumps. “One last question: could you tell what kind of car it was?”
“Sure could,” Marge smiled. “It was an older model Lincoln Town Car, maybe ten years old. My late husband loved those cars. Called them his little piece of heaven.”
Before leaving Sam filled her tank, remembering how much she loved spending time at her mother’s gas station as a kid. In some ways, it held the same appeal journalism did. You met people from all walks of life, every day was different, and you weren’t stuck in a nine-to-five existence. Of course, there were marked differences, too. The biggest traumas faced at her mother’s gas station were a blown transmission or the cost of oil going up, and the biggest danger was walking into the men’s bathroom after a busy holiday weekend. You didn’t encounter many murders.
Back in her car, Sam updated her notes. The description of the woman passenger in the black car certainly fit Money. If Money was the killer she must have had an accomplice, presumably the driver. Sam doubted a small woman like that would be able to physically overcome a man Rydell’s size and age in a one-on-one, hand-to-hand confrontation.
She could have had a gun, Sam thought, playing devil’s advocate with herself.
“So then why not just shoot him?” she argued back.
Too loud. The echo would reverberate against all that rock.
“So, she held a gun on him with one hand and with the other hoisted a sixteen pound rock and cracked Jeff on the skull with it?” Sam responded skeptically.
The other possibility was that she was the accomplice. “Which brings us back to the question, who’s the dude driving the damn car?”
Sam glanced over and saw the woman pumping gas on the next island watching her curiously. Embarrassed, she nodded at the woman and drove off.
The next business on her list was a twenty-four-hour Rite-Aid with the world’s most confusing layout. It was like a rat’s maze. The aisles slanted in various directions, some meeting at a point, others intersecting perpendicularly. Sam showed Jeff’s picture to the cashiers on duty, but nobody recognized him. The same was true at the office supply store, several fast food joints, and the grocery store.
It was lunchtime when she walked into the Desert Diner, the last entry on her list. Sam sat at the counter and looked around. Most of the inside booths were filled by people eating alone. The outdoor patio was a third full with smokers who’d rather brave the heat than go half an hour without a cigarette. Misters blasted the patio with a rain of spray that left the tile floor wet. Sam wondered how it was possible to keep a cigarette lit at all.
The smell of grilled onions filled the air and made Sam’s stomach growl. She ordered a turkey sandwich on toasted whole wheat with melted pepper jack, a side of cottage cheese, and a large iced tea. Her waitress was a friendly young woman with shoulder length brown hair and glasses named Kylie who kept her drink refilled and brought Sam a copy of the Tribune to read over lunch.
She ate slowly, and by the time she finished, the diner crowd had thinned to just a few customers.
“Would you like some dessert?” Kylie asked, clearing Sam’s plate.
“No, thank you. But there is something else I’m hoping you might be able to help me with.” Sam pulled out the photos of Rydell and placed them on the counter. “By any chance do you recognize this person?”
Kylie glanced at the pictures then looked at Sam. “Why? Are you with the police or something?”
“No, I’m a reporter. My name is Samantha Perry.” She handed the waitress a business card. “I’m working on a story and was hoping to find someone who knows him.”
“A story about what?”
Sam hesitated; being the bearer of bad news was getting old. “About his death.”
“Oh, no…” Kylie slumped onto the stool next to Sam’s. “What happened?”
“So you do know him?”
“Jeff was one of my counter regulars. What happened?” she asked again.
Sam heard the noise level in the diner fall as customers within earshot picked up on their conversation. “Listen, can you take a break so we can talk more privately?”
“Sure. Of course.” Kylie spoke quietly to another waitress then led Sam to the furthest corner booth. Sam sat with her back to the wall so that Kylie faced away from the room.
“So what happened to Jeff?” Kylie asked again, sliding onto the seat.
“He was found murdered last Sunday.”
“Murdered? Oh, my God.” Kylie shook her head in disbelief. “Do they know who did it?”
“No, the police are still investigating. I’ve been having a hard time finding out much about him. I know he was relatively new in town but not much else. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“He’s been eating breakfast at the counter since at least Valentine’s Day.”
“How do you remember that?”
“Because we were having a special of heart-shaped pancakes with fresh strawberries, and he asked me a couple times if the strawberries were really fresh. He couldn’t believe fresh strawberries were available in February. He told me all they had during winter in Tennessee were frozen berries. The conversation just stuck in my head; you don’t usually get customers excited about fruit,” she smiled.
“He specifically said Tennessee?”
“For sure.”
Why would Rydell tell a waitress where he was from but not Ellen or Kim, Sam wondered. The man was a frustrating cipher. “Did he ever talk about why he came to Palm Springs?”
“No, not really. Breakfast and lunch are the busiest times around here, so there’s not a lot of opportunity to get into conversations. It’s always just small talk.”
“How did you find out his name?”
“For a long time, I didn’t know. Usually you find out a customer’s name when they use their credit card but he always paid cash in the beginning. And he never introduced himself the way most guys do. I think he was just really shy. Then a few months ago he came in with some mail. I teased him and said something like, Well, now I finally know what to call you.”
“Do you remember what the envelope looked like? Was it long like a letter, or square like a utility bill?”
“No, it was a big envelope. You know, the size of a piece of paper but thick, like there must have been a lot of stuff in it. What first caught my eye was that it had Confidential stamped on it in red ink.”
“You said this was a couple months ago?”
“Maybe a little longer. It could have been before Memorial Day. That’s when we got new uniforms, and I’m thinking I was still wearing the old apron, but I can’t be 100 percent sure. Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re being very helpful. I know I’m asking a lot, but is there anything else you remember about the envelope? Its color, if the address was printed or handwritten?”
“It was white,” Kylie said slowly, trying to visualize. “It must have been a printed label or else it wouldn’t have been so easy to read.”
“Was there any kind of identifying mark, like a logo or picture on it?”
“There might have been some kind of mark by the return address….” Kylie’s eyes grew focused. “There was! I remember now; it was green because that and the red Confidentiality made me think t
he envelope had Christmas colors on it. The logo design was interconnecting letters, but I don’t remember what now.”
“Did Jeff ever say anything about a job or family?”
“Nothing about family but he did work. At first, he came in pretty early for breakfast nearly every single day. Then maybe a month or two after Valentine’s Day he only came in a couple times a week, usually later in the morning. Sometimes almost at the end of my shift.”
“Which is when?”
“I get off at one. Anyway, I mentioned to Jeff I noticed he wasn’t coming in as often. He said he’d moved to a nicer place a little further away. He also told me he was doing some work that kept him out late, which was why he was eating breakfast at noon. But he never said what he was doing exactly, and I never thought to ask.”
“Did Jeff ever mention anyone named Jerry?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Was there any friend he ever talked about?”
“He didn’t talk about anybody but there’s a guy he’d meet for breakfast every now and then. That’s the only time Jeff would sit at a booth.”
“I take it this person isn’t a regular.”
“Oh, no, he is. But he sits outside, and I only work inside.”
“Is whoever works those tables still here?”
Kylie turned around and looked. “No, I don’t see her. Her name’s Marie, but she’s new. She’s only been here a couple of weeks, and I’m not sure she’s had a chance to get to know the regulars that well yet.”
Sam let out a small sigh. Nothing was going to come easy on this story. “Do you remember the last time you saw Jeff?”
“I think it was last Friday. I remember thinking he looked tired.” Kylie stared at the table.
Sam recognized the look. People inevitably wonder if they could have changed fate by somehow intervening. She took out another business card and jotted Very important. Please call ASAP about Jeff Rydell on the back. She handed it to Kylie. “I have a huge favor to ask you. If you happen to see the man who Jeff had breakfast with, could you please give this card to him? It’s really important.”