“But I thought you didn’t work for Willie,” Greg said, grinning at Clark as he drained his beer. Clark grumbled over the rim of his coffee mug in response.
Before Clark left, we came clean to Clark about John Swayze.
“You should have called the cops,” he said, not one bit happy that we’d let Swayze go.
We gave Clark Swayze’s phone, which had been unlocked by one of Greg’s more talented employees. Clark viewed all the videos, not just the ones involving us. “It looks like he really is just a nosy guy looking for a story,” he pronounced when he was finished. “See here, he was even watching you before he came into your back yard.” Clark studied the video. “Wow, that Whitecastle woman is really beautiful. Maybe I should be asking her out.”
“Down, boy,” I told him. “She’s engaged to a lawyer from San Diego.”
“Still,” he said in response, “with all the bodies you find, a ghost whisperer might be the perfect addition to our little circle of friends.”
Clark put down the phone and looked at me. “Did anything special come up on the Marigold report on Swayze? You did run one on him, didn’t you?”
I nodded and put down my wine glass. “Yes, I did. There were a few John Swayze’s that popped up in a similar age bracket, but after I eliminated the obvious non-matches and one that was deceased, I was able to narrow it down and match the photo. There was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, he leads a pretty boring life. No wonder he’s looking for excitement.”
“Okay,” Clark said, “but to be safe, email me the Marigold report on him and the one on Alec Finch. I’ll read them on the plane. And promise me you’ll call the cops if he bothers you again.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Greg assured him. “I don’t think he’ll be back. Odelia did a number on his hand and he’s afraid of dogs. I think he got the message that we’re not easy targets for such stuff.”
sixteen
The trip to Studio City entailed about forty miles traveled over three freeways across the midsection of Los Angeles County. It took us an hour without much traffic early on a Saturday morning. The same route could take two or more hours during the week. But even on the weekend, you never knew if you’d encounter a traffic accident, construction, or a police chase. That’s life in Southern California, and people who live here know they need to build in extra travel time in case of such incidents.
We wanted to sneak up on Jean Utley early in the day but landed in Studio City around seven thirty, way too early to go calling on anyone on a Saturday unless you were a SWAT team. Not knowing what traffic would be like, we held off on breakfast until we reached our destination. We found an IHOP near her place and filled up on pancakes and coffee while we waited. I’m particularly fond of their blueberry pancakes, while Greg loves their omelet and pancake combos. We’d left Wainwright at home today since we didn’t know where our road would lead us after we ambushed—uh, visited—Jean.
Zach’s sister lived in a large gated condo development just south of Ventura Boulevard. The buildings were painted the usual earth tones with terra-cotta trim common not only in Southern California but throughout the Southwest. The development looked fairly new and was nicely landscaped with drought-friendly plants. Greg and I stared at the electronic gate and keypad, then at each other. So much for the element of surprise.
“Now what?” I asked as Greg pulled off to the side of the driveway to give us time to think.
“I’m not sure,” he said as he studied the security set up.
There seemed to be two gates—one for entrance onto the property and one for exiting. We watched a car approach and stop. The driver stretched an arm out his window and punched in a code. The gate opened as if he’d rubbed a magic lamp. The car drove through and the gate closed behind it.
“Can’t we just follow another car through?” I asked.
Greg shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll bet that gate is on an electronic eye and as soon as the first car passes, it will begin to close. In order to fool it, we’d probably have to be right on the other car’s bumper, and I don’t think the other driver would allow that, especially if he’s a resident.”
“At least there’s not a guard posted at the gate,” I noted.
“It looks like even the pedestrian gate is operated on a keypad,” Greg said, still studying the gate. “You probably have to have a code to get in but just turn a knob to get out. Same with the cars. I’m sure the exit gate operates on a simple motion sensor.” He turned to me. “We might have to just call her and tell her we need to speak with her. If we say it’s about her brother, she might cooperate.”
“What about deliveries?” I asked, not willing yet to give in to the honest approach. “Would they have the code? If so, maybe we could bribe them to give it to us.”
“They would only have it if the owner gave it to the company, and most wouldn’t. Delivery people would have to call the occupant, and they would buzz them in.”
I grabbed a water bottle from the console and took a long drink from it while I looked the obstacle over. “How about we wait for the next car to either come in or out, and I’ll slip in on foot.”
“No,” Greg said with finality. “You are not going in there alone. Besides, I’ll bet there are security cameras trained on both the exit and entrance recording every vehicle and pedestrian that come in and out.”
“Cameras maybe,” I said after taking another drink. I handed the water bottle to Greg and he took one of his own. “But maybe not a live person watching screens. This is a very nice place, but it’s not that high-end. I’ll bet the security footage is only viewed if there’s a problem. I could slip in,” I argued, “and no one would notice unless they needed to check the tapes later.”
“No, Odelia. I’m going with you, and that’s all there is to it. I’ve sat in vehicles too many times worried sick about you.” He glared at me. It was his look of warning. “And don’t you even think about hopping out of this van and making a dash for it. We have no idea if she knows about Zach or is even involved with his death. If she is, she’s probably armed.”
“It’s only nine o’clock on a Saturday,” I pointed out. “Jean is probably still in her jammies or maybe even still in bed.”
“Or taking a run,” Greg suggested.
“What?”
“Could that be her?” He pointed to a slender blond dressed in running clothes approaching the pedestrian gate from the property side. “That person looks a lot like the photo you showed me.”
I squinted to study the woman making her way through the gate, then from my bag pulled out the photo I’d printed for a comparison. It could very well be Jean Utley, but it could also be anyone else. In Los Angeles, pretty blonds were a dime a dozen, thanks to the entertainment industry. Some were natural; some not. Some weren’t even women.
She jogged slowly past the van on my side, oblivious to our scrutiny. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that bounced when she jogged, and earbuds were plugged into her ears. As she ran by, I thought the profile was close enough to pursue it.
I hopped out of the van and took after her on foot. “Hey, Jean,” I yelled as I jogged after her, my sneakers heavily pounding the sidewalk in pursuit. But the earbuds were too much competition—not to mention that even with my exercise walking, my lung capacity was not what it should be thanks to my age and size. Walking is not jogging, and in less than half a block I was looking defeat squarely in the eye in the form of her tight butt as it increased the distance between us.
When she reached the corner, I hoped the light would stop her—but the walk light turned green, and off she went across Ventura without so much as a slight hesitation. I gathered my breath for one more shot. “Jean!” My voice got lost in the traffic noise, and I gave up the chase. I bent over, hands on my pudgy knees, to catch my breath. Sweat was pouring down my face and also down my back, pooling in the crack of my butt under my heavy jeans. I was not a pretty sight. Let’s face it: I may have the
legs in the family, but Greg has the physical fitness.
I was about to stand upright and head back to the van when it pulled alongside me. “Need a lift, sugar?” asked Greg.
“You didn’t need to come pick me up,” I said as I took deep breaths and felt a catch in my side. “I could have walked the block back.”
“You sure?” Greg asked. “You look pretty done-in to me.”
I wanted to say something snarky but needed to save my breath to haul my ass back into the van. Once inside, I grabbed the water bottle and drank down the contents. “I really need to exercise more,” I finally gasped. Greg flashed me a look that clearly displayed haven’t we had this conversation before? And we had—on numerous occasions. Greg didn’t mind that I weighed about two hundred twenty pounds. But he did mind that I wasn’t in the best shape, even with my walking, and kept pushing me to increase my distance and speed and add some weight training, especially as I got older. But I wasn’t without my talents. Being pigheaded was something I excelled at. In fact, I was an Olympic champion in the sport—a Gold Medal winner standing at the top of the podium.
“If you hadn’t been so eager, sweetheart,” Greg said, turning the van around and heading back into the cul-de-sac that led to the gate of the condo complex, “you could have listened to my plan and saved yourself a near heart attack.”
“I’m all ears now,” I told him with a roll of my eyes. “What’s this brilliant plan?” I mopped my forehead with a wad of tissue. If it had been the dead of summer and not an overcast February day, I might have keeled over out there.
He parked the van back in the spot where we had been earlier. “She didn’t leave on an errand in her car, Odelia. She’s taking a run. Eventually, depending on how long her runs are, she has to come back, and she won’t be going as fast when she does. In fact, she’ll probably be walking to cool down.”
He was one hundred percent correct. Hearing his explanation made me feel like a big dummy. Not only is Greg the physically fit one in this relationship, he’s the logical and sensible one. Some days I wonder how I’d ever survive without him.
“Unless,” I said, “she gets hit by a bus. Then your theory goes out the window.”
Greg tossed his head back and laughed. Then he leaned close to me to grab a kiss. “I’m all sweaty,” I protested.
“I like you hot and sweaty,” he answered. He made another attempt, but I stopped him. “Hold that thought while I grab more water from the back.”
My bus possibility was shot down when, about forty minutes later, Jean returned. I watched her in my side-view mirror as she rounded the corner walking at a brisk pace, just as Greg had said. This time I wasn’t about to run or even walk fast after her. I climbed out of the van just before she reached it and faced her, visually confirming at the same time that she was the woman in the photo.
“Jean Utley?” I asked her. She wasn’t focused on me and still had her earbuds in place. “Jean?” I said a little louder as she started past me as if I were no more interesting than a fire hydrant. One thing was for sure: soreness from my earlier jog was settling in. If she got spooked and made a run for it, I would be as mobile as said fire hydrant. But she didn’t. This time she heard me and turned.
“Excuse me?” she said, taking out one earbud. “Did you speak to me?” She took a trusting step closer. I’m sure if I’d been a guy, especially a big guy of color, she would not have been so curious and polite. Sometimes it pays to be a squat white middle-aged woman. I’m surprised more crimes aren’t committed by women like me, considering how harmless people consider us. If my hair had been gray, she probably would have also given me a concerned smile.
“Yes, I did,” I answered. “Are you Jean Utley?”
She hesitated, her face quickly dropping the look of trust, replacing it with wariness. She checked my hands to see if I was holding something. Maybe she thought I was a process server ready to slap her with a summons. “What do you want?” She took a step back.
“I need to talk to you about your brother, Zach. It’s very important.”
Now the other earbud came out. “Zach?” She took another step back.
Please don’t run. Please don’t run. Please don’t run.
“Yes,” I pressed. “When was the last time you saw him?” I kept my eyes on hers to keep her focused. I was afraid if I glanced over at Greg, she’d take off.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh, come on, I wanted to say. Even with her name change, I’m sure the police had already tracked her down. Whether or not they’d been able to contact her yet was another story, so I held my sarcasm.
“Your brother, Zach Finch,” I said, clarifying my question. “When did you see him last?”
“What kind of dumbass question is that?” she asked, her face darkening with anger. “Do you know who my brother is? Or was?”
“Yes,” I assured her. “Zachery Finch. He was kidnapped at age fifteen and never found—at least until a few days ago.”
Her mouth dropped open, then quickly she snapped it shut. “What kind of scam are you running?” She glanced over at Greg, who was leaning over the passenger side of the van to see and hear better.
“It’s no scam,” I assured her. “I’m the one who found him. Haven’t the police been trying to reach you?”
She looked me up and down, then glanced over at Greg as she tried to make up her mind about us. “I was out of town on a commercial shoot until late last night. There were a few messages on my machine from some woman cop in Long Beach. She said it was urgent. I was going to call her back this morning.” She stared at me, and I could still see skepticism in her eyes. “Is that what she’s calling about?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Your brother was found dead.”
She noticeably staggered, her eyes huge with shock. A second later, before I could offer support, she got control over herself.
“But it’s more complicated than that.” I took a deep breath. “Look, my name is Odelia Grey, and that’s my husband, Greg Stevens, in the van. We’d really like to talk to you about Zach.”
“How did you even find me?” She took another step back and glanced around.
I wasn’t about to spill the beans about Marigold, so I said, “Name changes are public information, and I’m a paralegal with a lot of research options at my fingertips. I simply did a search for Jean Finch and up popped Jean Utley. Another search gave me this address.”
It was clear Jean was processing everything around in her head, and it was clear she wasn’t the stereotypical Hollywood dumb blond. I could almost see her weighing every tidbit I’d given her and quickly deciding her options. It also was clear that—like many actresses—she’d had her boobies enhanced and possibly a nose job.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
“Just to talk to you about Zach,” I told her. Quickly, I came up with a story to peddle. “Until I can prove otherwise, I’m on the suspect list in his death. It’s ridiculous, I know. I was nowhere near Illinois when he went missing, but I’m the only lead they have right now since I found the body.”
She fidgeted from foot to foot, the sweat on her body glistening in the sunlight, and again glanced around for something or someone. “Where was his body found?”
“His body was found in the trunk of my car,” I tacked on, hoping the bizarreness of it would tip her decision in my favor.
seventeen
Once she made up her mind about speaking with us, Jean punched a code into a box next to the security gate that allowed us to drive through and park in visitor parking. We followed Jean down a walkway, into her building, then into an elevator. Not a word was spoken by any of us the entire time. I glanced a few times at Jean but couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She just stared straight ahead, like people do when sharing an elevator with strangers.
She lived on the top floor of a three-story building. The condo development was made up of clusters of such buildings centered around a lar
ge sparkling swimming pool and green common areas. When Jean saw that Greg was in a wheelchair, her comfort level went up. Like fat middle-aged women, people in wheelchairs just bring out the trust in people. Outside of the occasional white lie, Greg and I were pretty harmless and believed in doing people good, not harm, but people really shouldn’t make that assumption when they see people like us. Really, folks, you shouldn’t. A handsome paraplegic and a woman wallowing in menopause can be just as dangerous as any thug from the inner city—maybe more so because they have the element of surprise on their side. But for now, I was glad Jean had decided to take a chance.
After seating us, Jean asked us to excuse her for a few minutes and disappeared down a hallway. The condo was laid out in what I like to describe as the roommate setup. There was a nice size living room and dining area in the middle, with a modern open-plan kitchen off to the back and a balcony with several patio chairs across the front that overlooked the pool. Two hallways branched off the common area, presumably each to a different bedroom and bath. I got up from my seat and started down the hallway Jean had not taken.
“Where are you going?” Greg asked in a hushed whisper.
“To use the bathroom,” I whispered back. I did need to pee, but I also wanted to know if Jean lived alone.
As I expected, down this hallway was another bathroom and bedroom. The bathroom was off the hallway, with the bedroom next to it. The bathroom door was open. The other door was closed. After a quick glance back toward the common area, I quietly opened the door to the bedroom.
The room was decorated with dark colors and simple furnishings. The queen-size bed was neatly made, and nothing personal covered any surface. On the wall were several framed prints of old movie posters but nothing else. There was a small desk over which hung a bulletin board. The bulletin board was empty except for a few push pins stuck here and there. The room had a masculine feel to it and felt recently abandoned. I wanted to snoop more but couldn’t, knowing I had no time. Still, I quietly eased open the closet door and peeked in. It was also empty except for a few hangers and one pair of men’s athletic shoes tucked into a corner behind the door as if forgotten. Closing the door, I took another glance around the room, then tiptoed out and eased into the bathroom and closed that door behind me. The bathroom also had an abandoned feel to it. There were hand towels on the towel rack but no other towels or shampoo or soap except for a small bottle of hand soap at the sink. Everything looked recently scrubbed. I used the facilities and washed my hands. While the water was running, I opened the few drawers, the cabinet under the sink, and the medicine cabinet.
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