“We just asked Ms. Utley some questions,” Greg told him. “Probably the same questions you’ll ask her.”
“I doubt it.” Shipman removed his glasses and looked at both of us several times, studying our faces. He finally settled his suspicious peepers on Greg, probably thinking he was the more reasonable of the two of us. He was right.
“Jean Utley claims she didn’t know her brother was still alive and in California,” Greg told him. “She also said she and her father had a falling out when she moved to California and changed her name.”
“She told us,” I chimed in, “that she hasn’t spoken to her father since then.”
“Do you believe her?” Shipman asked.
Greg and I looked at each other, silently comparing thoughts. I gave him a slight nod, letting him know I was onboard with telling Shipman what we knew. “I don’t know,” Greg answered. “There were some discrepancies in her answers.”
“Like what exactly?” Shipman asked, his ears pricked with curiosity as he listened.
“She claims,” I said, “that she moved here right after graduating from college, but I don’t think that’s true. She worked for one of her father’s companies after college—Aztec was the name of it. It’s located in Chicago. She was there maybe a year or so, then moved to California. That’s when she changed her last name to Utley.”
“Tell me,” Shipman asked, obviously pointing the inquiry at my husband instead of me, even though I’d just given him the information, “how did you two find Jean if you didn’t already know her?”
“Name changes are public record,” Greg answered, parroting my explanation to Jean, “and Odelia is a paralegal with a lot of research options at her fingertips.”
Shipman turned his eyes once again on me. “Even employment records?”
In response, I shrugged. I wasn’t about to tell Shipman about Marigold. “The question is,” I asked instead, “how did you get inside the security gate? We were invited in.”
“You have your ways. I have mine,” was all he said. He put his sunglasses back on. “Look, you two, I know you have a bad habit of sticking your noses where they don’t belong, but this is not one of those times. The more you get involved, the more the agency is going to think you had something to do with Zach Finch’s murder. Maybe Greg here put the body in the trunk and forgot to tell you.”
“That’s absurd,” Greg said, taking his turn at being a snapping turtle.
“You may be in a chair, Greg, but it’s easy to see you’re a pretty strong guy. Or maybe, Odelia, you didn’t realize the trunk would be opened by the car wash people.” Shipman said, turning his covered eyes my way.
“I go there all the time,” I told him, sticking my chin out in defiance. “Of course I’d know they would open the trunk.”
“Frankly,” Shipman said, turning his shaded eyes toward the building housing Jean Utley, “I’m thinking one of your crime buddies did it, thinking the corpse would be safe there for a few days until they could dispose of it properly. My money is on Elaine Powers; I believe you call her Mother. Maybe Ms. Utley put a hit out on her brother through Mother’s crew, and Mother thought it would be safe to leave the body with her goody two-shoes pal Odelia for the time being. If you hadn’t gone to the car wash and popped the trunk, I’ll bet that body would have disappeared as magically as it appeared, without you knowing a thing.”
“I don’t think Elaine did this,” I told him with conviction.
“Have you spoken to her about it?” Shipman asked.
“No, I haven’t,” I answered truthfully. “I have no idea where she is or how to reach her. She just sort of pops up unexpectedly from time to time. You know, like a pimple. And we’re not friends.” Okay, a little fib, but honestly I didn’t know if that cryptic ad would produce Elaine or not.
“She’s telling the truth, Special Agent Shipman,” Greg told him as he edged his chair closer to him. “Elaine Powers is not someone we have over to dinner.”
“But you do have Willie Proctor over for dinner?” he asked with sarcasm.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree there,” Greg said, giving his voice a sharp edge. “It’s true, we have come to know some unusual people in our travels, but we don’t harbor or hide them. Watch us all you want. You’re going to find nothing.” Greg took my arm and edged closer to the van. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I would like to leave.” Greg aimed the key fob at the van and unlocked it, the audible click of the lock’s release underlining his words.
Shipman moved and opened the passenger-side door for me with exaggerated gallantry. Greg went around the back of the van to the driver’s side. By the time he’d gotten his butt into the van and stored his wheelchair, I was still standing on the pavement having a staring contest with Shipman. He looked into my eyes. I looked into two black holes of expensive sun protection. “Get in, Odelia,” Shipman finally said with a low chuckle. “I’m not going to bite or even slam your fingers in the door.” He laughed again. “We have other ways to make people talk.”
Once I was settled inside and buckled up, Shipman shut the door. Greg lowered the window on my side. “Special Agent,” he said, leaning slightly across me, “if we find out anything else important, we’ll let either you or Detective Fehring know. We’re as eager for this to be over as you are, if not more.”
Shipman was about to say something when we heard an ear-piercing scream followed by loud shouts. It was coming from the pool area. There was another sharp shriek, louder and longer than the first. Shipman took off at a run in the direction of the hysteria. I piled out of the van and ran around the other side to help Greg get out of the van faster by grabbing his chair and setting it up so he could just swing his butt into it. Together we made our way back down the path toward Jean’s building. When in a hurry, Greg can propel his wheelchair at a pretty good clip. My stumpy legs and fat ass had trouble keeping up with him.
A small crowd of people had gathered by the pool in a circle. They were eerily silent except for two women who were weeping. One was older. She was seated on a bench, clinging to a toy poodle for dear life while others tried to comfort her. “I saw it. I saw it all,” the old woman was saying while her dog peddled its tiny legs like an egg beater to get down. “I was walking Cedric and saw her fall,” she whimpered to those around her. “It was horrible!” She broke into sobs and buried her face into the dog’s fur.
Greg and I made our way to a small break in the circle. I poked my head between two young men, then wedged my way in to make enough room for Greg to see between me and the man to my right. In the center was Gregory Shipman. He was giving orders on his phone while squatting next to the partially clothed body of a woman facedown on the concrete apron of the pool. There was no way she was alive. Her body was contorted, splayed like a rag doll tossed to the floor by an angry child. Her head, with its long blond hair secured by a barrette, was surrounded by a pool of blood. She was barefoot and wore nothing but a short terry cloth robe.
I didn’t have to see the face to know it was Jean Utley. On the dead woman’s left ankle was the tattoo of a blue hummingbird.
“I really don’t want to seem callous in light of what has happened to Jean and her brother,” I said to Greg as I climbed into the van next to him and buckled up, “but I am so over being questioned by the police.”
Greg glanced over at me after he backed the van out of the visitor parking at Jean’s condo and headed for the exit. “Does that go for the FBI too?”
“It goes double for the FBI.” I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and checked for messages. It had rung a few times while we were being questioned, but they wouldn’t allow me to answer or even look at it while being interrogated. “I know they’re doing their job and I want to get to the bottom of what’s going on just as much as they do, but why do they have to keep asking the same questions over and over and over like a broken record?”
“They did the same to me, sweetheart. I think it’s their way of checking
for discrepancies and slip-ups. They want to make sure what we tell them is the truth.”
“But did you get asked if we said anything to Jean to make her jump?” That particular question, posed to me by Shipman, almost sent me for the man’s throat, except that I remembered he carried a gun. “The very idea that we would even try to do that is ridiculous.”
In spite of the severity of the situation, Greg chuckled. “Yes, I got asked a similar question by another agent.”
Studio City is not an actual city but an area in the humongous city of Los Angeles. Units from the Los Angeles Police Department had swarmed the condo complex, along with agents from the local FBI office called by Shipman. While waiting in the community room of the complex to be questioned, I’d overheard Shipman saying to one of the LAPD officers that Jean’s death was part of an ongoing FBI investigation and therefore they would have jurisdiction and be in charge of the matter. The LA cop did not look pleased, but a call into his office caused him to back down and cooperate.
There were three calls I’d missed during the couple of hours we were tied up with questioning. One was from Clark. I listened to the voice mail he left and reported to Greg. “Clark just left a voice mail saying he’s in the town where Zach grew up and is trying to find Chris Cook. Cook’s office is shut for the weekend, and no one seems to be home at his residence. Clark will check back in later.” I called Clark’s phone but only got voice mail. I left him a message bringing him up to speed with Jean’s death.
The next call and voice mail was from Andrea Fehring. I put it on speaker and played it for Greg.
“I just heard what happened in Studio City,” Andrea said in her message in a tone so sharp it nearly sliced my inner ear. “As soon as you’re done there, you’re to come straight to my office. You hear? No detours. No wild goose chases. Straight to the Long Beach PD. That’s an order!”
“Should I tell her we’re on our way?” I asked Greg.
We’d just turned onto the freeway and were starting our long freeway journey back to that neck of the woods. At least the Long Beach Police Department was close to home.
“Yeah,” Greg said, “but before we get there, let’s stop at Gino’s and pick up some sandwiches for lunch. It’s right by the station. Knowing the police and their long-winded questioning, we’ll need to come stocked with provisions for the long haul.” He checked the clock on the dashboard. “It’s already well after one. Better yet, call her back and see if we can pick up something for her. It couldn’t hurt in the brownie points department.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “Even though I don’t have an appetite after seeing Jean’s brains splashed on the pavement just moments after seeing her alive.”
“Me either.” Greg reached over and gave my knee a comforting pat. “But better to be prepared just in case. I don’t think Andrea is calling us in for a short, casual chat.”
I nodded in agreement as I texted Andrea back that we had just left Studio City and were heading her way. I asked her if she wanted something from Gino’s, knowing that almost anyone who lived or worked in Long Beach would know that menu by heart. A message quickly arrived saying to forget the food and get in there. I read it to Greg.
“Ha! There’s no way I’m showing up there without my lunch,” he said in response. “Let her stop me.”
The final call was from my mother and had come in just before we were released by Shipman. She left a short, simple message, which I also played on speaker: “Call me. Urgent.”
“She doesn’t sound upset or worried,” Greg noted.
“No,” I agreed. “I wonder what that’s about and if it can wait until after we see Andrea.” Before he could answer, I called Mom, thinking I’d tell her we’d be there after we saw Fehring. She answered on the first ring. “Mom, it’s me,” I said as soon as she said hello. “Greg and I had an errand this morning. We’re on the freeway heading back now. What’s so urgent? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said calmly. “It’s just that a friend of yours stopped by, and I think you should come to my place as soon as possible.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t think of who might have visited Mom, but she did seem genuinely delighted. “Who is it?”
“It’s a surprise,” Mom said.
I sighed. “Mom, Andrea Fehring is demanding our presence at the Long Beach Police Department ASAP. That’s where we’re heading now. Can this mystery person wait or come back later?”
Mom hesitated. “I don’t think she can. You need to come here first. Tell Detective Fehring you’ll meet her later. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
I remembered Andrea’s tone and doubted seriously that she would tolerate any holdup. “She was pretty adamant that Greg and I meet her now,” I said. “Something very serious has happened, Mom. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. But for now there’s no way we can stop by your place before we go to Long Beach.”
I could hear Mom relaying my words to whoever was there. I racked my brain but couldn’t think of who it could be. I raised my brows in question at Greg, but he only shrugged. Who did we know who would stop by Mom’s if they didn’t find us home? Who besides our closest friends even knew where Mom lived? I thought about Willie, but Mom did say it was a woman.
“Mom,” I called into the phone. “You still there?”
“Here,” Mom said. “You talk to her.”
There was a brief moment during which Greg and I could hear fumbling and voices as the phone was passed along to someone else. Finally came a familiar voice. “Dottie, is that you?”
My eyes snapped in Greg’s direction. He also recognized the voice and was having trouble keeping his mind on his driving. The van swerved slightly, and the guy next to us laid on his horn.
“Elaine, what are you doing at my mother’s?” I asked, not even trying to hide my shock.
“You contacted me, remember?” she said, her voice filled with amusement.
“Um, does my mother know who you are?”
“Affirmative.”
“And—?” I prodded. I looked over at Greg. He was staring straight out the windshield and shaking his head in disbelief.
“And we’re drinking coffee and eating banana bread fresh out of the oven while playing gin rummy,” Elaine reported. I looked over at Greg. His eyes grew wider and wilder as he urged the van to go faster. “Grace makes great banana bread,” Elaine added.
“Why my mother, Elaine?” I asked. “I contacted you. Why get her involved?” I wanted to ask her how she found Mom, but after using Marigold, I realized that might be a waste of time. There might be several deep search engines like it on the net. Let’s face it, individual privacy is a ship that sailed a very long time ago. All we private citizens can do is wave goodbye to it with hankies while it disappears into the horizon.
The next question was, how did Elaine get into Mom’s retirement community? It was gated and, unlike Jean’s complex, had a guard at the front gate. Did Elaine simply say who she was and Grace told the guard to let her in? It would be something my mother would do.
“True, but you have way too many police buddies for my comfort,” Elaine explained. “That’s all I’d need is for that Fehring woman or Dev Frye to show up at your door while we were having a heart to heart. It might get messy.” She paused to let the full impact of her words sink into my thick skull. “And it seems I made the right decision, considering what your mother has told me. The cops and the FBI? Odelia, you’ve come up in the world since I last saw you.”
“Mom told you about…um…the body?” I looked up out the windshield and realized for the first time how fast Greg was going. For a guy without the use of his legs, he sure had a lead foot—at least today.
“Yes, she did,” Elaine said, “and the guy’s identity, which is why I wanted to see you sooner than later. Come straight here, Odelia. Make some excuse to Fehring to put her off, but come straight here. It’s important for you and for Fehring. I’ll be waiting.”
As soon as I hung up
, I texted Andrea Fehring and told her we had to make a small detour—a family emergency that had just cropped up—but that we’d be at her office as soon as we solved the crisis.
She texted back immediately: You have two hours to get in here. Don’t make me come and get you!
Family dinners would be a laugh-a-minute if Clark got involved with this woman. I texted back, assuring her that two hours should be plenty of time.
“Forget Long Beach,” I told Greg when I was finished with my phone. “We need to stop by my mother’s first.”
“That’s where I’m heading,” Greg said, keeping up the speed and deftly weaving in and out of traffic.
“Are you deliberately trying to get a ticket?” I asked.
“I’m trying to save your mother’s life,” he answered, not taking his eyes off the road.
I chuckled. “Relax. You heard Elaine. They’re drinking coffee and playing gin rummy.”
“That’s the problem,” Greg snapped without looking at me. “Grace cheats at cards.”
On my side of the vehicle, I nearly pushed my right foot through the floor board.
nineteen
When we got to Mom’s, she was still alive. The two of them had abandoned their card game and were sitting companionably on Mom’s patio enjoying the fresh air. They looked like a couple of old hens gossiping about the neighbors. The patio ran across the front of Mom’s townhome and was bordered by a waist-high concrete block fence. It was accessed through sliders in the living room. They waved to us as we approached the front door. “The door’s open,” Mom said to us as we came up the walk.
By the time we entered the house, both Mom and Elaine had made their way back into the living room. “Let’s talk inside,” Elaine said as she closed the slider to the patio. “No sense taking the risk of someone overhearing us.”
“You two want some coffee or tea?” Mom asked us.
“Just some water, Mom,” I said.
“Coffee would be great, Grace,” echoed Greg. “Thanks. And do you have any of that banana bread?”
A Body to Spare Page 16