by Wyborn Senna
Walking over to her computer and taking a seat in her black leather office chair, P.J. called up the Barbie International subscriber database and got Nancy’s address—an approximate drive time of five hours and twenty-seven minutes, and an estimated distance of 353.62 miles.
She glanced at the Fossil Barbie watch she wore at home and decided to take it off. She put it in her top desk drawer.
Next, she took off her Barbie necklace, which included tiny keys and actual Barbie accessories, and put it with the watch.
Lastly, she took off her Barbie bracelet, the one who could be Caresse’s brother had noticed.
She had argued with Darby.
“Krieger isn’t a very common name,” she said.
“How many men named Krieger have sisters who are so into Barbie they wear Barbie bracelets as adults?” Darby retorted.
“I don’t even know if Caresse wears a Barbie bracelet,” P.J. said.
Darby thought about it. “You identified yourself as Devvon. How would anyone be able to associate a Devvon West taking a Greyhound to Las Vegas with a Barbie theft and double homicide taking place that weekend in Vegas?”
“It’s just a creepy coincidence,” P.J. concluded.
Darby agreed. “No doubt.”
“But it doesn’t mean she’s not on my radar now,” P.J. added.
“You’ve always been a bit paranoid,” Darby laughed.
They had left it at that.
Today, P.J. was feeling brazen. Fuck Amtrak. Fuck Greyhound. Neither of them would get her up to Walnut Creek much before midnight, and then she’d have to struggle to coordinate things to get herself back to Burbank tomorrow.
I’m taking the Miata, she thought. I’ll be there in five and a half hours, and it’ll still be daylight.
Caresse’s article had mentioned that Nancy’s husband Ward sold used cars and that Nancy’s paralegal work kept her knee-deep in files each weekend.
Weekend sales were notoriously critical for used car salesmen. Ward would be at work, and Nancy would be at home.
P.J. questioned how many breaks Nancy needed to take from proofing legalese, because it seemed like she compulsively popped up to post comments on the Best Barbie Board every hour on the hour from sun-up to sundown every Saturday and Sunday. P.J. pictured Nancy reading boring casework for an hour, breaking down and logging on to the BBB to chat, and then logging off so she could return to reading briefs.
Something interesting to keep her awake, P.J. thought.
She had read media coverage of the homicides in Oswego, most of it involving Gayle’s loudmouthed sister-in-law Megan, but if anything had been mentioned in the national news about the murders in Tucson, Oak Harbor, or Vegas, she had missed it.
Lurking on the Best Barbie Board had brought only a few things to light.
Megan Dailon posted a list of Gayle’s dolls and asked collectors to be on the lookout for them on the secondary market. So far, no one had seen any of them, and it amused P.J. to imagine them scouring eBay listings in vain.
Even though theft hadn’t been ruled out as a motive thanks to Beth’s assessment of Hailey’s room, the Raphael homicide case might be motivationally muddied if law enforcement officers were focusing attention on the young schoolteacher’s boyfriends.
Another case two degrees shy of cold was the Time Taylor murder investigation. Since cash and drugs had been on the scene before Time’s father went to jail, detectives were undoubtedly following up leads involving revenge or the quest for the hidden money or illegal substances Time’s father had bragged the cops hadn’t found at the time of his arrest.
Lastly, there was the Vegas murder, the one P.J. had botched. No one had said boo about it yet, even though she had left dolls behind, packed to go. Intuition told her the police would pin it on some kind of Lil Beef drama and that a rival music group would be blamed. To P.J.’s way of thinking, rappers and hip-hop artists were nothing more than thugs who created music. If someone wanted to kill Lil Beef’s bodyguard and his wife at home, there were at least a dozen rival recording artists and their entourages eager to see it happen.
Six murders, and the K9s were quiet. Could she risk driving her own car up north for the next kill?
The way she felt today, she was certain she could.
37
At 7 p.m. on Sunday, Caresse was on her way to The Graduate restaurant and nightclub in San Luis Obispo for Jenna’s going-away party. It was windy outside, and she was dressed in powder pink from the peak of her hooded sweatshirt to the tips of her pink, vintage Pappagallo flats.
In addition to celebrating Jenna’s departure from the County Times, she was ready to commemorate being done with the personal ads dating scene with one last tall, tart drink. The article would be done in thirty-six hours, and then she could get some much-needed rest. Prepared for another disaster, she had packed a legal pad and a few Sharpies in her oversized pink bag in case her arranged date with Nick was a bust.
Sunday evening was the right time to hold a gathering at The Grad. It was a huge establishment typically packed with Cal Poly kids moshing in the center of the planked, wooden, football field-sized dance floor. A bank of flat screen TVs, a bar (complete with boisterous bartenders), and food service windows lent a college bar appeal. The lighting, as always, was low. Tonight, in honor of Jenna, they were playing her favorite movie, Legally Blonde, on the big screen.
The bar area was packed when Caresse walked in, so she headed in that direction. She stopped beside Seth, who was rubbing his round-lensed glasses with a napkin while arguing with Pressroom Skip.
“Listen,” Seth was saying, “You can’t vilify them for laying off 40,000 employees. There’s nothing wrong with streamlining a corporation to make it more efficient and competitive.”
“You’re an idiot, Tanner!” Skip exploded, sloshing beer in Caresse’s direction. He noticed her and his mood changed. “Oh, hi, Todd magnet.”
Caresse was ready to open her mouth, but Skip flip-flopped back to being angry with Seth. “Think it’s efficient when one man ends up doing four men’s work and two-thirds of it doesn’t get done?”
Caresse leaned between them and called to the bartender. “Tom Collins.”
Seth was smug. “Hire the right person who can do four men’s work. That’s the answer.”
Skip was sarcastic. “Right.”
They agreed to disagree. Seth turned his back, and they watched as he wove through the throng in the direction of the men’s room.
Skip moved up to the bar with Caresse and put his beer down. The bartender hadn’t asked for money, but she threw a few bucks down on the glossy bar anyway. Her drink had arrived, complete with cherry, and Skip smiled at it. He was old school all the way, in his late fifties, and everyone’s favorite cigarette-break sage. Tonight he wore a green plaid flannel shirt he’d made an effort to iron. It rose over his belly and hung down past his belt.
Caresse checked out his cowboy boots, which had been buffed to a shine.
She was feeling brave. “So tell me everything you know about Todd.”
Skip smiled mischievously and sipped his beer. Women on fishing expeditions always amused him. “He’s married. I know that much.”
Oh, God, she thought.
“Well, he’s married, but he’s not married.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, he has his own place and is legally separated, but the divorce hasn’t been finalized. He might call her an ex already because, I mean, who wouldn’t? What are your options? My separated-from-but-not-ex-yet-wife?”
Caresse had the sinking feeling Todd’s separation wouldn’t stick. She decided to take another blind stab. “And the kids?”
“Well, they’ve got the one boy who’s about your son’s age, but here’s where it gets complicated.” Skip ran his worn hands over his balding dome, smoothing back what little hair he had left.
Ann nudged in. “I can take it from here, Skip. I should have told her about Todd a few da
ys ago.”
“Look, I saw the whole thing between Caresse and Todd come down firsthand,” Skip said. “They met, started to talk, and the pressroom erupted in a blaze of testrogen.”
Ann was nearly shouting. “Testrogen?”
“That’s my combo word for testosterone and estrogen. Love it or hate it.”
“We’ve got to tell her,” Ann told Skip. “She’s our friend.”
Skip shrugged and sipped his beer. “I’m her friend, I’m your friend, and I’m his friend. Sounds like lose-lose-lose.”
Ann gave him her I-smell-something-disgusting face. “Truth triumphs, even if it hurts.”
“Amen, sister,” Caresse said, bracing herself for the bad news by biting the tip of her straw.
Ann was ready to lay bare the facts. “Todd and his wife Fianna had their baby boy Harley four years ago. Same age as Chazzie. Then, last year, Fianna had an affair with a guy in Skip’s garage band.”
Skip looked ready to volunteer a name and then stopped himself.
Ann continued, “Fianna got pregnant and moved out with Harley, leaving Todd the house they’d lived in. Fianna moved in with buddy-boy and had the baby. Then Fianna and buddy-boy started to fight. Fianna kicked buddy-boy out and started calling Todd, wanting to reconcile. Todd is trying to decide whether or not he still loves his cheating wife—”
“Separated-from-but-not-ex-yet–cheating wife,” Skip clarified.
“Who now not only wants to bring Harley back home but a newborn daughter too. So, she’s changed her mind, and he still loves her, but he’s mad at her for cheating and leaving. They have a child together, but in accepting them back, he’ll have to raise another child who will remind him of buddy-boy forever.”
“It’s difficult,” Skip surmised.
Caresse’s eyes filled with tears. “Too messy for me.”
Ann put her arm around her and then came in for a full body press.
The waterworks began.
Skip tried to hand Caresse her drink, but she pushed it away.
Nibbles and Rhea approached, flanking a kid who had to be ten years Caresse’s junior. He was smooth-faced and bright-eyed, with tousled hair the shade of almonds.
Rhea touched Caresse’s shoulder, nudging Nick forward at the same time. “Caresse, this is Nick. Nick, Caresse.”
Nick looked frightened.
“Her crumpled look,” Ann joked, and everyone laughed.
Caresse grabbed her drink from Skip, downed it, wiped her eyes with the damp napkin stuck to the bottom of the glass, and laughed weakly.
“Excuse me, Nick. I’ll be right back.”
38
While one of the Las Vegas investigators dabbed Rick Uzamba’s neck with a moistened cotton swab where the hypodermic needle had left a dot of dried blood, another technician was upstairs, dabbing Zivia’s upper arm for the same reason. Both samples were then air-dried and packed in envelopes with sealed corners.
If the killer had touched Rick, it was necessary to test his clothing, so it was cut from his body and bagged in paper, along with his shoes. The fact that he wasn’t wearing any of the jewelry he generally never removed was duly noted.
No one seemed daunted by the fact they had to scour not only the outside of the residence and garage, but nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room, the screening room, the bowling alley, the music room, the doll room, and the den.
Everywhere in the home where the floor was not carpeted, one team of investigators culled footprints from dust using an electrostatic lifting device while a second team used lifting film, taking care to preserve and store film containing impressions by taping the edges securely in shallow photographic paper boxes. When they ran out of the boxes, they utilized the alternate procedure of taping an edge of each piece of film securely in clean, smooth, high-grade paper file folders.
The backyard was examined exhaustively, from its tiered Cocobolo decks, umbrellaed tables, and lounge chairs to the hot tub, lampposts, and pool. The shrubs, hedges, and garden beds were searched for anything out of the ordinary as well.
Footprints across the perimeter of the backyard leading to the point of entry were photographed, including an object for scale, with particular attention paid to those in the softer soil.
“Large feet,” an investigator named Lou Gersikoff commented. “Looks like the imprint of a male sports shoe.”
“Basketball, football, running?” his colleague Uri James asked.
“The tread looks familiar,” Lou replied. “But we’ll know for sure soon enough.”
Latent prints on the sliding glass door leading into the home were dusted with black powder and photographed before they were removed with rubber lifts.
Russ Alexander stared at the linoleum at the edge of the carpeted room. The small square, which would serve as a space for a mud mat, was bare, save for a tiny, yellow-tinged dried liquid splotch slightly smaller than the head of a tack.
“What have we here?” he asked rhetorically. Treating the scabbed mark with the same methodology he’d use for dried blood, he lifted it with a moistened cotton swab, air-dried it, and placed it in an envelope.
Upstairs, in Zivia’s doll room, the smashed cabinets were photographed, left to right, floor to ceiling, so that the prints could be fit together to create a panoramic shot of the entire room. Wearing cotton gloves, technicians collected the plastic fragments from the cabinets. Each piece was then marked and packed in a labeled container.
Investigators combed the $8.5 million Las Vegas residence for more than thirty-six hours. Due to the high-profile nature of the Lil Beef case, FBI entered the picture about ten hours into the evidence collection process. The weapons and ammunition remaining downstairs in the secret room were confiscated.
The FBI was purportedly there to draw an association between rival hip-hop artists, but they were forced to reconsider the motive when they spotted the two Army duffel bags stuffed with Barbies lying on the floor in the doll room.
39
After Caresse finished washing her face in the restroom at The Grad, she emerged and looked around. The place was as wide and tall as a raftered barn, made homey with wood paneling, picnic tables, and sawdust scattered liberally on the floor. She found Nick in a dark corner with his back to Legally Blonde. He had gotten her a fresh Tom Collins, which sat on a fresh napkin beside a half-pound “Gradburger” and a full-pound “Supergrad.” He was drinking dark beer, waiting for her.
“Didn’t know which one you’d want.”
“Oh.” She was a week away from being hungry at this point, so she just looked at him forlornly.
“More for me,” he laughed, pulling both burgers closer to his brew.
She sat down slowly. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Sure.”
Caresse was used to talkative guys, so she didn’t know quite what to do with the ensuing silence. Normally, she would jump to fill any conversational voids, but she wasn’t feeling it tonight. She waited. She watched him eat. His dark, bright eyes focused on the food like a squirrel inspecting the perfect pile of nuts.
It took a full fifteen minutes for Nick to grow uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat. “So, you live around here?”
“Yeah, a couple miles from work.”
“I work in Pismo,” he said. “I’m a—”
“Stockbroker,” they said in unison and laughed.
“How does someone in his twenties get started in that?” she asked.
Nick took a deep breath and was preparing to launch into his personal history when he caught the subtle change in her expression.
“You don’t really want to know, do you?”
Caresse thought for a moment. This was her chance to be brutally honest. But was there a way to minimize it with humor? She thought about Bree and Nibbles and Rhea and sighed. There was nothing to laugh about. “I’m writing a story on dating for the paper. That’s why we were set up. This is my last date. I’m ready to write the article now, a
nd I’m kind of worn out.”
Nick pointed toward a door in the corner of the restaurant. “Grab your drink and a burger and come with me.”
Caresse tottered behind him, struggling with her purse, the plate, and her drink.
He led her to a door marked “manager” and knocked before opening it.
He snapped on the overhead lights. The cozy cubbyhole was empty.
He turned toward her. “I know the guy who runs this place. This is where he interviews new waitresses and gets caught up on paperwork. He’s gonna be busy in the restaurant tonight, so I’m sure he won’t mind if you borrow his space. I’ll tell him you’re here. That way, you can start writing your piece.”
“What’s his name, in case anyone asks?”
“Gavin,” Nick said.
She put her drink, the burger, and her purse on the desk.
Gavin had a quality leather office chair. She sank into it, putting her arms on the rests. Nick came toward her and, gentlemen that he had been so far she expected nothing more than a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek.
Instead, he zeroed in on her neck and gave her a tiny, twisted little bite. A hickey.
She yelped and Nick backed away, grinning. “Sorry.”
Her jaw was still on the floor as he left, closing the door gently behind him.
She stared at the movie posters plastered on the walls and then looked around at Gavin’s other knickknacks while rubbing her neck. She didn’t have a mirror, but as long as Nick didn’t have rabies, she would be fine.
She opened her purse. Out came the yellow legal pad. Out came a stack of random notes, held together in the corner by a navy, coated paperclip. Out came a green Sharpie. She thought hard and then began to write. After an hour, she was done. She re-read what she had written but didn’t know if it was any good.
Having been divorced since the fall of 2007, first thoughts of re-entering the world of dating filled me with trepidation. After several blind dates, however, I’ve become a veteran and have some food for thought.
When you talk to your future date on the phone the first time to arrange your meeting, what do they sound like? If the timbre of their voice grates on your nerves after only a minute, it’s likely that an hour or two of chatting will give you a migraine. Another factor to consider is speech patterns. Are they articulate and socially adept? Lastly, what the heck are they telling you? What they choose to say in an initial conversation is often insightful. Listen and take heed.