Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  Still, he couldn’t have been happy with Warren. “Were he and Mr. Larson friends?”

  “They were co-workers. Beyond that I have no idea.”

  “Was anyone else found to be involved in the embezzlement scheme? A cohort at the construction company, for example?”

  “Not that I know of. You’d have to check with the DA’s office about that.” She looked at her watch. “As I said, we were saddened to hear of Mr. Larson’s death, but the trouble with B&B was two years ago. The matter was settled in court. Neither our firm nor Mr. Larson had any ongoing legal or financial involvement with the matter.”

  She made it clear our time was up. I thanked her and we left.

  “What do you think?” Jared asked as we walked to the car.

  “I think both Chasen and Ducas had reason to be upset with Warren, but murder? I don’t know. It might sound plausible on paper but it’s not very realistic.”

  “So probably not our best line of pursuit.”

  “Not at the moment, but we should follow up on both men all the same.”

  When we got back to the office I found Jared’s email to me with the phone numbers of Warren’s golf buddies. One of them was away on a cruise, according to his son who answered the phone. The other was Daryl Nelson, who Ariel had said cheated at golf.

  Daryl was a loquacious man with a booming voice and an easy laugh. He and Warren had been golfing together for a little over a year. Warren was friends with one of the other men in the group, which was how they’d first met. He found my questions regarding competition in the game amusing.

  “We don’t even keep score,” he said, “except for ourselves. We kid one another about really good shots, or really bad ones, but the competition is strictly good-natured. Yeah, I fudge a shot now and then but it’s the only way I can keep up with the rest of them. They’re all much better golfers than me.”

  He wasn’t aware of any recent conflicts Warren had, and he’d heard nothing bad about Warren’s marriage. “He got lucky getting a second chance like he did. I’m a widower myself. There’s a lot to be said for marriage.”

  Either Daryl Nelson was a very good actor or I could scratch him off my rapidly shrinking list of possible suspects.

  Disheartened, I headed home to spiff up both the house, and myself, in anticipation of Bryce’s visit that evening.

  ~*~

  He arrived with a bag of groceries and a chilled bottle of champagne.

  “What are we celebrating?” I asked.

  “Us.” He gave me a big hug and a long kiss. “I’ve missed you. A lot.”

  Bryce is taller than me but only by about four inches so our bodies are a perfect fit. I love his strength and solid bulk, and the way I feel safe when I’m with him. I rested my cheek against his chest and closed my eyes for a minute, drinking him in.

  “Same here.” I told him.

  “You want to eat before or after?”

  I laughed. “It’s either/or? We can’t do both?”

  “We certainly can.” Bryce put the champagne and steak in the fridge, then pulled me close. “I think I should go away more often.”

  We did finally get food and drink but only after a lovely interlude in the bedroom. Bryce spent the night, which is not always the case. In the morning, I made coffee and toast while he scrambled eggs. This domestic togetherness was kind of nice. Maybe being married would be gratifying and lovely, after all. Then I reminded myself of married couples I knew who had to schedule date nights in order to have quiet time together. And the ones who scheduled time away just to keep sane.

  Waiting for the coffee to drip, I scanned the morning newspaper and almost choked when I came across a story about Warren’s death, and the suspicions it had raised.

  “What is it?” Bryce asked.

  I showed him the piece. “Where did it come from? This E.J. Masters who wrote the story must have a source in the police department. Or the DA’s office. No charges have even been filed, yet this reads like a hit piece on Ariel. Masters reports that authorities have questioned her and are continuing to investigate her involvement in Warren’s death. But it’s all unnamed sources and innuendo. He even notes”—and here I quoted the news story—“‘Reports suggest the cause of death to be asphyxiation.’ Where is he getting his information?”

  “You’ve been asking people about her,” Bryce pointed out, reasonably. “Could one of them have talked?”

  “No way anyone I talked to could come away with that kind of information, or draw the conclusion that Ariel was a prime suspect. I never said she’d been questioned by the police. And I just learned about the asphyxiation yesterday. The only person I told was Ariel herself.”

  “Maybe she’s been talking then.”

  “Not to E.J. Masters, I’m sure. She’s as freaked out about the media hounding her as she is the police. Besides, there’s not one named source. This is irresponsible journalism.”

  “It walks a fine line,” Bryce agreed. “Is the story accurate?” He scooped eggs onto my plate. “Larson died of asphyxiation?”

  “Right.” I told him about my conversation with ADA Huff. “They think she drugged him and then smothered him with a pillow or something. It wouldn’t take a lot of strength so it’s something a woman would be able to do.”

  “Something a woman might be likely to do, too. Women tend to avoid the messier means of murder.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said sarcastically. “Very encouraging.”

  Bryce put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “You’re a damned good attorney, Kali. And you work your tail off for people. But sometimes the facts are simply not on your side.”

  “I know. But I don’t like it one bit.”

  THIRTEEN

  Ariel called a bit later that morning, just as I was ready to leave for the office.

  “Did you see the paper this morning?” she asked in outrage. “Everyone’s going to think I’m guilty. I’ve already had two calls from reporters.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Of course not. I hung up both times.”

  “Good.”

  “But shouldn’t I tell them I’m innocent? Otherwise, people will think I killed him. They’ll hate me.”

  “We may issue a statement down the road, but for now, the less you say to reporters, or anyone for that matter, the better.”

  “Okay, if you think that’s best.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  Ariel wanted to set the record straight, with the public and with the DA. She worried that by not talking, she made herself look guilty. We’d battled about that yesterday. “I’m happy to cooperate with the DA’s office,” she’d told me impatiently. I’d had to convince her that in Huff’s world cooperate meant admitting guilt.

  “I also have something to show you,” she said now.

  “Is it important?” I had a client meeting with an older couple about their will that morning and wanted to go over the information they’d given me once again before I saw them.

  “I found a note in Warren’s jacket pocket.”

  “Something he wrote? What does it say?” Maybe he had been thinking about suicide after all.

  “It’s not his handwriting. I really think you should see it.”

  “I can come by about one. Will you be home then?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want people staring at me and talking trash behind my back.”

  My meeting lasted longer than I’d anticipated and I didn’t get to Ariel’s until almost two. She peered through the curtains to see who had rung her bell before opening the door.

  “I’m so glad you’re finally here,” she said, opening the door and practically pulling me inside. “There was a reporter from Channel 7 News who came to the door earlier. I said I didn’t want to talk to her but a camera guy filmed the whole thing. Now it will be on television and everyone will know.”

  “Maybe you should think about staying with a friend for a few days,” I suggested.

&n
bsp; “I could. But I kind of want to be here. It’s home, and so many things remind me of Warren. That makes me sad but it also makes me feel closer to him, if that makes any sense. Like his spirit hasn’t really gone.”

  “I understand, but I don’t think the media’s going to give up anytime soon. Do you have any idea who was the source for that story in this morning’s paper?”

  “No. I thought reporters just, you know, dug stuff up.”

  “They need to get it somewhere.” Or make it up, I added silently. But E.J. Masters had gotten most of the information correct. “You haven’t talked to any of them, have you?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I didn’t think so. Just keep doing what you’re doing to avoid them. Now, what about this note?”

  “I’ve begun going through Warren’s clothing and things, packing them up for donation. I found this in a jacket pocket.” She handed me a piece of white notepaper with a message penned in a scrawling angular script.

  Do not talk to or meet with Daniel ever again. If you do, you will regret it. Understand? I don’t make idle threats.

  “Who’s Daniel?” I asked.

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out. There’s a Dan Wallace listed among Warren’s contacts in our address book. He lives in Reno. I don’t know if he’s a friend or a former client or what. I never heard Warren mention him.”

  I took down the phone number. “Anyone else?”

  “There’s some kid at the park Warren talks to sometimes. I think his name is Danny. Or maybe Benny or Kenny. It’s something like that.”

  “How old is the boy?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen. Warren never said.”

  “Any idea what they talked about?”

  “No. Warren would mention seeing him now and then but it was more like a casual thing, not some important meeting. He said the kid was nice, and bright. Always asking Warren stuff about history and politics. I got the impression he read a lot.”

  “Where is this park?”

  “It’s right there at the library.”

  That fit with books and a kid interested in learning. “Do you think the note is recent?”

  “It must have been in the last month or so. The jacket was at the cleaners and Warren just broke it out again when the evenings got cooler.”

  “There was no envelope, just the note?”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s slip it into a folder.” We’d probably already obscured whatever prints might have been on it, but a threatening note might prove to be just what we needed. “Keep it in a safe place,” I told her.

  “Shouldn’t we show it to the police? Won’t that help prove me innocent?”

  “We will show them, but let’s try to figure out who Daniel is first. In truth, I’m not convinced the police would do much with it at this point.” As far as they were concerned, Ariel had killed her husband. They weren’t interested in looking elsewhere. “Who generally collects the mail from the box each day?”

  “I do. I set Warren’s mail in a stack for him to look at. His was almost all financial stuff—statements, bills, that sort of thing. And a couple of magazines he subscribed to.”

  “And you don’t recall seeing an envelope addressed to him this might have come in?”

  She shook her head. “I’d remember a letter. Except around Christmas, he almost never got personal mail. Neither of us do.”

  Before I left, I warned her there was a possibility she might be arrested in the near future. “I don’t want to worry you but it might be a good idea to make sure things are covered at home. And you’ll need access to money for bail.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “Arrested? How long until I could get out?”

  “Maybe as short as three or four days, but it could be much longer. It depends on what they charge you with.”

  Under California law, capital murder is not a bailable offense. There was a small set of circumstances that qualified as capital murder. Unfortunately, murder for financial gain was one of them.

  “Do you have the means to post bail?” I asked. “And I’m afraid I’d also need a larger retainer at that point.”

  Her chin quivered. “How can this be happening?”

  “Is money an issue?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that. We’ve got money in our savings account, and I can contact the broker about selling stock if I need to. Warren made a good living, and he was frugal so we’ve got money saved up. But bail and being arrested . . . I can’t believe it’s real. How can they think I killed him?”

  “I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily. I just think you need to be prepared for the worst.”

  Ariel nodded tearfully, and I berated myself for upsetting her. But I knew she had to be prepared for things to get much worse.

  I called Dan Wallace from my car. He’d been a small business client of Warren’s, although he’d retired several years before Warren had. They hadn’t talked in years but still exchanged Christmas cards.

  That left the kid who might be named Danny, assuming there wasn’t another, still unknown, Daniel in Warren’s life.

  The Glenwood library was a light and airy structure located at the edge of the city park. Inside, I found senior citizens, mothers with young children, and small group of elementary school age kids with their teacher. No teenagers. I approached the librarian and told her I was researching an article on library use among teens. Strangers are often reluctant to talk to attorneys.

  She laughed. “There are a handful of middle-school kids who come by when school gets out. Supposedly they’re here to do their homework, but it’s mostly a safe place to be until their parents can pick them up. The older kids, not so much. The Internet has pretty much replaced books when it comes to what passes for research these days, and they’re beyond needing babysitting.”

  “There’s no one?”

  “There are occasionally older kids who come for a specific book, or to use our computers. And there a couple of kids who come by more often. I suspect they don’t have friends to hang out with or homes they want to go home to.”

  “I had a lead, a boy named Danny,” I said, drawing on my journalism cover. “I was told he comes to the park fairly often. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable talking about specific children, but school will be out in about forty minutes. If you come back then you may have better luck.”

  I scanned the shelf of new releases, then settled in the periodical section with the latest copy of a Cosmopolitan, a magazine I hadn’t looked at since the last time I’d had a pedicure, which had been a long time. Make-up and fashion tips, and several rather frank articles about sex practices. I angled the magazine so the older man sitting nearby couldn’t see what I was reading.

  When an hour had passed and no one who looked older than twelve had wandered into the library, I went outside to the park. The swings and climbing structure were abuzz with activity but the kids were young. The skateboard park was hopping, too. I asked a skinny boy who looked about fifteen if he’d seen Danny around. He ignored me. I tried again with a different young man and got a “Who’s Danny?” in reply. Maybe the skateboard crowd was not the best place to start.

  I was about to give up when I spotted a teenaged boy with a large backpack locking up his bike. A better bet.

  “Hi,” I said, offering a friendly smile. “I’m looking for a guy named Danny who’s about your age. I’m doing a story on library use and I was told he comes here fairly often.”

  “Danny Alvarez?” the boy asked.

  “Could be. I’m not sure of his last name.”

  “Haven’t seen him in weeks. He used to come pretty regular.”

  “Do you go to school with him?”

  “I’m home-schooled,” the boy said.

  “But you know Danny?”

  “Just to say ‘hi” too. I only know him ‘cause we were on the same soccer team when we were little.”

  “Did you ever see him here with an old
er man?”

  The boy looked at me warily. I forgot that kids these days are schooled in the dangers of talking to strangers.

  “I got to go,” the boy said. “Sorry.” He trotted off at a brisk pace.

  At least I had a last name. How many teen boys named Danny could be regulars at the library?

  FOURTEEN

  Jared called as I was on my way to the car.

  “Bill Chasen, the embezzler, is still in prison,” he told me. “At Lompoc. We can set up a visit if he’ll see us, which he might. The guard I talked to said he hardly ever has visitors. Even his son has stopped coming. Do you think it’s worth following up on? Word is he’s pretty much a model prisoner.”

  “Not at this point.” Lompoc was a five hour drive south of us. A long trip for a visit that would probably prove useless. “Does the son live around here? Maybe we could start with him.”

  “I’ll check on it. And I still haven’t managed to find much on Ariel’s old boyfriend, Kirk Miller.” He paused. “I suppose I could fly to Florida for a few days.”

  I laughed. “Good try. Cushy trips aren’t in our budget.”

  “Didn’t think so. But the widow’s rich now, isn’t she. Maybe she’d be willing to—”

  “It takes time for an estate to be settled, remember?” And the fact that Ariel was under suspicion would only complicate matters. I worried she wouldn’t have enough ready money to fund her defense, despite her assurances to the contrary.

  “Back to low-cost shoe-leather investigating, then,” Jared said, with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll keep trying to reach his parole officer.”

  I sat in my parked car and used my phone to look up local listings for Alvarez. There were two—an M. Alvarez and a J. Alvarez. Neither listed an address. There was a good chance the Alvarez family didn’t even have a land line, but I tried both numbers anyway, asking for Danny. No one answered at the first. The person who answered at the second told me I had the wrong number, and hung up.