Vanishing Point

by Marcia Muller

  I reconstructed what had happened: Laurel ended her phone conversation with Sally, looked up, and saw Josie. Although she had accused Sally of lying, she must have known her friend had no reason to make up such a story; she may have suspected Roy’s infidelity for some time and chosen to ignore it, but she couldn’t any longer. So she confronted Josie, asked if what Sally had said was true. And Josie…?

  A truth-telling session at the top of the stairs? An admission of an ugly betrayal? Hands raised in anger? A shove that would quickly kill a terminally ill woman?

  Sally Timmerman was watching me. “I did a terrible thing, didn’t I?”

  “I’m amazed that you kept silent as long as you did.”

  “That was terrible, too. I’m an awful person.”

  “No, Sally, you’re not. You’re just human, like the rest of us.”

  After leaving Sally Timmerman, I went back to my room to make some phone calls. Adah was in a meeting. Patrick still wasn’t available at either the agency or home, but Orrin Anderson, the retired prison official, answered his phone on the second ring.

  “DOC told me you’d be in touch,” he said. “I remember Mrs. Greenwood very well-and not only because she disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She was one of the best teachers we had during the time I directed the educational programs at the Men’s Colony. Delightful and genuinely interested in her students. She could be warm, yet maintain the appropriate distance that was necessary for any young, attractive woman who taught there.”

  “Do you recall a convict named Kevin Daniel, who took her classes?”

  “DOC told me you were interested in him, so I’ve had time to refresh my memory. He was a young man from an affluent family whose alcohol abuse had resulted in the death of an elderly woman. He adjusted well to the prison routine, and over his time there took a number of classes, mainly in the arts.”

  “Can you describe Mrs. Greenwood’s relationship to Mr. Daniel?”

  Anderson was silent for a moment. “She was closer to him than to the other students. He showed considerable artistic talent, and she took an interest in him, critiqued extra work that he brought to her. On the basis of her introduction, he actually sold two watercolors through a small gallery here in San Luis.”

  “And you weren’t concerned about this closeness?”

  “Initially I was. But after a talk with Mrs. Greenwood, I decided that she simply wanted to see talent rewarded. Kevin Daniel was excited about the sales, and told the board at the time of his parole hearing that he was grateful to Mrs. Greenwood and hoped to continue his artistic pursuits while finishing his education.”

  “I see. Let me ask you this, Mr. Anderson: did an inmate named Emil Tiegs ever take one of Mrs. Greenwood’s courses?”

  “Emil Tiegs? No, I’d remember that name. What was he in for?”

  “Forgery.”

  Anderson laughed. “Well, I’m surprised he didn’t take Mrs. Greenwood’s class. What better way to maintain his skills than by studying art?”

  I thanked Anderson for his information and ended the call. Time to head for the ATM, and then the Cayucos Pier for my meeting with Emil Tiegs.

  At close to noon a chill fog enveloped the pier; it was deserted except for a couple of fishermen and a tall, lone figure and a dog at its end. I walked along, my purse heavily weighted with my.357 Magnum, my footfalls echoing on the planks. A seagull wheeled overhead, then dove toward the water.

  As I neared the tall man he turned. His unseeing gaze and the halter on the big blond Lab confirmed the latest on Emil Tiegs, which Derek had relayed to me by cell phone half an hour earlier: Tiegs had been blinded nine years ago in an explosion at a meth lab he and two friends were operating, and his lungs had been damaged as well. He’d plea-bargained, testifying against the friends in exchange for immunity from prosecution, and now he was living on state disability. His wife, Nina, worked as a clerk in a convenience store. No wonder Tiegs had tried to hold me up for five thousand dollars. And why he was willing to take a lot less.

  “Mr. Tiegs,” I said, turning on my voice-activated recorder.

  “Ms. McCone. Did you bring the five hundred?”

  I removed the envelope containing the cash from my bag and put it into his hand. He felt its thickness, ran his fingers over the bills, and shoved it in his pocket. “When can I have the rest?”

  “If your information is useful to us, I’ll have it wired to your bank account within twenty-four hours.”

  “It’ll be useful.” He stepped back, breathing raspily and leaning against the rail; the dog moved with him, sitting down protectively at his feet.

  “So tell me what you know.”

  “In nineteen eighty-three I was living here in town with my sister. I’d gotten out of the Men’s Colony at San Luis a year before after doing a stretch for forgery. Not checks, no penny-ante stuff like that. Identification, everything from driver’s licenses to passports. Man, I was good, a real artist. Nobody ever questioned my work.”

  “Except when you got caught and sent to prison.”

  Tiegs shivered, pulling his thin windbreaker closer. “That was a setup. Guy I owed money to turned me in to the cops. Anyways, in eighty-three I wasn’t back in business yet. You gotta be careful after you get out, move slow, you know? But then this guy I knew from down there comes to me, says he needs some ID fixed for a friend.”

  “The guy have a name?”

  “Kev Daniel. He was just a kid at the time, in the Colony for manslaughter-ran some old lady over with his motorcycle while he was drunk. Rich kid from Marin County, but okay. Not snotty or anything like that. Not then, anyways.”

  “You fix the ID?”

  “Yeah. It was for a woman. She had the social security and credit cards, but the problem was with the driver’s license. The name and everything else was right, but she needed her own picture on it. A snap, for me. I worked my magic, Kev paid, and there I was, back in business.”

  “The woman’s name?”

  “You must’ve guessed by now-Laurel Greenwood.”

  “And the name on the identification?”

  “Josephine Smith. I remember, because it was a combination of fancy and plain.”

  Laurel had been executor of Josie Smith’s estate. Easy enough for her to retain the credit and social security cards, as well as any other useful documentation, but picture ID would have posed a problem. So she asked her old student, Kev Daniel, to use his prison connections. Kev owed her, because of her introduction to the gallery owner who had sold his watercolors, probably was fond of her and willing to help out.

  Well, now I knew the how of her disappearance. Other details were still unclear, but I could sort them out later. What interested me was the why. Specifically, why had Laurel decided to assume Josie’s identity? As a convenient way of escaping a life that, after Sally’s revelation, had become insupportable to her? Or had something more complex been operating there?

  What had Laurel been thinking?

  She took my husband from me. I took her life. Now I’ll take her identity to escape both him and my crime?

  No, not just her husband and her crime. In her postcard to Roy, Laurel had said that she was a dreadful person and her family would be better off without her. She’d been trying to escape from herself, and Josie naming her heir and executor had given her the out she needed.

  Tiegs was uncomfortable with my silence. He shifted from foot to foot, stooped to pat the dog. “It’s the truth, Ms. McCone, I swear it.”

  “I believe you. But how come you want to sell the information to me, rather than Kev Daniel? You must know he’s a big man in the area now, partner in a successful winery. He wouldn’t want his past or his connection to Laurel Greenwood’s disappearance made public knowledge.”

  His mouth twisted bitterly. “Oh, yeah, I know about him. Nina-my wife-read me the article from the paper when he first bought into that winery, and we’ve kept tabs on him ever since. At first I thought he had some balls coming back here
, but then I realized that when you’ve got money, who cares if you’re an ex-con? The only time they care is when you’re hungry and need a job.”

  “So you haven’t approached Daniel?”

  “Yeah, I have. Six months ago, when Nina was out of work and things were really rough for us. The way I figured it, even if he didn’t care about people finding out that he did time at the Colony, he sure wouldn’t want me talking to the cops about him getting that ID for the Greenwood woman. I wasn’t being greedy, just asked for a loan. He told me to get lost, said who was anybody going to believe about Greenwood-him or me? And then he said if I told anybody, he’d have me taken out of the gene pool. He meant it, too-I heard it in his voice. And Nina-she was with me, drove me over to that winery of his-she saw it in his eyes. So when Nina read me the article about you reopening the case, I thought I’d give you a try. The information’s worth another five hundred, ain’t it?”

  I didn’t like Emil Tiegs, in spite of his unfortunate circumstances. They were, after all, of his own creation. But fair market value was fair market value.

  I said, “It’s worth it. Give me your bank account number, and I’ll have the rest wired to you.”

  He nodded, relieved, and took out a checkbook. Tore off a blank check and handed it to me. In return, I gave him one of my cards, telling him to call if the money didn’t arrive by close of business tomorrow.

  As I left the pier, I reflected that a thousand dollars was probably more than he’d expected or would have settled for. The Emil Tiegses of the world make a lot of demands, but they never expect them to be met.

  After I left Cayucos a number of things came together in quick succession.

  I was driving east on Highway 46, plotting my strategy for confronting Kev Daniel, when my cellular rang. Rae.

  “Sorry to take so long in getting back to you,” she said. “Ricky was with Mark a long time yesterday, and then we had some decisions to make. He couldn’t get a handle on whether Mark had anything to do with either Jennifer’s or his partner’s disappearances. He did say that Mark seemed very disturbed and angry when he spoke of Jen, but I suppose that’s normal under the circumstances. And he did admit to having an affair, although he wouldn’t say with whom. But here’s the thing: Mark was very evasive about the money that vanished from the hedge fund, said the case was still under investigation and he couldn’t talk about it, even to his current clients-which is a load of bull. Ricky didn’t react at all well to that. You know him: he doesn’t let a lot of people get close to him, but when he does he trusts them completely.”

  And when one of them broke that trust, he acted swiftly and forcefully. I’d seen him in that mode more than once. “He’s decided to cut Mark loose,” I said.

  “Yes, he called and told him after he talked it over with me and I agreed. It hurts, because of my friendship with Jen, but then, I’m also beginning to question that friendship.”

  “I wouldn’t cross it off just yet. You know better than anyone what pressures she’s been dealing with. So that’s all you’ve got?”

  “For now. Anything else you need?”

  “Not at the moment. I’m going to have a surveillance run on Mark. Where are you?”

  “The office. I came in to talk with Patrick, look at those charts he’s made up, get an idea of the big picture. But he’s not here.”

  “Damn! He left me a message yesterday, and I haven’t been able to reach him since.”

  “Let me see if anybody knows where he might be.” She put down the phone, returned a few minutes later. “Nobody’s seen him since about three yesterday afternoon.”

  Around the time the clerk at the lodge had taken the message. “Well, thanks. Will you explain the situation with Mark to Craig and ask him to run the surveillance?”

  “Craig’s pretty busy. I could-”

  “Not a good idea. Mark knows you.”

  “Well, what about Julia?”

  I hesitated. A Latina might stand out in a wealthy enclave like the Aldins’, but there were also plenty of them-legal and illegal-working for the families there. To the casual observer, Julia, in the battered old car she’d recently bought, would look as if she were waiting for a friend.

  “She’ll do fine,” I said. “Talk to her and give her the information she needs. I don’t have time to fill you in on everything else that’s going on right now, but I’ll write a report and e-mail it to everybody.”

  I ended the call, made another to Mark Aldin. He sounded strained, his voice curiously flat. I skipped the pleasantries, got down to business.

  “Nothing yet on Jennifer, but the various law enforcement agencies and my people’re on the alert,” I said. “I just talked with an informant who had important information on Laurel. The informant wanted a thousand dollars. I gave him five hundred, promised him the rest of it by wire.”

  “Cheap enough. But why should I pay it? You’ve got the information.”

  I thought of Emil Tiegs, alone except for his seeing-eye dog at the end of the pier, shivering in his thin windbreaker. I hadn’t liked him because I’m a strong proponent of law and order, and I particularly detest people who manufacture and distribute drugs. But Mark Aldin had many millions, some of them perhaps as a result of a crime, and he’d done something else I detested: lied to Ricky and damaged his already fragile trust in his friends.

  I said, “Because I gave my word, that’s why you have to pay it. This is the bank and account number for you to wire it to.” I read it off to him, made him repeat it. “Make sure you do it today.”

  “Whatever.” Aldin hung up.

  No questions as to what the information was. No further questions as to our search for Jennifer. Having one of his biggest clients confront him about his past and fire him had depressed Mark more than the possibility of losing his wife.

  When I got back to the lodge, there were two message slips waiting for me: Adah and Patrick. They’d both come in shortly after I left that morning.

  I looked at the area code on Patrick’s message: 707. Well, that could be almost anywhere in the northwestern part of the state, from the Sonoma County line to the California-Oregon border. What the hell was Patrick doing out in the field? He was supposed to be in the office, coordinating our efforts. I dialed the number.

  “Santa Rosa Travelodge.”

  The Sonoma County seat, an hour and a half north of the city. Why had Patrick stayed the night there?

  “Patrick Neilan, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s checked out.”

  “This is his employer. Did he indicate where he was going next?”

  “No ma’am, he didn’t.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up the phone hard, then felt ashamed of my show of petulence and hoped I hadn’t hurt the clerk’s ear.

  Patrick would have had ample time to return to the office by now, if that’s where he’d been headed. Since he hadn’t, what the hell was he doing?

  Next I dialed Adah. She was at her desk at SFPD, and in top form.

  “You ask somebody to get you information, she puts herself out for you, and then your damn cell phone’s either not on or busy. Had to call your office to find out where the hell you’re staying. You want to know about this Josephine Smith’s death or not?”

  “Forgive me, I’m guilty of the terrible sin of being unreachable.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “Sorry. What have you got?”

  “The death was investigated as a suspicious one-normal procedure, under the circumstances. But the autopsy results showed nothing that was inconsistent with a terminally ill woman-who would have died in a matter of weeks anyway-taking a bad fall. Laurel Greenwood was a former registered nurse, a relative, and a lifelong friend of the deceased. Smith’s ex-husband, who lived upstairs, confirmed that Laurel was devoted to Smith. Tragic circumstances, but accidental. Case closed.”

  “Thanks, Adah. I owe you.”

  “You always owe me, McCone.”

  I was in the middle of the repo
rt to my operatives-wishing Patrick were here to help me focus-when my cellular rang. By the time I realized what the feeble sound was, located my purse, and dragged out the unit, it had summoned me six times. I told myself that I had to get a better model than this antiquated one my staff had given me on my birthday a couple of years ago.

  “Yes!” I snapped, thinking it was Patrick, and prepared to give him hell.

  “Sharon? It’s Mark Aldin.”

  “Yes?”

  “My neighbor from across the street, Estee Pearson, came over a few minutes ago. She and her husband have just gotten back from a trip to Italy.”

  “And?”

  “She wanted to know if I knew when Jen had borrowed her car. I didn’t realize this, but Jen and Estee are in the habit of trading vehicles. Jen has a Mercedes SUV, which Estee likes for transporting groceries and large objects, and Estee has a Porsche Boxster, which Jen loves to drive. Estee came back and found the SUV in her garage and wondered when Jen would be bringing the Porsche back.”

  Now, there was a break.

  “Okay, Mark, now we know what Jen is driving. You’ll need to contact the highway patrol with the description and license plate number of the Porsche, as well as the other agencies who have BOLOs out on Jen’s SUV-”

  “Can’t you do that?”

  Again, his voice was curiously flat. Good God, despite his personal and professional setback with Ricky, didn’t the man care anymore if his wife was found?

  I said, “The information should come from you, as next of kin and the one who reported her missing.”

  “I don’t think I can deal with-”

  I sighed impatiently. “What’s the color and license plate number of Estee Pearson’s car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, will you find out?”

  Silence

  Dammit! “Is Terry there?”