I kept myself ramrod as I marched to my car because I knew better than to show fear. Once I had driven out of eyesight of the detectives, however, I allowed my body to sag. I cursed Kayla under her breath for running to Matt with her problems, Matt for beseeching me to help out, and me for being such a sucker than I couldn’t say no. Everything about this case felt wrong, not to mention icky, and I wished I’d never agreed to help out in the first place. This wasn’t like Without a Trace where the problem of a missing person was solved in an hour with everything falling into place. No, this was like a serial that got canceled before the finale was shown. I had a hunch that there would be many twists and turns before the truth to this sordid matter came out.
“Well?” Matt asked the minute I walked into the apartment. Ignoring him, I went to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge. It was one in the afternoon, and I was starving—Matt’s pancakes notwithstanding. There wasn’t anything appealing, so I fell back on my last resort—a frozen Healthy Choice dinner. “What happened?” Matt asked as I placed the tray into the microwave. He had a look on his face that said he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I began telling him what I’d discovered along with my little run-in with the cops.
The whole story sounded more convoluted as I told it to him than it had when Kayla had told me, but that was probably because I’d had time to let it sink in. I was struck by the obstacles in this case, such as not knowing Alexander’s last name. Sure, I had his number—if Kayla hadn’t been lying about that, too—but what good would that do? All he had to do was refuse to talk to me, and there was nothing I could do to force him to do so. I could tell him I had his stuff, but he would see through that in a minute. I wondered if the FBI would be getting involved with the case, but I didn’t give it too much thought as there was little I could do about it. Just as I was about to tell Matt about Digger, my cell phone rang at the same time the microwave binged. As I answered the phone, I stirred my food before popping it back into the microwave.
“Scarlett! How are you?” It was my mother, of course, the only one who called me Scarlett. Rather, she was the only person I allowed to call me Scarlett without making a big deal out of it. “I have the feeling that something bad has happened to you. Am I right?” My mother had a touch of ESP herself which she attributed to being brought up in the old country.
“Not exactly,” I said hesitantly. Matt was making faces at me, but I waved him away. This was my mother, damn it, and she usually had good insight. I spilled the story as concisely as I possibly could, waiting to hear her words of wisdom.
“Oh, that was the front-page story of the Strib,” was her disappointing first response. I was about to say something acerbic when I realized that I had neglected the first rule of thumb—look it up on the internet. I cursed my self for my stupidity and made a mental note of it. “This is Matt’s old girlfriend, right? The crazy one?”
“Yes, Mom. Hold on a sec,” I said, walking into the living room. Matt followed me, so I kept going to my bedroom. He looked as if he were going to follow me there as well, but I shut him down with a frown. As soon as I closed the door to my bedroom, I continued the conversation. “She’s bad news, Mom, but I promised Matt I’d help her out. It’s his son, too.”
“What the hell was that about? Did he think we were that stupid? No fucking way I’m going to be his patsy.”
After all that build up, it was anticlimactic that he wasn’t at home. I called his cell, but he wasn’t answering that, either. Briefly, I wondered where he was, but realized that I wasn’t in the position to query as I was the one who had insisted on my autonomy. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, I guess, though I really wanted to know where he was. I left him a message requesting him to call me no matter how late he got home. Hey, I didn’t have to work in the morning, so what did I care? I was a night owl by preference, anyway, so being woken up once in a while was no big deal.
“Bea? Oh, I’m so glad I caught you,” she sobbed, making it difficult for me to understand her. “Please, can you come over again? I-I really need to talk to you.”
“If I were hiding something, where would it be?” I muttered, prowling the green room early in the morning. Eddie was around somewhere, but not in the green room. I was glad he had been at the park because otherwise I would have been forced to scale the outside gate and to open the door with the number which I wasn’t supposed to have, but which I had seen Eddie enter once. The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself while I tossed the joint. I was the only one in the green room, which made it easier to snoop. It was Friday, but it didn’t feel much like the weekend. I was glad I had Saturday and Sunday off to recover from the events of the last few days.
He wasn’t able to find Billy Matthews, either, as the latter wasn’t at the gym today. Lyle tried to get an address or a number, but couldn’t charm it out of anyone. It’s a good thing, really, as it’s for the client’s protection; it just makes our task of hunting down Matthews a bit more difficult. I think about how I’m going to find him, but I can’t come up with a better plan than to go to the gym again in the morning—or have Lyle do it—and repeat until we get our man. Too bad I’m not V.I. Warshawski with her plethora of cunning ideas. I put it firmly out of my mind because it’s just giving me a headache to think about the case. I deserve a break after all the hard work I’ve been doing. I reach for my sandwich again, suddenly famished. We all gobble sandwiches as fast as we can.
Besides, I need to wait for Mr. Jenson, as he’s on my list of people to interview. I doubt very much I’ll get anything substantive from him as he’s a cagey man, but I owe it to Paris to try. I have a hard time believing that he drove or flew from San Diego to the Bay Area to kill Paris for reasons unknown, but odder things have been known to happen. I wonder about the Jensons financial situation, then wonder why I wonder. Even if they are strapped for cash, it’s not as if Paris has much in the bank. The money that Ursula claims she’s going to settle on him hasn’t happened yet, Mr. Jenson don’t know about it, anyway, and it’s not enough to kill your stepson over, is it? Thinking about money leads me to ponder whether Paris has a will or not. My guess is no, but he can be surprisingly pragmatic about things such as that. If he does have a will, I’m fairly share that much of his earthly possessions will be split between Lyle and me. I wonder if Inspector Robinson has looked into that. I’m sure she has. She’s a thorough inspector who always gets her man. Or woman.
