Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (30 page)

FIFTY-SEVEN

“I’m going back to the courthouse. Hopefully, I’ll have better luck with the line today. But first, I’m going to City Hall to have the water switched over to my name, before it’s turned off.” Madeline said. The power could be switched to her name with a call to Edison, but water service had to be handled over the counter.

On Mike’s insistence, she had checked out of her motel. Because she felt indebted to him, she broke down and showed him her latest acquisition. She found it both irritating and amusing that Mike had made himself at home at the desk in the front office. On balance, she supposed there was nothing really wrong with a man’s presence in the office—unless, of course, Steven’s posse showed up for a second look at Burt’s files. Mike was big, but he wasn’t armed—at least not to her knowledge.

She could “suppose” herself crazy if she let all the “maybes” and “what ifs” run wild in her head. She had to confine her thoughts to facts and the most likely scenarios until they were disproven, then she’d have to consider every possibility, no matter how farfetched. For now, all she really knew for certain was that Burt was dead and he had taken statements from at least two bamboozled borrowers. The two unknowns attached to those facts were where Burt had hidden the statements, and if Steven’s men had found them already.

Distilling the situation to its essence, Madeline recognized the importance of following Burt’s tracks from the beginning; it would be the only way to accurately determine who had been swindled. From there, she could take her findings straight to the D.A. The disadvantage to this plan of action was the ticking clock. The time she had stolen was quickly running out, which was why the allure of finding the signed statements from the defrauded borrowers was so strong.

Madeline worked both sides of this debate in her head as she organized herself for the day ahead of her. At least she had enough tasks lined up to keep Mike occupied while she took care of the most pressing matters.

“So, you’ve got my list,” Madeline said as she came out of the back office to the front desk, where Mike was at work on her computer.

“Yes, Ms. Dawkins—got it right here.”

“We need to have the electricity put in my name, before we do anything.”

“Already done,” Mike said, enjoying the look of surprise on Madeline’s face. “I manage an apartment complex, remember?”

“Right. Good. And you understand how the real estate data search works? You enter Burt Latham, county, state, etc. then hit ‘search’ to see if his name pops up on title.”

“Maddie, you may still think of me as a stoned-out slacker, but ol’ Mike’s actually fairly up to speed with technology,” he said, eyeing her with strained patience.

“Okay, fine. Then just go through the list and I’ll check back with you while I’m out,” Madeline said, checking her tote to make sure she had all her essentials.

“I’d appreciate that,” Mike said, his eyes not leaving the screen as his fingers tapped the keyboard. “Oh, and don’t forget to take this,” he said, handing her Burt’s last water bill.

“Thanks,” Madeline said, shoving it in her tote. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Do I look stupid?” Mike cracked a smile. Madeline stepped back to glance at herself in the bathroom mirror. “What is it?” she demanded.

“Nothing. You look fine.” This time he couldn’t suppress a laugh. Madeline glared at him. “I guess the blond wig suits you better.”

“I’m not going to a beauty contest. The whole point of wearing a wig is so no one will recognize me.” Mike wagged his head.

“Then you’re in great shape. Your own father wouldn’t know you.” Madeline eyed him with a sulky expression. “Go on—no one’s going to ever guess it’s you.” Mike went back to his task, maddening smile on his lips.

Madeline passed down the hallway, head down, feeling conspicuous now. Once she hit the sidewalk, she slipped on her sunglasses, held her head high and donned an aloof expression, in her mind a good match for her guise.

Mike’s crack about her father had hit a sore spot. The fact that she hadn’t called him in over a week weighed heavily on her mind.
Tonight
, she told herself, as she crossed De La Guerra Street and turned toward City Hall.

The line at the Water Department was short, but service was exasperatingly slow. With everything computerized these days, Madeline couldn’t understand why the simple procedure of transferring the utility to her name had to be so unduly laborious.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was headed up Anacapa Street. She paused at the news racks in front of the post office and grabbed the latest edition of the Montecito Gazette. It would give her a chance to catch up on the latest goings-on while she wasted more time in another line. Not that any of it mattered personally to her anymore. She would be persona non grata in this town for a while, which didn’t really bode well for her new business venture.

When she entered the Hall of Records, the office was even more crowded than the day before. Fortunately, the window she needed only had three people in line. She took the periodical out of her Prada tote—the one concession she had made to style, simply because she found it difficult to function without it. Anyone noticing the logo would assume from the rest of her garb that it had to be a knockoff. She set the tote at her feet and began to skim through the paper.

Before she could settle in, the line advanced. This hopeful sign made her smile, though she pitied anyone who fell in line behind her. Assuming she’d be successful in her quest eventually, she went back to browsing through the paper.

When she came to the “Scene Around Town” section, her heart stopped. There, front and center, was of a photo of Steven seated next to his partner, John, and his wife, Amanda—one of
her
best friends—and the future Mrs. Ridley, Elizabeth Collins-Wainwright, on the far right. If the sight wasn’t enough to turn her stomach, the realization that E C-W was wearing
her
emerald and diamond necklace and matching earrings certainly was.

Suddenly, the room felt like it was spinning. Madeline fought back the powerful urge to vomit. She was sweating and her hands were shaking as she left the line and rushed out into the fresh air. She took several big breaths to get herself under control, then slumped against the stone ledge.

“That lousy son-of-a-bitch,” she spat, punishing herself with another look at the photo for confirmation. It was her necklace, all right. And of course, it had to be, as hers had gone missing from the safe deposit box. She had suspected this, but it was quite another thing to see Steven’s callous act broadcasted all over town. Her humiliation jumped up another notch when she discovered tears were running down her face. She wiped at them angrily and stormed over to the closest trash can to dispose of the weekly.

“I
hate
him, I
hate
him!” she hissed as she wandered blindly around the courthouse grounds. She had to get her fury under control if she wanted to go back inside. And she had to go back in—it was the only way she could retaliate against the heartless demon she had married.

Or was it?
Madeline stopped pacing, trying to capture the thought fluttering around her head.
Sla… Slo… Slovich…no, Slovitch. That’s it!
A hopeful smile lit up her features.
Detective Slovitch.
He was the one Burt had made an appointment with to discuss the incident at The Edgecliff.

Before she had made a conscious decision to abandon her records search, Madeline’s feet were carrying her across the courthouse lawn in the direction of the SBPD. She crossed in the middle of the street and headed down Santa Barbara to Figueroa. In less than two minutes, she was in front of the police station.

She paused for a moment to compose herself. She’d had imaginary conversations with Detective Slovitch several times, one of the many drawbacks of having been stranded out in the middle of the Pacific for almost a week. But now that she was in a position to actually speak to him, she was at a loss at what to say.

She stepped back a few paces to be out of sight of the station while she ordered her thoughts. She panicked for a second, thinking she didn’t have the photo with her. But she did, somewhere in the file cabinet of a handbag she lugged around. She hoisted the tote onto her knee and found what she was looking for.

As she thought about the contents of the envelope, she had to wonder if it was really powerful evidence of wrongdoing. Why would the detective be compelled to believe that she hadn’t been caught cheating on her spouse and was trying to spin the situation? Madeline’s hopes wavered.

Burt Latham had advised her to speak to Detective Slovitch. He knew the man and must’ve believed she’d get a fair shot with him. So, the believability aspect was up to her.

She took a deep breath and rehearsed her version of the events beginning from that inauspicious evening. As she went over her claims a second time, she caught sight of her reflection in an office window. She pulled the brunette wig off with a quick jerk and tried to stuff it in her bag. No luck; the tote was full to capacity. She tried to rearrange the contents in hopes of squeezing it in.

Screw it,
she thought, shoving the wig in a hedge for safekeeping. She pulled out her compact and executed a little damage repair. She then ran a brush through her hair, straightened her back, cleared her throat and headed toward the public entrance.

Once inside, her courage faltered. She hung close to the doorway while she worked up her nerve. She caught the eye of the clerk at the window and was forced to step forward or back out.

“How can I help you?” the woman asked, giving Madeline a sliver of her divided attention.

“I’m here to see Detective Slovitch,” Madeline said, resting her hand uncomfortably on the ledge between them, feigning assurance she didn’t feel.

“Detective Slovitch is out of the office,” the woman told her.

“Oh. When will he be back?” The woman checked the calendar on one of the side walls.

“A week from next Monday.” Madeline’s heart sank. It must’ve shown on her face, for now the woman had taken more than a cursory interest in her.

“Is there someone else who can help you?” she asked. Madeline stared at her. She wasn’t prepared for this outcome. “What is this regarding?” the woman asked. Madeline had her full attention now and was reluctant to squander it. But still it was hard to get the words out.

“It’s…uh…a personal matter—I mean, a personal matter for me, not between Detective Slovitch and me.” The woman contemplated Madeline as sweat beaded up on her brow. There was something in her frank stare that urged Madeline toward fuller disclosure.

“My private investigator had set up a meeting with him, but I was called out of town unexpectedly.” By now, Madeline’s hand was shaking so noticeably, she removed it from the window ledge.

“Would you like to speak to Detective Slovitch’s partner?” the woman asked, her tone low and sympathetic now. Madeline nodded her head. The woman gave her a small smile of encouragement and left the window, only to return a second later.

“What’s the name of your P.I., hon?”

“Burt Latham.” The name hung in the air between them. The woman’s chin lifted slightly it name registered.

“And your name?”

“Madeline Ridley—Madeline Dawkins, I mean. I’ve gone back to my maiden name,” she explained. In a split-second, the woman had put the story together: private eye and name change meant imminent divorce. Madeline couldn’t tell if that made her seem more sympathetic or less.

“Just a minute,” the woman said.

Madeline stood at the counter, turning her attention away from the empty window as she caught sight of other personnel looking her way. Within a couple of minutes, the woman returned to the reception office.

“Detective Mitchell will be right out,” she said. Madeline waited a couple more minutes before the detective rounded the corner, his left hand automatically wiping at the corners of his mouth as he approached.

“Ms. Dawkins?” he asked, extending his right hand. Madeline accepted his handshake and fell in step behind him as he led her back to the office he shared with Detective Slovitch.

“I understand Burt Latham had arranged a meeting with my partner on your behalf,” Detective Mitchell said as he indicated for her to take a seat.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Madeline replied. “Actually, Burt was working for me at the time of his death,” she admitted. She belatedly realized the police might have an interest in
her
because of her association with the dead P.I.

“I see…” the detective said. Madeline cleared her throat nervously.

“I hired him to help me find out who set me up.” She reached into her bag and retrieved the now tattered manila envelope. She held onto it, hesitant to show another complete stranger the disgraceful picture. She worked up her courage and handed the envelope over. She watched anxiously as the detective pulled the photo out and turned it right side up. As soon as the image’s content registered on his face, she hastily began to explain the circumstances behind it.

“So, you believe you were drugged, abducted and raped while someone took photographs…?” Det. Mitchell recapped.

“Actually, it was a video. I just recently found that out…when it showed up on the internet.” Madeline shifted apprehensively, wishing she could snatch the pornographic visual from the detective’s hands. He set it on his desk and reached down to pull a new file folder from his drawer.

Madeline tensed, realizing this had now become an official case, which meant it was no longer in her control. When she hired Burt, she alone determined when and if this would become a police matter. She would have no say in how the authorities chose to pursue the incident, if they viewed it as worthy of pursuing.

But his action triggered another thought, one that made her perspire all over. When she first met with Burt, he also started a file on her. She had been through every folder in the office and not come across her own. Either Burt had taken it from the office for some reason, or Steven’s men had.

“Okay, let’s start with the date and time…”

Madeline took Det. Mitchell through the events leading up to waking in the room at The Edgecliff. He listened attentively, occasionally jotting notes on a sheet in her file. After she had told him everything that had transpired, he leaned back in his chair and regarded her.

“Had you consumed a lot of alcohol?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“And how did you come into possession of the photograph?”

“They—seven altogether—were delivered to my husband’s office. He brought them home and accused me of adultery and demanded a divorce.”