Girl With a Past (8 page)

“You don’t know that.”

“Bro, I’m still being shot at.” I blew my
nose. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been stubborn, make that
obsessed about the file; I wouldn’t have brought on this hell. And
I was not very nice to Mom. Oh shit, what if . . . I can’t stand
the thought that the last time I saw my mother, I was rude to her.”
I paused for a moment. “I don’t even understand my compulsion to
find out the truth about this Zodiac.”

“Al, get real. How the hell were you
supposed to know what would happen? Give it up.” Steven pulled into
an opening in the line of cars snaking up the curved road.

When we reached the Bay Bridge, I tried Aunt
Carol’s number again.

“Al, what the fuck is going on?” Carol
answered. “I’ve been trying to reach your mother. She was supposed
to meet me for lunch, but she never showed. And I just noticed your
voicemails.”

“Hey, Carol, I think Mom’s been
kidnapped.”

“Sh-i-i-t,” a whisper followed by
silence.

“Carol?” I said. “Are you there?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “What’s this
about?”

“Where are you? Can we meet you someplace?”
I asked.

“My studio, I’m headed there now.”

10

“You know how to get to Carol’s studio?” I
asked Steven.

He nodded. He pulled off the freeway at the
first exit past the bay bridge, drove over the steel grating of a
metal drawbridge, and headed for her warehouse studio in India
Basin. “Are you still cold?” he asked.

“Just nervous.” My teeth were chattering
again. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“What’s the deal with this letter you
found?”

“It’s from a law firm,” I pulled the
wrinkled paper from my pocket, and read the names on the
letterhead, “From Spegal, Thompson, and Bloodworth. The text sounds
like thinly veiled death threats if Dad should release certain
information regarding an investigation––”

“Why would a law firm write a letter
threatening anything other than legal action?” Steven
interjected.

“How should I know?” I snapped, and then
felt like a shit. Especially since Steven had been so considerate.
I really had to stop being a bitch to my family.

“What does it say exactly?” Steven kept his
cool. “What do you think are threats?”

I read a sentence from the middle paragraph.
“As the aforementioned holder of such information, as you value the
health and well being of your wife and daughter, take precautions
to ensure the confidentiality of any information in connection with
said investigation. Failure to maintain confidentiality of the
materials in your possession will cause our client to take the
necessary steps to violate any agreement as to the safety of your
family.” I turned my head and grimaced at Steven. “Whadda ya think
Bro? Sounds pretty threatening to me.”

“Okay. Fuck. Yeah.” Cool went out the
window. The frown on Steven’s face deepened. He rubbed his forehead
as he glared at the road ahead. “Try Dad’s cell again.”

I pushed the speed dial with the same
resulting voicemail as the last time I’d dialed him.

Steven pulled the vehicle into the parking
lot of the sample shop below Carol’s fashion design studio. As soon
as the car stopped, I opened my door and headed up the stairs.
Carol, tension visible in her face in spite of the botox, greeted
me with a hug.

Steven dialed his phone as he climbed the
flight of steps. “Dad, we’re at Carol’s studio. Al is freaking out.
We can’t any of us reach Mom. Please call back as soon as you get
this message. We don’t know what to do.” He pushed past racks of
beaded chiffon gowns, paisley multi-hued scarves; tiered gypsy
skirts, velvet jackets, bell-bottomed pants, and threw himself onto
the tufted leather chair in the window alcove. He continued to dial
the phone leaving voicemails and messages at every number he had
for Dad.

Carol led me over to the chair across from
Steven’s and sat down with me. She flung one arm over my shoulders
while her free hand brushed unnaturally black hair back from her
flawless, pale face. “Okay, you two, fill me in.”

I pulled the letter from my jacket pocket,
put it in her hand and waited while she read it.

When she looked up at me with a puzzled
expression, I explained as much as I knew about what had happened
in the last twenty-four hours. I was halfway through my explanation
when she stood and began to pace the hundred-foot long concrete
floor. As soon as I quit speaking, she walked over to the offices
at the end of the space and told her staff, all except her
assistant, to take the rest of the day off.

“What’s this cop’s name?” Carol asked
pulling an iPhone from her pocket.

“Schmidt.” I answered. “Detective Schmidt.
Here’s his number.” I held up my phone.

“Detective Schmidt?” Carol asked into her
cell. “This is Carol Huntington, I’m a close friend of Lauren
Nichols and her family. I’m here with her children. Do you have
any––” Carol stopped speaking. “I see. Yes, please do keep us
informed.” She collapsed next to me on the tufted black leather.
“Nothing new.”

No one spoke for a few minutes.

“When did you eat last? How about some tea?”
Carol walked over to her office where her assistant was loading a
purse with phone and items from a desktop. “Barb, get us some tea
please.”

We sipped steaming green tea in silence.

“How about showing me where you got shot
at?” Carol suggested.

“What good would that do?” Steven said.

“Well, it’s better than sitting here, doing
nothing. I’ll drive, just in case someone is following your car.”
Carol said. “Maybe we can spot something the Berkeley PD wouldn’t
recognize as a clue.”

“Carol, I was hoping you would tell us about
Dad’s college friends––what they were like back in the day.” I
said. Now that the adrenalin had eased up, dread swept over me at
the thought of returning to that lawn. Not to mention how tired I
was.

Carol grimaced, stared at me without
answering.

Steven explained. “You see, Al has a theory
that all of this has to do with the Zodiac case.”

Carol paled and looked away.

I remembered that the girl who was killed
was a close friend of Carol’s. And now another close friend of hers
was missing. Carol was tough, a formidable businesswoman, but this
had to be the last thing she wanted to discuss.

I pressed forward anyway. “I think, make
that I
know
there is a connection between Mom’s
disappearance and what happened to your friend in 1969. Someone is
very afraid of being found out, that someone has to be connected to
Dad in some way. The only person besides Dad who knew I was
interested in his file on the Zodiac killer was whichever Uncle,” I
used my fingers to mime quotation marks around “uncle”, “ was on
the phone with Dad when I was in his office. He could’ve heard that
I was getting the file out of the safe. He would’ve been the only
other person who knew I was after the file.”

“You want me to tell you about your father’s
friends?” Carol asked.

“Yes.”

“I really didn’t know them well at the time.
I was Lexi’s friend since nursery school. She and Jeff needed
another housemate. There was a fire where I was living and Lexi
recruited me to move in with them.”

“How did Lexi and my dad know each
other?”

“They were great pals, best friends. They
had been counselors together at summer camp as high schoolers, at a
place on the lake where they’d been campers while in grammar
school. Lexi taught arts and crafts, Jeff tennis and golf.”

“So you didn’t know my dad until you moved
in?” Steven asked.

“Oh, we’d met several times over the years
before then.”

“What about his friends?” I asked.

“I knew
about
them, and I’d met them
on a few occasions.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “About
them?”

“Lexi talked about them. And a couple of
them, especially Jamie, were rather infamous. Big man on campus
types.”

“How’s that?”

“Jamie,” Carol sighed, “Jamie was killer
good looking, outrageously charming and self-confident, and Rich
with a capital R. He’d been to all the right prep schools, traveled
extensively. He was way more sophisticated than most Cal students,
not to mention that half of the buildings on the campus were named
after of his family.”

I thought about “Uncle” Jamie, he was still
killer good-looking, charming, and sophisticated. And totally
dedicated to making the world a better place––hardly a playboy, he
had been married for decades. And no way a killer. At least, it
didn’t seem likely.

“What about Uncle Dave?” I asked.

“Now Dave was practically the opposite of
Jamie.” Carol hesitated, “Oh, he was good-looking too, in a way
less well groomed way.”

That’s funny, because now Uncle Dave is
always meticulously groomed, his dark hair perfectly cut and
styled, his slim body stylishly dressed, and he is widely
traveled––in his own jet.

Carol noticed my doubtful reaction. “He’s
maybe changed the most of any of them.” She looked at me
thoughtfully. “Funny thing about Dave, I never got a sex vibe from
him.” Carol grimaced. “And, you may not believe it, but I used to
get plenty of attention.”

“I’m sure you did. You’re hot.” I wasn’t
being polite; my aunt Carol was amazingly attractive.

“For an old lady.” She smiled at me.

“Hot for any age,” Steven said.

She was still slender, dark haired with a
perfect smile, and with enough bucks to have regular botox and
whatever else including veneers plus her personal trainer in her
at-home gym. She’d be hot into her nineties.

“Whatever. Back to Dave, he’s like asexual.
Not gay, not straight. No girlfriends, no boy toys. But he and I
never hit it off even platonically.” Carol stood, paced. “You know,
I’ve got a photo album around here somewhere, shots taken at a
party shortly after I moved into the house.”

Carol bellowed toward her assistant’s desk
who was still packing her tote to leave, “Barb, where’s that album
we used for the Fall Collection? Get it out will ya?” Her attention
returned to Steven and me. “Dave and your father Jeff were the poor
boys in the clique. I shouldn’t put it that way. Dave only wanted
to be part of the clique. The others never actually took to him.
Dave was driven, ambitious without limit. Obviously tired of being
poor. Hanging with rich people can do that to ya.”

“My dad wasn’t ambitious?” Steven asked.

“In a different way, in a
want-to-make-a-mark-on-the-world kind of way. And, frankly,
marrying your mother made money less of an issue.”

Steven looked at Carol with surprise. “Were
all the rest of ‘em rich?”

Barb handed a purple leather album to Carol.
The mostly black and white photos inside had yellowed with age.

Carol opened to a page in the center. A
large colorful group shot showed smiling faces of my dad, five of
my uncles, Carol, and Lexi all jammed together on a worn sofa, all
eight hamming it up for the camera. Lexi and Carol were seated in
the middle, surrounded by young men three to a side. The girl’s
mini skirts showed off svelte legs. Their heads leaning together
contrasted Carol’s long dark hair with Lexi’s blonde cascading
tresses.

On the far left, Jamie’s slender elegance
draped over a thick sofa arm. At the opposite end, Ron’s lanky
frame mimicked Jamie’s insouciant lounge. Next to Jamie, Dad
grinned, his strawberry blonde hair tousled and longer than I’d
ever seen it. Towards the center, Tom’s arm draped over the
shoulders of both girls. On the other side of Lexi, Dave did indeed
look less meticulously groomed, his hair long and as messy as
Dad’s. In contrast to the rest of the group, Elliott looked stiff
and uncomfortable. He never had learned not to try too hard.

“Wow, amazing album Carol.” I looked at her
wondering who keeps an album of their druggie college days in her
office.

Carol blushed, “I use the photos of that
time for inspiration.” She looked at me, challenging me to say
something more about her album.

When I was quiet, she admitted she had built
her career on the elegant bohemian look adapted by the wealthy
hippies of San Francisco. There was something about the carefree
self confidence, the “coolness” of the young rich that still sold
like hotcakes to those less self assured.

“May I have a copy of this photo?” I asked.
“Please.”

Carol slipped the corners of the 8 x 10 from
the black guards that held it in the album. “Barb, copy this
please.” Carol stood, picked up her coat. “Can we go then? Before
rush hour?”

“I want to know everything you can tell me
about the people in the photo,” I said.

“I promise to tell all––in the car, on the
way.” Carol slipped a cropped sable jacket on over her jeans.

Barb returned with the photo. I clutched it
to me. I was convinced someone in that photo knew where my mother
was.

11

We loaded into Carol’s Jag; I sat next to
Carol so that I could pump her for info.

“So we covered Jamie, and Dad’s next in the
photo, then there’s Tom and Elliott, were they both rich?”

“Elliott, yes. He and Tom both came from
upper middle class backgrounds, prep school, professional parents,
fathers were doctors––surgeons maybe, I’m a little vague on those
details. But the one thing I know was that Tom came from an old
family, early San Francisco money. No longer lots of dough––but
enough.”

I looked at Tom in the photo. He was
good-looking, only slightly shaggy light brown hair gently curling
around his ears, wearing cowboy boots. He was tall enough to keep
his arm on the girl’s shoulders and still slouch low in the
seat.