Relative Chaos (30 page)

Thinking about the elderly woman who probably had wanted
to make amends in her last days depressed the heck out of me, so I
pulled the file of somebody I didn't like and probably couldn't feel
sorry for if he paid me-Barton Fletcher. But Fletcher's file held
nothing except customary estate-planning documents.

I made a quick pass through Dawn's desk drawers-packed with
office supplies, makeup, grocery store coupons, and a variety of overthe-counter medicines. No surprises there. For all my snooping, I
learned absolutely zip to help solve Dawn's murder. Maybe this afternoon would be different.

The sandwich shop was deserted except for a couple of guys in
Office Depot shirts, and I chose the booth farthest from them. After
eating a quarter of the sandwich to take the edge off my hunger, I
pulled a handful of papers from my purse. One of my favorite mottos is, never find yourself sitting somewhere with nothing to do. So of course I simply had to bring a sampling of Dawn's notes with me
to read over my late lunch.

Guilt twinged my conscience, but the papers would go straight
back to Tate's office when I finished. What was the harm? I straightened the stack next to my tray and scanned pages as I ate, careful to
avoid dripping sauce onto them.

Dawn was obviously a scribbler who jotted things down helterskelter on whatever happened to be nearby rather than using an organized notebook or at least a tablet. A used envelope back held the
message, 1/25, 8:35 A.M. Miriam Bentley. Correct bequests. S. Silver
bracelet-to Louise, not Louis. A note in the margin of an incoming
letter read, Pick up milk on way home. Names and phone numbers
were scratched every which way on scraps of paper.

Nothing struck me as particularly interesting until I realized I'd
seen the name Sam several times. The most interesting reference
said, 2/19, 11:17 A.M. Sam Becker Found him. On location in Vancouver Call me.

On location. Three days ago. I wondered who it meant and what
Tate was having investigated. I could wait and ask him, but I wasn't
feeling very patient. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed
the 213 phone number scrawled on the page.

A perky girl who sounded about sixteen answered, "Good afternoon, Becker Investigations."

"Hello, may I speak with Sam Becker please?"

"This is Sam."

After a brief hesitation where I tried to picture Sam as an adult, I
introduced myself, then said, "I'm doing some work in Dawn Hurley's office."

"Hey, where is that girl?" Becker said. "As hot as she was to get
this information, I've spent forever trying to reach her."

I blew out a breath. Sam Becker didn't know about Dawn.

"You one of her Hollywood groupie friends?" she asked.

That stopped me for a second, but I figured I'd play along and see
where it led. "That's us, Hollywood groupies." I faked a laugh.

"You all keep me busy," Becker said. "Don't get many requests to
check out the crew, though. Usually it's Brad or Harrison. You know."

"And this time?" I said.

Becker clammed up for a second, then said, "This is between me
and Dawn."

"Dawn asked about one particular man?" I said, guessing.

"You don't know?"

"I know you called her about some guy on location in Vancouver."

"I'd better talk to Dawn. Is she there?"

Dawn didn't seem like a woman who'd have a crush on some Hollywood type. I hadn't seen any People or Entertainment Weekly magazines in her office-no screen saver of a movie star on her
computer. The guy she knew with a connection to HollywoodSteve Featherstone-was right here in town. Maybe she'd developed
an interest in someone he'd talked about or someone he worked with.

Becker cleared her throat and repeated, "Is Dawn there?"

"No, but you could fax your report to the office."

"My report went out in the mail days ago," Becker said. "She didn't
get it?"

"Wish I knew," I muttered, glancing around the Subway shop. The
other customers were gone, and the place was as quiet as a tomb. The
girl behind the counter was halfheartedly wiping the sandwich preparation area and probably hearing every word of my conversation.

"Can you hang on a second?" I said.

"Sure."

I quickly gathered the papers and shoved them into my purse,
dumped my tray, and went outside, where a cold, misty rain had begun falling.

"Sorry about that." I crawled into the Durango and cranked the ignition and the heater. "I hate to be the one delivering this news. Are
you sitting down?"

A short pause, then, "I am now. What's wrong?"

"Dawn was murdered day before yesterday."

Becker went quiet. When she spoke, her perkiness had vanished,
and she squeaked out, "What happened?"

I gave her the short version, then said, "Under the circumstances,
could you tell me what, exactly, Dawn asked you to do and what you
learned?"

"You're not the client," Becker said, her voice stronger. "I can't
do that."

"The police might need to talk with you," I said. "You mind if I
give them your name and number?"

Becker's gulp came over the line. "They can contact Preston
Becker. He's the Becker of Becker Investigations. I'm sorry, I need
to go"

There was no chance I'd get more out of Sam, so I hung up, eager
to return to Dawn's office and see if I could lay my hands on a second
report. But my gas gauge was sitting precariously close to empty, and
I decided to fill up now rather than after dark when I left the job.

I made a quick detour to Monty's Mobil on 762. Monty ran an
honest car-repair facility, with the customers to show for it. Today
was no exception, with cars stacked up outside each of his three drivethrough bays. While my gas was pumping, I spotted Monty at one of
the open garage doors. He pulled the collar of his denim jacket up
against the rain and headed my way.

We exchanged pleasantries, then he said, "Got Millie's car 'bout
ready to go. Soon's her new alternator comes in. Should be sometime tomorrow."

"Good," I said. "I'm sure she'll be glad to hear it."

"Tried to call, but no answer. Do me and her a favor?"

Odd. Monty usually kept to himself and never asked me for anything. "Okay," I said slowly. "What is it?"

"Got some stuff of hers I'd like you to take back home. I don't
like to tempt the help."

I frowned. "What stuff?"

He chuckled. "You ever seen the inside of her trunk?"

"No, but I can imagine."

Monty shook his head. "We had to unload every bit of it 'cause
she asked us to check her spare."

"And you want me to take everything with me?" I said, thinking
that if his workers wanted anything from the trunk, we should let
them have at it.

"Lord, no," Monty said. "Most of what she kept in there is, uh-"

"Junk?" I said.

He nodded. "Yup. Except for one box, and I don't like to keep
valuables lying around here. Don't worry. It's not big."

The gas pump clicked off, and I quickly replaced the hose, screwed the gas cap back on, and yanked my receipt. The last thing I felt like
dealing with right now was Aunt Millie's junk, but I followed
Monty dutifully to the garage, where he handed me a battered
Justin boot box.

"What's all this?" I peered inside the box at stacks of baseball
cards, balls, and a red plastic bag filled with miscellaneous junk.

"Baseball memorabilia," he said. "Could be worth a pretty penny."

Yeah, right. Probably another box she'd picked up at a garage sale.

"Thanks, Monty. I'll make sure this gets back to Aunt Millie."
She needed more junk in the house like she needed a hole in the
head. I put the box into the back of my SUV and hightailed it out of
there before he could ask me to take more of Millie's things off his
hands.

I didn't want to waste any more time by running the box straight
to Millie's, but on the way back to the law office, I picked up my cell
and called her.

She answered on the first ring.

"I'm glad you called," she said after she heard it was me. "Janice
is fixing lasagna for dinner, and I hoped you might join us too"

"Lasagna? That's a lot of work. Doesn't sound like Janice."

"You're telling me. She's still acting fishy, and I can't get a thing
out of her. Maybe you can. At dinner."

"I can't come, Aunt Millie. I'm working at Allen Tate's office today, and I'll be there late."

"Come when you're finished. Wayne will be here."

"For dinner?" I'd successfully avoided thinking about Wayne
McCall all day, and now she went and broke the spell.

"I ran into him when I went out for the mail and invited him."

"What was he doing? Staking out your mailbox?"

"No, silly. He's working at Lori Gilmore's house"

"Doing what?" I frowned at the memory of Gilmore prancing
around outside in her skimpy robe.

"Fixing her fence," Millie said.

"I'll bet he's fixing the fence," I muttered.

"You sound jealous, dear."

"Not jealous, just skeptical."

"I can see him from the window," Millie said. "He's out there with his tools. Replacing slats in the fence. You should cut him some
slack, Poppy. He really is a very sweet man"

"A man we know next to nothing about," I said. "But let's not get
into that. I called to let you know I just left Monty's. He says your
car should be ready by tomorrow."

"Wonderful."

I could hear pots and pans banging in the background.

"And he gave me a box to return to you," I said.

"Who? Monty?"

"Yes. With some baseballs and stuff inside."

"Okay," Millie said. "I hate to cut you off, dear, but Janice is
messing up my kitchen. See you at dinner." She hung up.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Someone
else messing up Millie's kitchen? That was a joke. And if they waited
for me before starting dinner, they'd be waiting a very long time. I
dropped my phone onto the console and thought about McCall and
Gilmore. Yes, he seemed like a sweet guy on the surface, but there
was something shady about McCall. Maybe he hadn't been staking
out Millie's mailbox, but I had a feeling he was in that neighborhood
for a more interesting reason than fixing any old fence.

I stewed about the McCall/Gilmore situation all the way back to
Tate's office. Logically, McCall's activities were none of my business, but when people are being murdered, logic flies out the window. Everyone seemed suspicious to me these days, and McCall was
cozying up to my family. His behavior concerned me even if Aunt
Millie would adopt the man before she'd consider him guilty of anything worse than running a yellow light.

I rode the lethargic elevator up to Tate's floor, tapping my foot
impatiently the whole way. Maybe I could get out of here in time for
the dinner festivities. See if I could figure out what McCall had up
his sleeve. But my curiosity was hopping to find out what Becker Investigations' second report was all about. First things first.

Tate had made it back to the office before me, and he stood next
to Dawn's desk with his foot propped on a double-wide briefcase
and a phone to his ear.

"I understand," he said into the phone, "but there's nothing to tell."

He paused to listen, ignoring me as I walked around the desk and
put my purse on the floor. I pulled out the papers I'd taken and surreptitiously returned them to the desktop. Tate seemed oblivious, so
I began to search the file drawers for another spiral-bound report
from the PI.

"My client conversations are privileged," Tate said. "I can't and
won't discuss them."

I glanced at the lawyer. He pushed his glasses up to rest on his
forehead and rubbed his eyes with his free hand like a man who
hadn't slept in days.

"There's no connection." He checked his watch. "Look, Detective,
I have a client on his deathbed waiting to see me this afternoon." A
pause. "If anything relevant comes to mind, you'll be the first person
I call." Another pause. "Yes. Thank you."

Tate dropped the phone into its cradle and straightened, rolled his
head as if to loosen tight neck muscles, and looked at me.

"That was Detective Troxell," he said.

I slid a file drawer shut. "Any progress?"

He shrugged. "She claims new information has come to light, but
she won't tell me anything. Yet she expects me to divulge personal
information about my clients. Not going to happen"

"Is she accusing one of your clients?" I asked.

"She's on a fishing expedition, plain and simple." Tate went to a
file cabinet and extracted a fat folder. "Benson and Stabler would
have closed this case by now."

"With the help of the Law & Order script writers," I said. "Not a
fair comparison."

"True" He opened his briefcase and attempted to stuff the file inside. "I do have a client waiting for me. Two, actually. Not enough
hours in the day, but I shouldn't complain about business being good."

"Which clients did Troxell ask about?" I said.