Relatively Dead (17 page)

I was stunned. That was good news, although I doubted everyone would get their money back. But even so… Jason seemed happy about it, also. Marcia repeated the part about returning money, but she didn’t say where it was coming from. Jason II had told me there was very little money in the estate of Jason III, if an old car, a small bank account, and a surfboard could be called an estate, along with a modest credit card balance. Jason II had helped finance his education, and he had no student loans. I was sure Marcia wanted to convince us not to tell anyone about the syndicate—such as her employer.

The rest of the meal went a lot more smoothly. Perhaps the wine helped. Jason told Marcia she would have made a good granddaughter-in-law and even got her to smile. Marcia picked up the check and said the magic words: “I have an expense account.” I didn’t object to having some of my tax money spent to feed me.

CHAPTER 19

The headquarters of the California Genealogical Society Frances told me about were in Burbank. Beautiful downtown Burbank, as the TV comedian’s joke goes. Except that as far as I could detect, Burbank doesn’t have a downtown if that means tall buildings. It does have a commercial area, suburban homes, and is bordered by tall hills with fancy communication towers on top. It also has an airport named after a comedian—Bob Hope.

The building housing the Society had been a retail store once. It was on a street with retail businesses and had a glass front. A bell rang as I walked in. A short entryway contained pamphlets on genealogy. I walked through that and saw shelves of books filling the spacious interior. I didn’t realize genealogy was so important to so many people. In this collection alone were thousands of books somebody took the time to write about their families.

A senior citizen sitting at a desk near the front greeted me with a smile and a hello. A nameplate said his name was Sidney. I returned his greeting and launched into my prepared speech.

“I’m interested in finding information on the name Boyd, specifically descendants of Jason Boyd, who was born in Northern Ireland in 1864. Two of his sons came to the U.S. in the early nineteen hundreds, but a third son apparently stayed in Ireland. I’d like to find out who his descendants are.”

The fact that I already knew this information didn’t stop me from keeping a straight face.

The man asked if I were descended from Jason Boyd. I said yes, on my mother’s side. I gave my name as Cynthia. He took me to a section of the library he said might have information on Boyds. He also said if I came to one of the scheduled meetings, members would be there who could help me look up information on the Internet. He gave a pitch on the advantages of joining the Society.

I asked if anybody else had been in looking for Boyds. “I heard from a cousin that
another
cousin might be researching the family, and we’re trying to connect with him. He might have been in here fairly recently.”

“I don’t know.” He scratched his bald head. “Dorothy might know. She does a lot of work with walk-ins at our meetings.”

I followed him into a back room where Dorothy was sitting at a table staring at an old map. Dorothy had white hair, but she appeared to be quite spry. She bounced out of her chair as Sidney introduced me to her. I repeated my question.

“Boyd.” She thought about that. “I don’t remember anyone asking about Boyds within the past few weeks. Of course, my memory isn’t what it used to be. Did you say they’re from Northern Ireland?”

She sat down at a computer. I have a list of people who’ve joined in the last six months.” She browsed through it for several minutes. “Here’s what I’m looking for. Kelly. Good old Irish name. Tom Kelly. He joined about two months ago. It’s coming back to me. I believe he
was
researching Boyds.”

“Do you remember how old he was?”

“Young. By young I mean relatively young—older than you—but most of the people who come here are much older—like me and Sidney.”

“He might be my cousin. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“He didn’t have many distinguishing characteristics. He wasn’t bad looking. My memory for faces isn’t as good as it used to be, either. Oh, I do remember one thing—he was wearing gloves.”

My heart leapt. “Can you give me his address?”

Dorothy smiled. “I’m sorry. Membership lists are confidential. We have to protect the privacy of our members. What I could do is to call him and give him your name. If he’s interested he’ll contact you.”

It wasn’t a good idea to tell him Cynthia Sakai was looking for him.

“Are members’ names and addresses available to other members?”

“Well…yes.”

“Good. I’d like to join.” I pulled out my wallet. “What are the dues?”

“Such enthusiasm. Let me get a membership form before you change your mind.”

I joined the Society using the name Cynthia Sakai, and even gave my North Carolina address. I figured by the time the scammer saw my name in connection with the Society he would hopefully be behind bars. Dorothy copied his name and address and telephone number from the membership list and gave me the information.

Before I left I checked several books that contained information on Boyds, but I didn’t find out anything I didn’t already know.

***

Thomas Kelly lived about four miles from the store where he received the payments from Grandma in West Los Angeles. I checked as soon as I got back to my motel room. My first reaction was, since many stores and banks handled Western Union transfers, he could have picked someplace closer, but then I realized how clever this man must be. It never occurred to me he might not be the scammer.

The address had an apartment number. I pictured him living in a large apartment complex, probably with a swimming pool. The telephone number was different than the one he used to call Grandma. That wasn’t surprising.

I looked up the address on Google Earth, using my laptop computer and Wi-Fi provided by the motel, and found it wasn’t a large apartment building at all. It was on a street with what appeared to be houses on it. They might be duplexes. That would explain why his address had an A appended to the street number. I wondered whether he was the owner or just a tenant.

I called Officer Watson on her cell phone and told her what I knew. She was riding in a patrol car, but she apparently wrote it all down. She said she couldn’t get a search warrant or even check into his financial affairs based on the fact that he wore gloves and was interested in Boyds, but she did promise to pay him a visit. She and her partner were in his area.

I checked my email to see if there was something from Audrey, telling how she and Grandma were getting along. I also tried to call at least every other day, but email was easiest for quick messages too long for texting. I deleted an email promising penis enlargement. The next one told me if I invested wisely with the aid of this guru’s newsletter, I would be financially secure in retirement. I was already retired. I deleted it.

There was an email from Audrey. She said she and Grandma were doing fine, but when Grandma’s mind was working she missed me. I missed her, too. I was getting homesick. I would have to go back soon. Perhaps I could turn the case—both cases—over to the police and hotfoot it back to North Carolina.

With that in mind I called Officer Watson after she was off-shift. I got her voice-mail and doubted she’d call me back, but ten minutes later she did. She said she and her partner had gone to the house.

“It
is
a duplex. It took forever before he came to the door. He was wearing a bathrobe and had obviously just gotten out of bed. We checked his hands. There’s nothing wrong with them. A little red, perhaps, but no rash or blisters. He’s been watching too many cop shows. He talked about his rights and wouldn’t let us into the house without a warrant. We said we were looking for a scammer and he fit the description. We didn’t say how we got his address. He knew he didn’t have to talk to us but he said he’d been sleeping Monday morning when the Western Union pickup was supposed to occur. He also said he works at night.”

“Can’t you put him in a lineup and let the clerk who paid him try and identify him?”

“How? Not by his hands. Not by his face or hair. And if you put a baseball cap and dark glasses on a bunch of guys they all look alike. Could
you
identity him?”

I had to admit I probably couldn’t. “What happens now?”

“Unless we get some real clues, he’s home free. Although I doubt that he’ll try to scam Mrs. Horton again—or anybody else. I think we put the fear of God in him.”

That wouldn’t get her money back. Or solve Jason’s murder. Our perp’s hand problem must have cleared up. Dr. Kemp said penicillin might help. But it also made him impossible to identify.

I was meeting Rigo for dinner. He’d told me earlier on the phone he was taking me to a really nice restaurant. I told him that was unnecessary but he insisted. I suspected it was because I’d eaten out the night before with Jason and Marcia. How could he be jealous of Jason, who was old enough to be my grandfather? I decided to dress up as elegantly as I could, considering what was left of my poison oak, and be very sweet to him.

***

The next morning I traded in the Porsche for a nondescript Chevy. In order to do detective work I needed to blend in with the scenery. Then I went for a long run on the beach. My evening with Rigo had gone very well, and I was feeling good about life. I ate a leisurely lunch by myself and then drove to West Los Angeles and parked a block away from Tom Kelly’s house. I’d come to the conclusion that if the police couldn’t pin his crimes on him, I had to do it.

I strolled along the sidewalk, pretending to be walking for exercise. The two-story houses on his block were made of stucco, looked alike, and might be sixty years old. They were split vertically, so both residents had two floors. Most of them sported recent paint jobs and the lawns were green. The area was well maintained. All of them were duplexes. I stopped in front of the off-white duplex where Tom lived.

The curtains on the windows of his half of the building were closed. It appeared that he
did
work at night. However, I was sure he hadn’t been sleeping Monday morning, despite what he said. His day off? I could see a sign hanging from his doorknob. I went up the concrete walkway to his front door, making up a story in case he opened it.

The sign read, “DAY SLEEPER, NO VISITORS.” I noticed the houses didn’t have driveways, which meant no garages. They couldn’t all park on the street. I went back to the sidewalk and retraced my steps to the corner. I walked down the side street. Sure enough, there was an alley running behind the duplexes. The two-car garages were on the alley. One space for each apartment.

Kelly’s house was the fifth from the corner. I found his garage with its two doors. The doors were closed. No windows; I couldn’t see inside the garage. The doors didn’t have handles. They must be operated electronically. I walked back to my car and moved it to the block where Kelly lived. Sitting in the car, I could see his front door. So what? It was early afternoon. If he worked nights, he might not be up for hours. If he drove to work, he would go out the back door, which wasn’t visible to me.

After talking to Marcia, Jason and I agreed she didn’t fit the profile of a killer, whatever that was. Or perhaps she had us both fooled. I didn’t think so. For one thing, she said she was going to close the syndicate. Would she do that if she’d killed Jason III because of a disagreement regarding the syndicate?

Jason II was back in Idyllwild. He said he was satisfied Marcia didn’t kill Jason III. He was willing to let the police handle the case. Why wasn’t I?  Was I afraid the police would botch it? They seemed to be botching catching the scam artist. Why would they do better working on the murder? What if the same person did both? And what if he—or she— killed Timothy in Northern Ireland, to boot? I couldn’t let all my relatives get killed.

I didn’t know what time Kelly went to work, but if he worked nights that implied after dark, which was hours away. I couldn’t sit here that long. What should I do? I was fairly close to Ault’s house, but I couldn’t call Kyle. He wouldn’t approve of me stalking suspected scammers—or murderers.

I’d told Rigo I’d be tied up tonight, but had been vague about what I’d be doing. I decided I’d better not call him. He’d ask too many questions.

CHAPTER 20

When I returned to my post it was after dark. I’d eaten fast food and used a restroom. I had the gun in my purse. I had a water bottle with me, but I knew I had to drink sparingly if I were going to be here for a long time, since I didn’t have access to a restroom. It wasn’t easy being a detective.

I’d also cruised around the immediate area to see where Kelly might work. There were the usual small businesses and shopping centers. Nothing stood out. Maybe he worked farther away.

I parked within sight of Kelly’s house. The first thing I noticed was light coming from two of his windows, one on each floor. He was home and he was up. Good news. When he left for work he’d turn off his lights. Then what? He’d go to the garage and drive away in his car. He might not come in this direction. I would be left with egg on my face.

I started my car and drove around the residential block, making three left turns. I parked on the side street almost opposite the alley leading to his garage. Almost, because I couldn’t block the continuation of the alley heading to the right from my side of the street that went between the next block of garages. From my location I couldn’t see Kelly’s garage, which was on the right side of the alley. My view was blocked by a garage on the left side.