Secondhand Stiff (18 page)

twenty

Mom wasn't happy about
being left behind, but she was so tired, emotionally and physically, from the day before that she didn't put up much of a fight when I suggested she stick around the house and relax.

Over leftover Chinese food the night before, we had compared our findings for the day. It wasn't with much enthusiasm, but it helped to keep our minds off of Seamus and our terrible loss. Mom had tracked down Comfort Foodies, and she and Renee had gone there for lunch. When I asked Mom why she didn't call me on my cell phone when she located Buck Goodwin, she said she had. I checked my phone and, sure enough, there was a message. It had been left during the rush to get Seamus to the animal hospital.

“I thought I saw Buck working inside the truck,” she told us while spearing a shrimp, “but I wasn't sure.”

“Were Paul and Eric there, too?”

“Heide's sons? I didn't see them. I just saw Heide and someone I thought was Buck. I was worried he'd recognize me if I got too close, so I sent Renee up to the window to order for us. They had crab cakes today, and they were excellent.” Mom went to her room and returned with her cell phone. “Renee took these photos from the side while they were helping customers. It was very busy and I don't think anyone saw her, but she only got a couple.”

“My mother is now taking surveillance photos?” Greg's tone sounded like a cocktail of annoyance with a garnish of amusement.

“Just a few,” Mom assured him. “And it is for Ina.” Mom leaned toward me. “Renee is a good sport, but I don't think she has real talent for this like you and me.”

“Now there's a blessing.” Greg stuffed some sweet and sour pork into his mouth.

I took Mom's phone and looked at the photos. They weren't very clear, but the man helping a customer at the window in one did look kind of like Buck Goodwin. The next photo was a bit clearer. The man handing a drink through the window to a woman did look a lot like Buck.

“Pairing this with the info we got from Tiffany,” I said, still studying the photos, “it's likely this is Buck.”

“Makes sense,” added Greg. “He helped her out when she needed it, and she's returning the favor.”

“Honey,” I said to Greg as a thought crossed my mind. “If Paul is Bob Y, as we think, do you think he might have planted the bomb in Buck's store?”

Greg shrugged. “Seems kind of sophisticated for a kid who doesn't like his mother's friends, but you never know.” He took the phone and checked out the photos. “That adds another suspect to the blast. It could be whoever killed Tom and Red or it could be the kid. But I doubt Paul van den Akker killed Tom and Red. What would be his motive?”

I swallowed the rice in my mouth. “I can't think of a single one. Maybe we're looking at two unrelated things here. Buck could have been spooked by Tom's death and think maybe the blast was done by the same people.”

“I think,” said Mom, tapping a finger on the table to make her point, “that some people know exactly who killed Tom and Red and aren't talking. Maybe because they're afraid. And I'll bet Ina knows, too.”

“Could be,” I said, putting down my fork, “that Ina is worried someone else will die if she talks. She might not have been leaving town to get away from Tom, but maybe away from whatever and whomever Tom might have been involved with. That could be why she called him a stupid bastard.”

“You may be right, sweetheart. Didn't Ina say at Thanksgiving that she and Tom were fighting about the business?”

“She sure did,” I confirmed. “And if she wasn't leaving to avoid Tom, then it makes sense for her to go to the auction to say goodbye. I don't think it's normal for abused wives to say goodbye to their abusers when they hit the road.”

I pushed my plate away, too busy thinking to eat, which is very abnormal for me. I closed my eyes and ran the possibilities like flashcards on the inside of my eyelids. It wasn't working, so I got up and retrieved a legal notepad from our home office. Back at the table, I started jotting down information and people's names, and tried to link them.

“Okay,” I began, “say Tom is involved with something bad or illegal, and Ina doesn't like it. That could have caused the fight they had before Thanksgiving.”

“And it's so bad she's frightened enough to take off,” added Mom. She tapped the legal pad. “Write that down.”

With a small huff, I noted that beside Ina's name.

“And the money,” added Mom. “What if that three hundred thousand came from something illegal, and Ina was taking off with it?”

“But,” I pointed out, “the cops said she didn't have the money on her, just that she withdrew it. And there's no record of where it went. The cops are thinking maybe she used it to pay someone to kill Tom. But if that's the case, why would she have been so distraught over his death? I don't think she was acting that day.” I looked up from the pad to Greg and Mom. “What other reasons could there be?”

Greg stopped eating. “Payoff, maybe?”

I tapped my pen on the notepad directly under Ina's name. “Tom's in trouble. Ina pulls ill-gotten cash from their bank account and hands it over to the bad guys. They kill Tom anyway. Maybe as a warning?”

Mom nodded. “That's how it would be in a TV movie or on one of those crime dramas. You can never trust bad guys to do what they promise.”

“And what about Red?” Greg asked. “Do you think he knew what Tom was involved with? Maybe that's why he was killed.”

“If he did,” I noted, “then it's connected to the auction or resale business, which makes me wonder if Kim knows anything. We haven't been able to talk to her yet.”

“If Kim knows, maybe Tiffany knows,” Greg suggested.

“I don't know, honey. She seemed worried about her father, but I didn't get the vibe she was hiding anything.”

“Neither did I, but she could be a good liar.”

Mom punched the table with her finger again. “I'll bet that tramp Linda knows.” Mom couldn't seem to say Linda's name without tacking on the word
tramp
, like it had become part of her name or a royal title—Tramp Linda McIntyre.

“I think you're right about that, Mom.” I thought about the marked storage lockers. “Linda was going to go into business with Tom, leaving Ina out of it. Maybe that's why her and Mazie's plan didn't work out, because she decided to throw her lot in with Tom instead. If Linda only bought specific lockers for her unknown clients, I'm betting something valuable was inside those lockers.”

“Something her clients wanted more than used furniture,” Greg said, finishing my thought.

“Exactly.”

“Drugs?” Mom suggested.

“Very likely,” said Greg. “Or something else valuable, small, and easy to hide.”

“But what about the other stuff?” Mom asked. “Do you think they wanted that too?”

It was a good question. I thought about it as I pushed rice around my plate, arranging the grains into little neat piles. “Maybe that's why Linda needed someone like Mazie or Tom. She doesn't have a store herself, so if her clients didn't want the goods inside the lockers, she'd have to find a way to dispose of them.”

Greg ran a hand though his hair. “Those storage places all have security cameras and gates, so whoever marked those units had to be someone who could get inside and who knew the limitations of the cameras.”

“True,” I confirmed. “Dev did say whoever killed Tom managed to avoid the security cameras, but he didn't say if they were disarmed or just avoided.”

I went to the counter and picked up my cell phone and started punching numbers.

“Who are you calling, sweetheart?”

“Detective Fehring. The police need to know about this theory. If Linda McIntyre is still in custody, they need to pin her down on it now. If she's released on bail, she might disappear.”

Detective Fehring was all ears, hearing out our idea about the tagged storage units. She did say two marked units with only one bought by Linda didn't exactly prove anything, but it was more than they currently had to go on and said she'd check it out.

“And stay away from Elite Storage,” she ordered before she hung up. “If I see you or Greg anywhere near that place, I'll arrest you for obstructing justice. You got that?”

“Loud and clear,” I told her. When the call was done, I filled Mom and Greg in on what Fehring had said.

Mom got up from the table and started a kettle on the stove for her tea. “You didn't tell her about Buck. Was that an oversight or intentional?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Mom.” I started clearing the table.

“Like I said, Odelia, you're a very bad liar.”

twenty-one

Greg and I had
two items on our agenda for the day: we wanted to talk to Kim Pawlak and we wanted to find Buck Goodwin. Before we left the house, I called Acme Auctions and asked if Kim was in. The same woman I spoke to the day before informed me she wasn't, that she was “out in the field,” which I assumed meant she was at a storage facility handling auctions. When I asked for a schedule of auctions being held today, I was told to check their website. So much for customer service.

“You know, honey,” I said to Greg while I called up the Acme website on the laptop, “Linda's clients may not know Linda is in police custody. I wonder if she was scheduled to go to an auction today on their behalf?”

“Could be, but how would we know which ones? There are probably several places holding auctions in the area today.”

“True, but since Red Stokes was murdered, I'm thinking Linda might have favored the ones conducted by Acme Auctions. Red could have been involved in the scam or found out about it. Either way, he became a liability.”

“Good thinking.”

As I maneuvered around the web, Greg reached out and placed a hand on my left arm. “Sweetheart, are you sure you're okay? We don't have to do this today.”

In the middle of the night I'd woken up and began crying over Seamus. Greg wrapped his arms around me and held me tight until I fell asleep again. Feeding Wainwright and Muffin this morning had been tough. There were three bowls lined up against the kitchen wall, but only two needed kibble. Without a word, Greg picked up Seamus's bowl and took it to the sink. The other animals ate their breakfast but not with the same gusto as usual. We would all need time to heal.

“I need to keep busy, Greg. This will help.”

He gave me a nod of understanding. “Just say the word, though, and we'll go home.”

I gave him a smile of thanks and went back to checking out Kim's schedule for the day.

According to the Acme Auctions website, there were two auctions today. The first was at a storage complex called Busy Boxes in Bellflower in about two hours. The second was at two o'clock in Santa Ana.

I placed another call to Fehring and gave her an update on my theory since she was checking out the marked units.

“It would be interesting to know,” I told her, “if any of the units up for sale today have an
X
on the door.”

Fehring had agreed. “We'll check it out. We're also going to talk to some of the other larger facilities and see if Linda was a regular buyer.” Before hanging up, Fehring added, “And thanks, Odelia. Knowing you, I'm sure you wanted to snoop around yourself on these. I appreciate you handing it off to me.”

A wave of guilt washed over me. I'd only given Fehring the information on the Santa Ana facility, not on the auction in Bellflower. She was right: I did want to check some of this out on my own. I was willing to share 50-50 but not 100 percent. When I ended the call, I turned to find Greg watching me, arms folded across his chest.

“I'm guessing that we're going to the auction in Bellflower?”

“Do you think I should call her back and 'fess up?”

He gave it some thought, then grabbed his jacket. “Nah, but if we're going to Bellflower, let's go soon just in case traffic's bad. And if we get there early, we might be able to talk to Kim Pawlak without any interruption.”

Before leaving, I checked on Mom. She'd just had her shower and was sitting in the chair by the window, wrapped in her robe. On her lap was her iPad.

“We're leaving now, Mom.” I walked over to her. “Are you updating your blog?”

“Yes. I hope you don't mind, but I thought I'd write a piece about Seamus.”

“That would be lovely.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “I noticed you haven't said anything more about the murder in the blog. You didn't even mention the blast.”

“And I won't,” she said with clipped finality. “At least not until this nonsense is over.”

“That's probably for the best. You never know who might stumble across it. Might be one of the bad guys, and we have enough problems right now.”

“Humph. I'm not worried about them. It's your brother I'm trying to keep in the dark. If he ever found out how close we came to being blown up, he'd have a conniption.”

I couldn't argue with that. The way Willie kept tabs on Greg and me, Clark might already know. “He'll find out sometime.”

“When it's over, we can tell him.”

“We're leaving Wainwright home again today. If you feel like it later, I know he'd love a walk to the beach.”

Mom looked up from her iPad and smiled. “I think I'd like that too. Too bad Muffin can't come along. I'd hate to leave her with no one home, just in case something happens.”

“Don't worry about Muffin, Mom, she's young and healthy. Seamus was old, and he was starting to have health problems.”

“True, but Wainwright's hardly a pup. If something happens to that dog, it will kill Greg.”

I thought back to when Wainwright had been shot. It had been touch and go at first, and Greg had been incredibly calm and steady about the whole thing—at least on the outside. Inside he'd been a pile of weepy, worried jelly that only I witnessed.

“We almost lost Wainwright a few years back,” I told her. “It was very hard on Greg—on both of us. But when that time comes for real, we'll manage to get through it, as we will with Seamus. They will always be in our hearts.”

I stood and started to leave, then went back to Mom and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Mom. If you need anything, don't hesitate for a minute to call my cell or Greg's. Okay?”

“Don't worry, I will.”

The drive to Bellflower was uneventful, and we arrived early. Busy Boxes was set up a lot like Elite but on a smaller scale. There was also very little parking in the tiny lot in front of the main security gate. Two cars were already there. Other than that, it looked deserted. According to the posted hours, the office wouldn't open until 9
am
, although the facility was available to unit renters 24/7. It was twenty minutes to nine and a bit chilly out. A small storm was supposed to move in by late afternoon or early evening.

“Honey,” I said as we passed the place, “that was it.”

“Yeah, I saw it, but I was thinking since we're so early, let's grab a cup of coffee while we wait. I saw a Starbucks a block or so back.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Greg drove to the first side street and pulled over to let a few other cars pass. Once the road was clear, he made a U-turn at the small intersection and headed back to the coffee shop.

Armed with two fresh lattes, we returned to Busy Boxes, where Greg parked curbside just a car length away from the driveway into the facility.

“There's a handicapped spot in the lot,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but it looks kind of cramped. I'd rather park here.”

We were enjoying a quiet moment when a man came into view from a side street and started walking toward us. He was slim, of average height, and wearing jeans and a navy blue hoodie. The hood was pulled low over his forehead; his hands were burrowed into the pockets of the sweatshirt. He turned and I saw just enough of his face to tell he was fair-skinned.

“Greg, look at that guy. I think that's Eric van den Akker.”

“Who?”

“Heide van den Akker's eldest son. She's the owner of the Comfort Foodies truck. And he's acting kind of funny.” Instinctively, I scooted down in my seat when Eric turned to check out the street one last time before approaching Busy Boxes' front gate.

Following my lead, Greg ducked. “I thought I saw him slipping on gloves,” Greg whispered, his head close to mine. “Why would he need gloves?”

“I saw that too.” I raised my head to look over the dashboard.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Greg cautioned.

When he reached the individual entrance gate next to the large vehicle gate, he punched numbers into the security pad and entered.

“He had the entrance code,” I told Greg. “Maybe he has a unit. Could be he and his mother store extra equipment here.”

“So why would he wear that hood? It's not raining yet. He's hiding his identity.”

I knew Greg was right. I knew it the minute Eric slipped on those gloves.

As soon as Eric entered the facility and disappeared, I opened the van door.

“Where do you think you're going?” Greg asked, slapping a strong hand on my arm like a vice.

“I have to see what he's up to.”

“It's too dangerous.”

“I'll be careful. I can pretend I'm going to one of the lockers. He's only seen me once in his life and then barely. He won't recognize me.”

“No, Odelia. The gloves. The hood. Stokes was killed by gang members. This van den Akker kid might be part of that gang. It's too much of a risk.”

“But Greg, it might help Ina.”

“And how are you going to get into the facility? You don't have a security code. And don't even think about trying to haul your ass over that fence. Even if you could do it, that office is about to open and you'll be caught. There are two cars in the lot now. That means people are around, and I'll bet some of those are employees.”

As usual, my hubs was right. I shut the van door, careful not to slam it in frustration. “So what do you suggest?”

In response, he pulled out his phone. “We'll wait until he comes out and take more photos. Set your phone for video. I'll take stills.”

“You're absolutely right,” I agreed. “We should have more information before we react.” I plucked my coffee from the cup holder and took a long drink. I wasn't very good at waiting games. Greg watched me, ready to grab me if I tried to leave the van. He also knew patience wasn't my strong suit even though, ironically, it was my middle name.

We didn't have to wait long before Eric returned to the front gate. I nudged Greg. We both slunk down in our seats just enough so we could still spy over the dash and got our phones ready to record his departure. As soon as he slipped out of the gate, Eric stuck something into his pocket and removed his gloves. Without removing his hood, he quickly retraced his steps down the street and turned onto the small side street.

“Did you get it?” Greg asked.

I replayed the video. “It's choppy, but it clearly shows him leaving the place, though it doesn't have a view of his face. How about you?”

“My photos of him are clear but also no shot of his face. If we need to prove something, maybe we can do it by his clothing.”

“Eric was wearing a navy blue hoodie just like that the day I saw him at the food truck.”

“It's a common sweatshirt, but you never know. It might be enough to at least cause the police to question him.”

I turned to Greg, needing to sort out the confusion. “Okay, Heide is or was dating Buck. Her youngest son, Paul, worked a short time for Buck and they didn't get along. Now her oldest son shows up slinking around at an auction facility before it opens.”

“Maybe he's the one marking the units,” Greg suggested.

I looked to Greg for more of an explanation.

“We are already thinking,” he continued, “that maybe something small and valuable like drugs is hidden in the marked units. Maybe Linda's clients are really one client: a gang. One side brings in the product and hides it in units about to be put up for auction. They mark the units. Linda comes in and buys them. Her people remove the goods, hand over the drugs to her client, and no one thinks twice. Maybe this kid is marking the units. He certainly didn't appear to have anything to put inside one, nor did he have anything in his hand when he left, unless it was small enough to slip into a pocket.”

I mulled it over. It was a plausible theory. “It would mean an inside person is involved, like a facility employee.” I looked at Greg, not wanting to state the obvious. “Or an auctioneer.”

He nodded. “Could be either Kim or Tiffany, or both, are involved. Tiffany has had contact with Heide's sons.”

I thought more about what Tiffany had said to us. “Didn't Tiff-
any say she liked Eric but that his brother was a goody two-shoes who was always sneaking around? Maybe Paul found out what was going on.”

“Could also be that Buck knows what's going on or is involved himself.”

My head was starting to hurt from taking in all the information. I held it between my hands to let everything settle, careful not to touch my bruises from the day before. I'd been lucky and had avoided a black eye. “Could be any or all of them are involved. Pick a suspect—any suspect.” I took a deep breath and raised my head. “Tom gets involved with Linda, who works for the gang. Something goes sour and Tom is killed, maybe as a warning or maybe he's done something to cross them. Ina's spooked enough before then to flee, but she comes to the auction to have final words with Buck and Tom? That's the part that doesn't make sense.”

“Unless she was warning them or at least one of them. And it was Tiffany who said Ina came here to say something to them. What if Tiffany's lying about that?”

“This has more layers than an onion.” I threw up my hands in frustration. “Could be they are
all
involved: one big unhappy criminal inbred family. The only thing we know for sure is that Tom and Red are dead, and Ina was going to leave the country.”

“You know, sweetheart,” Greg said, looking straight at me. “If Ina wasn't involved, I'd drop this right here and now. I'm tempted to do it anyway.”

“And leave Ina to rot in jail?” I was surprised.

“I don't want to do that,” he admitted, “but if she's involved in something this sinister, then she needs to face the consequences or start talking.” Greg kicked back the rest of his coffee with one gulp.

I waited a few heartbeats, then said, “So what do you want to do now?”