Too Big To Miss (13 page)

    "Did you know about Sophie's web site?" I asked. "I had no idea that she had one of those...um...adult sites." I threw in some feigned shock. "Just when you think you know a person."
    "Yes, of course I knew." He chuckled.
    Ole Chuckles was beginning to get on my nerves.
    "In fact, I helped her set it up. Even gave her the idea." The sexy smile was back. "Why, would you like to take it over?" The question was serious, not a bad joke like Mike Steele's comment. "You'd be a smash on it, Odelia."
    His eyes slowly looked me over. Not an open leer, but an appraisal, an almost professional one.
    Now it was my turn to chuckle.
    "Nooooooo, not me," I told him with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. "My larger than life, middle-aged body is not for public consumption. They'd shut me down for being a blight on the side of the information highway."
    Hollowell tilted back his head and laughed heartily. It was the first uncalculated and genuine thing he'd done since sitting down. "Attractive and funny. That's a good combination, Odelia. No wonder you and Sophie were friends." He uncrossed his legs and shifted forward, leaning in close, giving me an unmistakable bedroom look. "I like spunky women with full curves. Maybe we should get together again? Hopefully soon."
    What's a girl to do? Especially a girl who wants to know more about this dangerous man and his relationship with one of her best friends.
    I fidgeted with my margarita and took another deep draw on the straw. My eyes were down, my focus buried in the red slushy liquid.
    I felt his touch on my arm again. His fingers stroked and squeezed my flesh discretely, sensuously.
    I sucked my drink faster, deeper, until the glass was empty.

Chapter Seventeen

THE EARLY MORNING dampness clung to the shrubs like pavé diamonds set in malachite. I took big deep breaths while I walked, filling my lungs with gulps of cool wetness mixed with a fresh scent that smelled faintly of licorice. The bay was shrouded in a heavy haze. By noon we'd be enjoying a warm, clear day accompanied by gentle breezes off the nearby ocean.
    The walk was invigorating. I could feel my muscles stretching, working to propel my logy ass down the trail. I felt my pulse. My heart was pumping steadily. The whole activity was life affirming, giving me a boost both mentally and physically.
Odelia, you should exercise more often
,
I lectured myself silently. Funny how I always forgot how good activity made me feel when sitting on the sofa in front of the TV.
    Next to me was Glo Kendall. We were moving at a nice pace, not dawdling, not race walking. A few yards behind us were three other ladies. Two of them were Reality Check regulars. The third walker in the bunch was Ruth Wise. After just a few days, Ruth already fit in nicely with the other women who met haphazardly for the daily walks. She was quiet, yet sociable, exuding a calm confidence that would be an asset to the group. I sincerely hoped she would attend the meetings once we started them up again.
    "You look tired, Odelia," Glo commented.
    I looked at her and smiled.
    In spite of the cool morning, perspiration was beginning to form on Glo's forehead. Her long, dark blonde hair was parted and caught in two pigtails. She had a cute turned-up nose which gave her a slightly pug look, small brown eyes, and thin lips. She was taller than me by three or four inches, and lighter by about twenty pounds. And although I was old enough to be her mother, she huffed and puffed considerably more as we kept to our brisk pace. I attributed the latter to her smoking. Glo wasn't what you'd call beautiful, not even particularly pretty. She might be described as a handsome woman, a term I always considered a polite way of saying plain, but not unattractive. With Sophie's help she had learned to enhance her best features and create a very appealing and perky look.
    Me? People referred to me as interesting. Attractive, pretty, maybe even beautiful on a good day, but in a non-classical way. On their own, my features were odd. My nose was long with a slight bump near the bridge and blanketed with a line of freckles. My green eyes were too close, and my mouth full on the bottom, thin on top. But somehow it all worked together to give me my own look that, over the years, many had found pleasing and even a bit exotic.
    "Yes, Glo, I am." I rotated my neck, producing a few cracks and pops. "Haven't had much sleep since Sophie died." I turned my head back toward her and displayed a small, tired smile from under the red cap I was wearing. "But it'll be over soon. The lawyer has several people coming around next week to appraise the furniture and household goods for purchase. We'll get rid of the whole lot at once hopefully. Then the house will go on the market."
    She reached out and gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. "You've done a might, Odelia," she said in her hick twang. "You've been a good friend to Sophie. If there's somethin' more I can do to help, you just call."
    "Thank you, Glo." I smiled at her again. "I appreciate the offer. Most of Sophie's personal things are about packed up. Just a few odds and ends left."
    "What are you gonna do with all of it? You know, her clothes, papers, stuff like that?"
    "Not sure, maybe donate the clothes to a women's shelter." I looked over at Glo. She was close to Sophie's size, and I knew she could use the extra boost to her wardrobe. "Would you like to have some of her clothing? I'm sure she would've liked that."
    She smiled, then said, "Sure. 'Bout the only time I'll ever get to wear such nice things."
    We walked along a bit further in silence. With Sophie gone, I was now the oldest member of the group. Zee and a couple of others were right behind me in age, but many of the women in Reality Check were in their twenties and thirties. They looked to us for guidance as they picked their way through the mine fields of a prejudiced society. Giggles could be heard from the small group behind us. I felt maternal watchfulness growing by the minute.
    "I met with an old flame of Sophie's last night," I told Glo. She looked at me, her eyes full of interest. "John Hollowell." I caught the quick way her eyes widened, then relaxed. "You know him?" I asked with new curiosity.
    She didn't respond for several feet, then she wheezed, followed by coughing to clear her throat. "Met him once at Sophie's. By accident." She looked up and grinned at me. "Quite a looker."
    I nodded. "That he is."
    "It was around the holidays, back when I was lookin' for work. Sophie was helpin' me with my resumé one mornin' and he sort of popped in."
    "Popped in?"
    "Yeah, at least it seemed that way. Caught Sophie by surprise anyway. Made her mad, too. I think he was already an ex-boyfriend by that time. Know what I mean?"
    That would have been about six months ago, shortly after Glo joined our group. I jotted this new information down in my brain and posted it on my internal bulletin board.
    "Did he stay long?" I asked, trying to seem casual rather than interrogating.
    "We were workin' at her kitchen table. She took him into her back room. You know, the one she used as her office."
    I nodded again. I knew it well. Looking ahead as we walked, I listened to each word intently.
    "Anyway, they were back there arguin'. No yellin', just pickin' at each other."
    "What about?"
    "Couldn't tell ya. But Sophie was real upset. I could tell by her voice. They weren't in there long. When they finished, he headed straight out the front door."
    "That's all?"
    "Pretty much."
    Glo glanced at me. I saw her cheeks redden and pushed my cap back for a better view. Quickly she stared down at the path we were traveling.
    "Well there's more, but nothin' important. Just that Sophie got a call and went back into her office to talk. There was a knock on the front door while she was gone, then it opened. It was John Hollowell again. He came in sayin' he'd left his keys on Sophie's desk. I told him she was on the phone." She hesitated slightly. "He waited with me until she was through, then got his keys and left."
    "Did he say anything to you?"
    "Chit chat mostly. Kinda made me nervous. Wanted to know what we were workin' on. Told him I was looking for a job and Sophie was helpin'."
    The fight could have been about anything. I knew from Greg that Sophie had been trying to break off the relationship. Maybe Hollowell had a hard time letting her go. He didn't seem the clingy type to me, but he definitely seemed the type not to take rejection very well. Hollowell was a man used to winning, someone who didn't take no for an answer. I knew that from recent personal experience.
    I had finally agreed to meet him again, Friday night, about eight. We were going back to the same restaurant, this time for dinner. He had originally suggested he pick me up and drive us to a romantic restaurant further down the coast, but I had nixed the idea. I wanted someplace close, someplace where I could meet him. What I wanted was an emergency exit.
    While it is my firm practice not to date married men, I did want to pry into Hollowell and Sophie's relationship more. I had been nervous last night. Oh hell, who was I kidding? I'd been scared nearly deaf and dumb by his manipulative looks and comments. Also, asking too many questions might have made him suspicious. I came away from that evening a bit tipsy and starved for more data.
    I didn't want Hollowell to know, or even to suspect for a minute, that I was investigating Sophie's supposed suicide, at least not yet. Whether or not he was involved with her death, one thing was for sure—he knew something about it. I can't say how I know this. I just know it. I could sense it, feel it, even taste it. And trust me, my sense of taste is as fit as a fiddle.
    John Hollowell is a very dangerous human being, or I'm a Snickers without the nuts.
    
Friday would be different
, I told myself. It would be my mission to ferret out important clues and information somewhere between drinks and dessert.
    "You're thinking about her, huh? About Sophie?"
    Startled, I looked in the direction of the question, at Glo. I had forgotten where I was. My feet were on auto pilot, putting one in front of the other along the path.
    "Yes, I was. I think about her a lot."
    "Me, too," she said, almost in a whisper.
    We took a few more steps in silence before Glo spoke again.
    "Odelia, did you ever find out anything about that box of old photos Zee found in Sophie's closet when we were cleaning?"
    "Actually, Glo, I did." I looked over at her. "Turns out Sophie had a son."
    "A son?" Glo stopped walking and stood in the middle of the trail. I kept going and she skipped a step or two to catch up.
    "Yes, but he lives with his father. Sophie hadn't seen him in a long time."
    "Wow," she said, "imagine that. So, what's his name? Where's he live?"
    Looking forward, I could see we were about to cross the timber bridge that led up a small incline to where the cars were parked. Another ten minutes and I'd be heading home to shower and get ready for the office.
    "How's work going, Glo?" I asked, not wanting to talk anymore about Robbie. Peter Olsen had asked me to leave Robbie out of things as much as possible, and I intended to honor his wishes. "You still enjoy your job?"
    She thought about it before answering. "Yeah, sure. It's not what I want to be doin' the rest of my life, but the boss said I have potential." She grinned.
    "Great." I beamed at her. She was indeed one of our, one of Sophie's, successes.
    "It's just been hard and all with everythin' that's happened lately."
    "You mean Sophie?"
    "Well, that and that accident a few days ago. You know that kid who was killed by the drunk driver?"
    I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at her, barely able to speak. "You mean the young man who worked for that security company?"
    She stopped next to me, her face serious and sad. The women behind us caught up and started past.
    "Everything all right, ladies?" Ruth asked.
    "Yes, fine, thanks," I told her with a small smile. "Just girl talk."
    Ruth smiled back and moved on, but I caught her casting a look back over her shoulder as she walked up the slight hill. I turned back to Glo.
    "Yeah," she told me, "the one on the news a few nights ago. Well, that was the head of our company. The drunk, I mean. Shook us all up pretty bad. Not that I'm excusin' what he did, mind you."

Chapter Eighteen

WHAT IN THE world would Southern California do without single-story, stucco strip malls? They dotted light commercial areas, painted in various shades of gray, white, and brown, like cheap plastic buildings made for a board game.
    Ocean Breeze Graphics was housed in such a structure in Huntington Beach, this one painted tan with Spanish hacienda affectations. The little convenience mall held five small businesses, with Greg's shop taking up the most space. On one side of him was a moderately busy pizza and sandwich joint, on the other side a dry cleaner, beauty supply store, and a nail salon. There was a nice size parking area in the front.
    Inside the shop was a long counter divided into two sections. The left half was normal height, the counter to the right lower by several inches. I immediately realized that the lower counter was to accommodate Greg's wheelchair needs.
    At the higher counter, on the work side, stood a college-age kid. He was dressed in full California beach attire—baggy shorts and a loud, purple tie-dyed t-shirt. His short, spiked hair was dyed lime green, making me think of Seamus. Completing his fashion statement was a tiny gold hoop piercing his left brow. He was deep in conversation with a conservatively dressed man, discussing layouts for a brochure. The kid glanced my way.
    "Be with you in a minute, ma'am."
    I nodded at him and sat in one of the several plastic molded chairs lined up against the front window.
    Beyond the counter was a very large open area. It was a hive of activity, with lots of machines of different sizes and types whirring away. Worker bees were attending to business, chatting and bantering pleasantly among themselves. It seemed like a nice place to work, clean and industrious, and Greg's employees looked happy and relaxed. I imagined him being a good and fair boss.
    I only had to wait a few minutes before the man at the counter left and the kid turned his attention to me.
    "What can we do for you?" he asked politely, without a hint of the youthful slang usually associated with his colorful attire.
    "I'm here to see Greg Stevens, but I don't have an appointment." I stood up and walked to the counter. "I was just hoping to catch him in."
    At that moment, Wainwright trotted out from behind the counter and nuzzled my leg like an old friend. I took his boulder of a head in both my hands and playfully rubbed it. His fringed tail wagged like a metronome.
    "Hey, Wainwright, how you doing boy?" I looked up at the kid. "Greg must be in," I said with a laugh.
    The kid grinned. "Let me tell Greg you're here. What's your name?"
    I told him my name as Wainwright leaned one side of his heavy head into my hand. I scratched behind one ear, then the other, knowing full well I was going to catch hell from Seamus tonight when I came home smelling like doggie. He hadn't quite forgiven me for letting Wainwright into the house in the first place.
    "Looks like you found another sucker, ole boy."
    I looked up to see Greg watching me from behind the counter. He seemed very happy to see me. Upon hearing his master's voice, Wainwright abandoned me to beg attention from Greg.
    "You must have ESP or something," he said. "I was going to call you tonight."
    "I was in the area attending a meeting," I explained. "Hope you don't mind my dropping in like this?"
    It was true. Mike Steele had an afternoon appointment at a client's office in Huntington Beach, not far from Greg's printing company. The client was growing at a fast pace and was looking to expand his business outside the state. Since one of my paralegal duties was to set up corporations inside and outside of California, Steele had asked me to come along. Thankfully, we had taken separate cars. After the news of my upcoming assignment, it was now my turn to present a cold shoulder.
    "No, not at all," Greg said. "I have something interesting to show you. But first a quick tour."
    He proudly showed me around Ocean Breeze Graphics and introduced me to several people, including the kid from the front counter. His name was Boomer. Like a puffed up papa, Greg announced, much to the boy's embarrassment, that Boomer was a straight-A college student and had been with him since he was sixteen, beginning with deliveries.
    Greg had a right to be pleased with the business and his people. Hard work and success hovered over the place like the hum of the machinery they used. And it was easy to see that genuine affection existed between the workers and their boss. There was an overall camaraderie about the place that didn't exist at Woobie, and never had. I wondered with amusement if Ocean Breeze Graphics had an opening for a corporate paralegal.
    Greg took me back to his office. It was a large, square room in a corner of the building. One wall consisted mainly of a huge picture window through which he could survey most of the work area. The door to the office was unusually wide, as were the aisles running through the main part of the shop, all tailored to help Greg in the maneuvering of the wheelchair. It was an impressive set-up.
    "I've been working on the saved camera photos from Sophie's computer," he told me excitedly as he closed the door to give us privacy. "What I've found is very odd."
    He wheeled behind his desk and motioned for me to pull up one of the side chairs standing nearby. His computer was already on. I envied his monitor. It was one of the large flat screen models, making mine at home seem no bigger than a Game Boy.
    The other night we had located the saved photos taken by the computer camera on the day of Sophie's death. The camera had been programmed to save them on the hard drive at intervals of fifteen seconds. The pictures had dates and times stamped across the bottom of each still shot. The first photos had started close to eight in the morning. The camera had been shut off by the police just after nine-thirty. In between were numerous photos, including those showing the shooting, according to the time stamp, at about nine-twelve.
    We had gone though many of the pictures that night at Sophie's, and had caught some oddities in a few just before the shooting. But the images weren't sharp enough to be sure. Greg burned the photos to a CD and volunteered to enlarge them on his computer at work. He had done a good job and had created a chronological slide show from the photos taken from Sophie's computer.
    "These were taken about eight-twenty," Greg explained, showing me one enlarged photo on his computer screen, followed by another.
    Each photo showed Sophie in front of the camera, her head turned to her left. She looked serious, very tense. I imagined her office, picturing myself sitting behind her desk, moving my head in the same direction.
    "She's looking toward the loveseat under the window," I said. My heart started to beat faster as I studied the photo. "Possibly at someone."
    "Exactly."
    Greg pulled a large pad of yellow lined paper from a stack on his desk. It was the same type of note pad used by lawyers. On it were two times and dates, both circled. One was May second, ten-fifty; the other May third, eight-twenty. The May third entry was also underscored several times.
    Greg stabbed the end of a ballpoint pen at each of the dates. "And these are the dates and times Ortiz made service calls to that address according to the security company. These are my notes from my conversation with them."
    I wanted to shout ah-ha! but felt a needed to be cautious
    "Yes, but maybe Ortiz wasn't exact in his report," I said. "Or maybe the clock on the computer was off in one direction or another."
    "Wait, Odelia. We haven't come to the interesting part yet."
    He moved through the photos quickly until they seemed like a slow-moving video. Most were of Sophie in front of the camera, but facing toward the love seat. Throughout the sequence her facial expression changed little, showing her face taut, her eyes narrowed. Sometimes her mouth was open, as if speaking. The times on the photos ranged from eight-fifteen until eight-thirty-two, over fifty photos in all. Following eight thirty-two, the photos showed Sophie looking slightly more to the right, in the direction of the closet. Still her face was stone cold.
    "Go back several," I told him. "Then go forward more slowly."
    He did as I asked. With each slide, I double checked the date and time posting at the bottom.
    "Greg," I said quietly and calmly. "If these photos are correct, then Ortiz..." I looked at him wide-eyed.
    "Never saw Sophie at all," he said, finishing my sentence.
    "But he told his supervisor and the police he saw Sophie and that she seemed okay. He..."
    "Must've seen someone else."
    "Yes, someone else. Another woman passing herself off as Sophie when Ortiz stopped by."
    My mind did a leap and, surprisingly, landed on its feet. "If someone else, a woman, was at the door chatting with Ortiz about the alarm system," I said, the words coming out slow and deliberate as I got the progression straight in my mind. "Then someone else, another person, was in the room with Sophie while these pictures were being snapped."
    I threw myself back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. "We're not looking for a murderer, Greg. We're looking for at least two murderers! And poor Ortiz could've been killed because he could identify the person he saw as not being the real Sophie London."
    "Bingo!" Greg said, slapping his hands together quickly and loudly like a clap of thunder.
    I moved my eyes from the ceiling to Greg. "Holy shit, Greg, what have we stumbled onto?"
    "There's more, Odelia. You sure you're ready?"
    "Two weeks ago, I was hardly ready to get up in the morning and shower. Today, I'm ready for anything."
    Greg clicked on the computer screen and the photos started moving forward again, this time slowly. "These were taken about the time of the shooting," he said. "About the time I came online."
    I had seen the suicide photos the other night. But then they had been small pictures. Now they were more than triple in size. Today, they marched across the screen like surreal images from a pepperoni pizza-induced nightmare.
    Sophie's face appeared in all of them. Some showed her with the gun, first with it in her hand, then in her mouth. There were three of the gun barrel poised between her lips, the time stamps telling us it had been about thirty to forty-five seconds between the aiming and the shooting.
    The next sequence of photos showed Sophie slumped backward in her chair, her vacant eyes looking upward. There were a number of those pictures, the later ones showing a trickle of blood trailing from one corner of her mouth down her chin. Then another person, a man clad in dark blue or black, a police officer probably, came into the shot. There were a couple of photos of him checking the body for life. Soon after, something covered the camera, blocking the view from the Internet watchers. The next photos were just black empty shots until the end.
    "Where's the restroom?" I asked Greg weakly.
    "To the right of my office, down a short hall," he told me. "You okay?"
    "I will be."
    The shop was still full of people as I stepped quickly to the bathroom. Thankfully, it wasn't occupied. After locking the door, I dropped to my knees and hugged the cool porcelain bowl as the remnants of my lunch burst free.
    Ready for anything, my big behind.
    When the sickness subsided, I stood up and flushed. Moving to the sink, I dabbed my face with a wet paper towel and checked the damage. My mascara was running, my eyeliner smudged. Against my pale, freckled skin my blackened eyes looked ghoulish. With a paper towel and some water, I patted around my eyes, trying to clean up the mess. I only succeeded in pressing it deeper into the crevices of my crow's feet. A fuzz coated my teeth and tongue. It tasted of chocolate and peanut butter. Today I'd had another fluffer-nutter, followed by carrot sticks and a brownie. None of it tasted good the second time around.
    There was a small Dixie cup dispenser attached to the wall. Pulling one of the small cups from the plastic hanger, I used it to swish my mouth out. It only helped a little.
    The bathroom was large, without stall walls around the single commode, and the sink was low and open underneath. A metal handrail ran alongside the toilet area. Everything was handicapped accessible and clean. I noticed a large cabinet attached to the wall to the right of the sink and opened it.
    Hallelujah!
    Inside were several tubes of toothpaste, varied toothbrushes encased in plastic holders, mouthwash, razors, Tylenol, Maalox, bandages, and other hygiene and first aid items, including a box of Tampax. Obviously, I had discovered the healthcare emergency cache of the employees of Ocean Breeze Graphics.
    Using some toothpaste and my finger, I did a quick scrub of my teeth, then poured some mouthwash into the paper cup. I tossed it back like a tequila shooter and swished it around vigorously. It was the kind of mouthwash meant to be diluted with water before using, but feeling the need for industrial strength action I ignored the directions.
    Yowsa!
    It did the trick. I left the bathroom semi-composed and fully awake, my mouth feeling like it had been rinsed with mint flavored bleach.
    When I emerged from the bathroom I noticed that many of Greg's employees had left. The huge, plain clock hung high on a side wall said five-fifteen. I walked back to Greg's office to find Boomer looking at the computer screen over his shoulder. They were discussing something about the photos on the screen.
    "You sure you're okay?" Greg asked.
    "Yes, I'll be fine. Used some of your mouthwash. Hope you don't mind."
    He smiled, but it was a concerned smile. "If you don't want to go on, I'll understand."
    "No, really, I'm fine." I turned my attention to the photos. "What was it you found in this batch?" I asked.
    "Well, see these photos, the ones with Sophie holding the gun, and then these next ones with the gun in her mouth?" He no longer had a single photo on the screen, but four at a time.
    "Yes."
    "Boomer was the one who saw something odd right away." Greg looked at the beach scholar standing close by. "Show Odelia what you noticed, Boom."
    Boomer leaned over Greg's shoulder for a closer look and commandeered the mouse. Calmly and professionally he surveyed the photos. He pointed to several of Sophie holding the gun.
    "See this. In these pictures your friend is holding the gun and looking down at it. Looks to me like she's maybe contemplating what's next. Look closely and you can see what might be wetness on the side of her face." With a double click the photo was instantaneously enlarged. Boomer clicked several more times, each time enlarging the photo until only Sophie's face covered the screen.