“Laura Carpenter,” Holloway said. “There are only three Suzuki Hayabusa motorcycles registered in the county. One was in an accident and has been out of commission for six months. Another is owned by a restaurant—a burger joint—and it’s on display in the lobby. The third one is owned by a Laura Carpenter. Not much I can find so far, other than her address—I vote for Ms. Carpenter.”
“Why not the bike in the restaurant?” Peirce asked, taking the DMV report from Holloway and scanning it. “Someone could have used it, then put it back on display.”
“I don’t think so, boss. The motorcycle is mounted on the wall ten feet above the floor. It’s registered, but the owner says it hasn’t had gas in it for a year. The smell was driving away customers.”
“Well, if that checks out, then Laura Carpenter is our winner. Let’s pay her a visit.” Peirce opened his top desk drawer and lifted out his gun in its leather shoulder holster. He had reached the end of the holes in his belt and still couldn’t pull it tight enough to keep his waistband holster from slipping into his pants. A shoulder holster would have to do. “What have we got on Michelle Ackerman?”
“I got a court order and pulled her bank statements. It seems she deposited two thousand in cash on the fifteenth of each month. She didn’t make enough to have that much left over from her paycheck, what with her mortgage and car payments and such. She was getting extra money from somewhere,” Holloway said.
The ride across town was uneventful. Peirce drove while Holloway ate a box of Good & Plenty. The residence of Laura Carpenter was a garden apartment building with an attached single-car garage. Through the window in the garage door, Peirce could see the Suzuki Hayabusa standing in the center of the floor, sporting a black helmet with a tinted visor placed on its seat.
“Can I help you?” a man asked in a gruff and annoyed voice.
“Police,” Sam Peirce said, pushing his badge with its leather folder a little closer to the man’s face than was necessary.
“I’m the building manager, Jake Townsend.” He backed away to put some distance between his nose and Peirce’s badge. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for Laura Carpenter.” Sam snapped his ID and badge folder closed while walking to the front door.” A pile of dry leaves covered the doormat and several envelopes protruded from the overstuffed mailbox.
“You won’t find her here,” Jake said. “She owes me a month’s rent. I’ve been keeping an eye out for her, but she hasn’t been here for about six weeks. She was always on time with her rent. This isn’t like her.”
Jake reached for the chain hanging from his belt containing a large key ring. He sorted through the keys until he found the one marked 28D and walked toward the door.
“Are you allowed to just walk into her apartment without her permission?” Holloway asked.
Jake paused, letting the key drop back into the drove of others on his ring. “Oh, no, I would never do that. I thought you had a warrant or something,” he said, stuffing the ring of keys, chain and all, into his overall pocket.
“No, we don’t,” said Holloway.
Sam Peirce shook his head in Holloway’s direction.
“Mr. Townsend, you said you hadn’t seen Ms. Carpenter for some time. Is it possible that she could be sick or injured inside the apartment?” Sam asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jake said, scratching his chin as he spoke.
“Is it possible?” Sam said, raising his eyebrows and making a not-so-subtle nodding gesture with his head.
“Oh, oh yeah, I get it. You know, I actually never saw her come out. Maybe she fell or something, and she needs help,” Jake replied with a knowing grin. He reached back into his pocket, pulled out the key ring, and stood on his tiptoes to allow the key on the short chain to reach the high deadbolt lock on the apartment door. “Maybe she slipped in the shower and is unconscious…”
“We’ll take it from here,” Peirce said as he pushed past Jake Townsend. “You can wait outside while we make sure it’s safe.” Sam jerked his head, signaling Holloway to come in and close the door. The manager opened the mailbox and pulled the wedged bundle of mail out. “I’ll take that,” Holloway said. “We’ll leave it inside for her.”
The first-floor apartment in the two-story townhouse was larger than it looked from the outside. A bright-red sectional sofa on a white carpet demanded your attention as you entered the living room. Large modern art paintings of shapes Peirce couldn’t recognize hung on the back wall. It wasn’t his taste, but it looked like money.
The dining room table was piled high with folders and computer printouts segregated into piles with handwritten notes on them. Each note contained a full name written in capital letters. Peirce looked through the names, reading them aloud. He looked for anything that was familiar. “JAMES FARNSWORTH, ALBERTA KINSLEY, BRET KERCHIEF, HYRUM GREEN…” That one rang a bell. Peirce held up the folder. “This guy’s name seems to be coming up everywhere we go.”
Holloway walked to Peirce and began to read over his shoulder. Peirce turned a quarter turn to the left and said, “Why don’t you see what else you could find? Look for a connection between Hyrum Green and this gal, Laura Carpenter.”
Holloway again assumed the wounded puppy persona and began to search the other folders. He thumbed through several and then fumbled through his pocket for his cell phone. Holloway then tiptoed out of the room while poking in a number.
Peirce, his nose buried in the Hyrum Green folder, sat drumming his fingers on the table as he read the folder from cover to cover. He thought for a few minutes, then said, “This is almost the complete life story and financial report on the dentist. Why do you suppose Laura Carpenter is interested in this guy? Holloway? Holloway!” he shouted.
“Right here, boss.” Holloway slowly sauntered back into the room, beaming from ear to ear. “I was just checking a few things, and I found something interesting. All these names on the folders—well, all except the dentist—they were all on the flash drive that we found on Mort Banks, the one he stole from Sylvia Radcliffe’s house. They’re the names of robbery victims. They also all bought jewelry from Stanton’s Fine Gems.”
“We suspected Sylvia Radcliffe’s mother or sister of feeding info to Banks about jewelry purchases and possibly helping to set up the robberies,” Peirce said. “But what does this Carpenter gal have to do with it? Was she the accomplice who did the research for Banks, and if so, what was she doing at the murder scene?”
Holloway slowly pulled out a chair, sat, and put his feet up on the table. He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I noticed that the name on the electric bill”—he held up the stack of mail—“was Laura S. Carpenter. I had Samuelsson check birth records. Laura S.—S stands for Sylvia, by the way—Carpenter was born to Henrietta Carpenter on June 7, 1971. That’s also the DOB of Sylvia Radcliffe. I’ll bet my argyle socks that Henrietta Carpenter was the maiden name of…”
“Henrietta Radcliffe,” they said in unison.
“So that means that Sylvia Radcliffe, aka Laura Carpenter, was Mort’s partner. And if Mortimer Banks didn’t kill Michelle Ackerman, if the evidence was planted, then it was probably Sylvia Radcliffe who planted it,” Peirce said.
“Maybe, boss. That would make Sylvia a suspect in Michelle Ackerman’s murder. She could have killed Michelle and tried to blame it on her partner. She could have planted the evidence to cover her own crime,” Holloway said.
“Or to cover for someone else,” Peirce said, holding up the Hyrum Green folder.
“We still need a motive. This guy, Green, is in this thing up to his neck. Dr. Klein said she had evidence that Hyrum Green and Sylvia Radcliffe were having an affair. We’ve got two dead women, and this guy Green was involved in some way with both of them. Let’s take another shot at him and see what turns up.”