Chapter Fourteen
Harriet and I left at six p.m. Pawtucket, Rhode Island was about an hour south on the 95 on a good day. My local friends always teased me for putting “the” in front of the number of a road. But that’s what I’d grown up saying in California. And I still called them freeways instead of highways like they did here.
Traffic was thick, and heading south was slow even on a Sunday. They did this weird thing in Massachusetts that allowed people to drive on the right shoulder on some portions of the freeway during rush hour. It freaked me out so even though this wasn’t rush hour, I stayed in the middle lane. I told Harriet about Crystal Olson as I drove.
“That must be scary to find out there’s some resemblance to you.”
“It’s creepy. Unsettling.” I repressed a shiver. My whole life was unsettled right now.
“I could do some digging and see if I can find out anything else about her.”
I thought it over, weighed the risk of the kidnapper finding out. “Okay.”
“Maybe there’s a link to the kidnapper among her customers.”
“Or maybe there’s a link between one of her customers and me.”
Harriet nodded. “Good point.”
“The police have to be taking a deep dive into who they were too.” I hoped they’d find her phone or computer or even whatever phone carrier she used for her service soon. Harriet and I were quiet most of the rest of the way there. Harriet tapping away on her phone. An hour and fifteen minutes later we were pulling up in front of Gregory’s house. Harriet hadn’t found anything out about Crystal Olson that I didn’t already know.
“Why don’t you park a couple houses down from Kiah’s house,” Harriet said. “Then let’s just take a stroll around the block.”
I did as instructed, and soon we were walking down the street. There was a chill in the air. Harriet and I were dressed almost alike in sweaters, leggings, and light jackets. I had on flats, and she had on boots. The neighborhood was a mix of ranch houses and duplexes or two families as they called them here. Modest homes on modest lots. At Gregory’s house—a one-story ranch or rambler—lights were on, curtains were open. We slowed in front of his house, both of us craning our necks, looking for glimpses of Stella. No one was in the front room. There was a car in the drive with a rental sticker on it.
“Gregory’s identity could have been stolen along with his car,” I said. I’d described what the man who’d rented the costume looked like on the drive down and showed her the blurry picture Poppy had sent me.
Harriet nodded. “In all likelihood that’s the case, but it never hurts to check out a lead.”
I wondered if Harriet had a gun. All I had was my hairspray and bottle of wine. But the heft of my purse felt good. We turned at the corner and discovered an alley ran behind the houses.
“Let’s take a walk down the alley,” Harriet said. We passed garbage cans, single car detached garages, swing sets, and dogs in fenced yards. They barked. A lot. But Harriet kept moving, so I did too.
We stopped behind Gregory’s house. No fence. No signs of a dog. Patchy grass. Lights were on in the basement, and again there weren’t any window coverings. “It doesn’t look like he’s a man with anything to hide,” I said.
“Let’s take a look anyway,” Harriet said.
“Why don’t you stay here and watch for anyone who might happen by. I’ll go peek in.” I didn’t want to get Harriet in trouble if I got caught. Harriet nodded, and I crept forward. I dropped to my knees and peered in the basement window, stood, and repeated the process at the window on the right side of the house. Then I creeped up the steps leading to a back door. Peeked in. A kitchen with a small table and chairs off to one side. Stella wasn’t tied to a chair.
“Well?” Harriet asked when I got back. We continued down the alley.
“If he’s guilty of anything, it’s of being a neat freak. Lots of tools and a workshop in the basement. A partially built bookcase. No chains hooked into the walls or duct tape lying around. Kitchen had a small table with four matching chairs. Nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of Stella or Gregory.”
“Let’s go knock on his door then.”
“And say what?”
“That you live in the area and heard his car had been stolen. That someone stole your car too.”
“Oh, you’re good at this,” I said.
Harriet laughed.
“If whoever answers looks like the guy from the costume shop, I’m not going in.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t have to go in with me.” Although as a hostage negotiator Harriet was probably better equipped to handle this than me.
“There’s safety in numbers. Maybe while you talk, I can get away and take a look around.”
* * *
A few minutes later we sat on a couch across from Gregory Kiah, who slumped in an overstuffed chair. He’d bought my story about my car being stolen too. Gregory looked nothing like the man who’d rented the Alice in Wonderland costume, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t involved. His head was shaved bald. A well-trimmed mustache and goatee combo covered his upper lip and chin. He’d already told us he was originally from Liberia and had fled with his family during Charles Taylor’s reign of terror.
“When was your car stolen?” Gregory asked as he shook his head, disgusted.
The answer would be a lie, and my face tended to contradict my words, although I’d been working on that. “A couple of days ago.” Being vague seemed best. “Do you have any idea who took yours?” Gregory seemed honest enough, but maybe he’d loaned the car to a friend or even used it himself and reported it stolen.
“No.”
“It couldn’t have been a friend or a family member who needed to borrow it?” Harriet asked.
“They would have asked, not just taken it. My spare keys are still here.” He nodded toward the front door where a decorative piece read “Home” and had hooks for hanging keys. Several sets were there. I should tell him not to do that. That someone could break the window on his door and get the keys all too easily.
“Where was your car parked when it was taken?” I asked. “Mine was on the street.”
“Mine too. I told the police all this.” He opened his mouth to say something else.
Harriet stood. “May I use your restroom?”
I knew that she was going to search as much of the house as possible looking for Stella while I distracted Gregory.
“Of course. Down the hall, second door on the right.”
“I thought maybe there’s a ring of people who might connect us to each other. And that we could figure out who did this if we compared notes.”
“Shouldn’t we leave that to the police?” he asked.
“I don’t think a couple of stolen cars are high on their priority list. At the very least it’s not as important to them as it is to me.”
Gregory nodded. “You’re right. In Liberia the police were corrupt for the most part. But I believe it’s different here.”
“It is different here. But they are busy and spread too thin. Crimes against people take a priority over stolen property.” Gregory nodded again. “Where do you work?” I asked. Minutes later I knew he worked for an IT company, went to a Methodist church on Sundays, played pickup basketball on Tuesday nights, and loved American reality TV shows. I shared as little as possible and made up everything I said.
Harriet walked back into the room with a slight shake of her head. No signs of Stella. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.
“Do you have any security cameras?” Harriet asked.
“No.”
“How about neighbors? Do any of them have security cameras?” I asked.
He puckered his lips together as he thought. “The people across the street have a doorbell with a camera.”
I stood. “Thank you. I hope they find your car and get it back to you.”
“Yours too.”
* * *
There were lights on at the house across the street. Harriet and I crossed over and rang the doorbell. Like Gregory had said, it was the kind with a camera on it and an intercom. I looked around to see if there were other cameras, but didn’t see any. Although I knew from past experience that cameras could be very small and easily hidden. But weren’t most security cameras big to scare people off?
A voice came out of an intercom. “What do you want?”
“We were talking to Gregory Kiah about his stolen car and wondered if your security system picked anything up,” I said.
“It did. I gave a copy of the recording to the police.”
“Any chance I could take a look? My car was stolen too. A couple blocks over. My doorbell picked up a figure but not much more.”
Harriet gave me a small nod of approval.
A moment later the door opened. A dark-haired woman in jeans and a green Providence, Rhode Island T-shirt stood there. She had a laptop in her arms that she opened. She turned the computer toward Harriet and me. “I hope we aren’t going to have a rash of crimes around here. It’s a good neighborhood.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said.
The woman clicked open a file, and we watched for a couple of seconds. Gregory’s car was clear in the photo. A slender person in a black hoodie walked up and slid a jimmy between the window and the door, bold as could be. He got in and seconds later drove off. His face never showed.
“That’s all I’ve got,” the woman said.
“Thanks for showing us,” I said. Harriet turned quickly and started down the walkway. I looked after her in surprise and followed suit. I guess she didn’t want to answer questions if the woman started asking them.
“What did you say your name was?” the woman called out as we hurried down the sidewalk.
“Poppy Smith,” I called over my shoulder. I didn’t want to alarm the woman after she’d helped us.
“What street do you live on?” she yelled.
I kept going like I hadn’t heard her. Harriet walked up the block past my Suburban with me hustling along, trying to keep up with her longer stride. At the corner she turned and looked back. “Coast is clear. We can head back to your car now.”