BRUNCH AT SALTY’S ON A SUNDAY CAN BE YOUR BASIC mob scene, and that was certainly the case on that particularly sunny March morning. After leaving Agnes’s house, Mel and I drove there, put our names on the list, and waited in line for a good forty-five minutes before we were summoned. But the wait was worth it. The hostess led us to a table with a breathtaking view of downtown Seattle. Our waiter had just delivered cups of coffee when Detective Caldwell showed up. She and Mel had met before in the course of that previous SHIT investigation, so there was no need for introductions. They greeted each other warmly before Lucinda sank gratefully onto the booth’s bench seat.
“I absolutely hate I-90,” Detective Caldwell muttered as she settled in, “and I hate Snoqualmie Pass even more.”
I wasn’t especially sympathetic. “If you live in Bellingham like we do, you’re stuck with I-5, and if you’re going to live in Ellensburg, you’re stuck with I-90. You pays your money and makes your choice.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said.
When our waiter walked past with a coffeepot in hand, she signaled him over. “Let’s eat and then get started,” she said. “For budgetary reasons known only to the sheriff himself, I’m not authorized to spend the night. That means I’ll be crossing back over the pass later this evening when we finish up. Just so you know, I’m here and making the effort, but since this case was five months old before we even identified the victim, I’m not holding out hope for much progress.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I told her. “Mel and I may have uncovered a suspect or two, along with a million dollars’ worth of motive.”
“That’s good news. Tell all, but before you do, let’s go tackle that buffet. It looks amazing.”
And amazing it was, but that morning gourmet dining took a backseat to full disclosure. This was no longer my missing-persons case. It was now a homicide investigation, and Detective Lucinda Caldwell needed to be briefed completely, including the background on how I had come to be involved in a search first for Naomi Dale and later for Petey Mayfield. With Mel sitting there nodding encouragement, it was a painful recitation of “all my sins remembered,” but I told the story of my biological connection to Naomi and her baby without pulling any punches. Lucinda Caldwell, for her part, took careful notes without casting any aspersions.
“So you had no idea that Naomi even existed until late last week when Alan Dale showed up on your doorstep in Bellingham?”
“None whatsoever,” I said.
“You said earlier that you might have uncovered some suspects. What about Naomi?” Lucinda asked for the second time. “Is she on the list?”
That was only to be expected. When it comes to homicide cases, the spouse or lover is always first choice as a person of interest.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “She said that after he left, she stayed on at the house, hoping he’d come back.”
“But she didn’t report him missing?”
“No,” I answered. “Both Naomi and Petey both spent years living on the streets and doing drugs. That kind of history isn’t conducive for developing a warm and fuzzy attitude toward the cops.”
“Will she be willing to talk to me now?” Lucinda asked.
“I believe so. I already warned her that with Petey dead, detectives would need to speak to her.”
“Where is she?”
I read off the name and location of the Pike Street Mission. For completion’s sake, I threw in Rachel Seymour’s contact information as well.
“What about her father?” Lucinda asked, and then paused, looking uncertain, as though she had blundered and said the wrong thing. Considering what she’d just been told about my connection to the family, Lucinda’s momentary confusion was understandable.
“You mean do I think Alan Dale was involved?” I asked.
Lucinda nodded.
“Look,” I said, “Alan Dale has been Naomi’s father since long before she was born. I’m a latecomer to the situation and qualify as sperm donor only, but the answer to your question is no. I don’t think Naomi’s father was involved. For one thing, at the time Petey disappeared, Alan was working a bus-and-truck show somewhere back east. I’m sure his employer’s records will confirm that. Besides, Naomi had been out of touch with him for years. Since he didn’t know where she was, how would he know about Petey? Until Harborview Medical Center called Naomi’s grandmother and told her about Athena, he didn’t have any idea she was even in Seattle.”
“I’ll still need the name of that bus-and-truck show,” Lucinda said.
She was being thorough, and I couldn’t fault her for that. “Right,” I said. “I’ll get the information from Alan and send it along.”
“Okay, then,” she said, as though switching gears, “my department is operating on the assumption that the place where the remains were found is a dump site only, rather than the scene of a homicide.”
“Did you turn up any forensic evidence?” Mel asked.
“Some, but not a lot,” Lucinda answered. “A few items of clothing—shirt, shoes, jeans—that I’ll be asking Naomi to identify if she can. There’s also that very distinctive belt and buckle.”
“Which she did recognize,” I interjected.
“The belt buckle?”
I nodded, and Lucinda made a note to that effect.
“In addition,” she continued, “we found an acrylic nail at the scene, a nail covered with polish—Big Apple Red, I’m told—which may or may not be connected to our homicide. There are lots of river rafters on the Yakima these days, and water is notoriously tough on manicures, acrylic or otherwise. So it could have come from our killer, or it could have been dropped off by a passing rafter.”
“What about shell casings?” Mel pressed. “Did you find any of those?”
“Nothing like that, and no slug either. Whoever shot Petey Mayfield fired the murder weapon into the side of his lower jaw and blew out most of his teeth. Trying to identify him through dental records would have been impossible. That’s why Dr. Hopewell went to the trouble and expense of creating and posting his DNA profile. The crime scene, wherever it was, would have been an appalling mess.”
“Makes sense,” Mel said.
“Without a specific crime scene, are we all on the same page in thinking that he was most likely murdered on this side of the mountains and transported there?” Lucinda asked.
Mel and I both nodded.
“So who do you have in mind as a possible suspect?” Lucinda asked.
“Lenora Harrison, Petey’s aunt, for starters,” I said without hesitation. “I doubt she’d do the job herself, but she’d certainly have the means to hire someone else to do her dirty work. She also has the motive. I’m pretty sure she’s been doing her damnedest to ace Petey out of his share of his grandmother’s estate. Bank records show that early last summer Agnes Mayfield had nearly two hundred thousand dollars lying around in her checking account. I saw bank statements up to and including the one for June, but I’ll bet that cash is long gone. I can text those statements to you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” Lucinda said. “This is a homicide investigation. On the off chance the money ends up being connected to the murder, I’m not touching anything that might turn into evidence without a properly drawn search warrant in hand, but I admit to being curious. How is it you happen to have access to Agnes’s bank statements?”
“Her former neighbor, Hilda Tanner, had a key to Agnes’s residence. She’s the one who let me in so I could retrieve a hairbrush for DNA-profiling purposes. According to Hilda, Agnes was suffering from some kind of worsening mental condition—dementia or Alzheimer’s. When Agnes could no longer handle her own financial affairs, Hilda stepped in and did the bill paying.”
“She’s the one who gave you access to the statements?”
I nodded.
Lucinda shot me a disparaging look. “That’s what I hate about private eyes,” she grumbled. “They don’t have to screw around with minor details like having probable cause or obtaining warrants. So it sounds as though I’ll need to speak to Naomi, Lenora, and Hilda. Anyone else?”
“Suzanne Nishikawa,” I answered. “She’s the CEO of Highline Development, the company that purchased the Mayfield properties from Lenora Harrison. We’re looking into some irregularities in the way the properties were transferred from Agnes to her daughter. Someone from Highline may be involved with that.”
“How so?”
“We’re looking into the possibility that Agnes’s supposedly notarized signatures might have been forged.”
“Interesting,” Lucinda said, adding that tidbit to her copious notes. Each time I gave her a name, I provided her with all the necessary contact information. “Who’s next?” she asked once she’d finished her notation on Suzanne Nishikawa.
“The only other possibility is a drug dealer named Kenneth Dawson, who was evidently one of Petey and Naomi’s former suppliers,” I continued. “According to Naomi, Kenny hangs out around a 7-Eleven just up the street from where Petey and Naomi were living at the time. When Petey came home from a trip to the store babbling about their being rich, Naomi thought he’d paid a visit to Kenny and was tripping out. I’ve driven past the place a couple of times. I think he’s a long shot as far as being the shooter is concerned, but if he was on the scene that day when Petey went to buy candy, the dealer may be one of the last people to see our victim alive. We can show you where the 7-Eleven is located when we drive over to the neighborhood. I’m assuming you want to stop by there.”
“Absolutely,” Lucinda Caldwell said with a nod, “but not until after I take a crack at that dessert table.”
Mel and Lucinda took off. I was going to follow suit, but my phone rang just then, with Todd Hatcher’s name in the caller ID.
“Got any news for me?” I asked, dropping back into the booth.
“Would I be calling this soon if I didn’t?” Todd replied. “Of course I have news!”
“What?”
“Suzanne Nishikawa has frequent-flier status at any number of casinos within driving distance of the Seattle metropolitan area. She generally sticks to high-stakes poker games. Last summer she ran into a string of bad luck and reportedly lost a bundle.”
“She has a gambling problem, then?”
“Evidently, and she might have been using company funds to keep herself afloat. Highline may hold the titles to the properties once owned by Agnes Mayfield, but that Mayfield Glen development project of hers is on hold and going nowhere fast. Last summer the company was operating on a nearly depleted line of credit and hadn’t been able to put together enough funds to complete the building-permit process. With no permits there’s no building. January of this year saw a big infusion of cash that paid off the line of credit. The permit process is once again under way, and Suzanne is back doing her weekly casino crawls.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“But that’s only part of it,” Todd said. “Suzanne Nishikawa’s current favorite is Cascade Crest east of Issaquah. She spends time there on weekends. As one of their high rollers, she usually has her hotel room comped, but here’s the real kicker,” Todd added. “Didn’t you tell me that Petey Mayfield disappeared on the afternoon of October thirtieth, 2016?”
“Yes, he did.”
“That was a Sunday. You’ll never guess who reported her vehicle, a 2015 Lexus, missing from the parking lot at Cascade Crest Casino early Monday morning, October thirty-first. She claimed it had been stolen out of the parking lot overnight.”
“Stolen and never recovered?”
“Never recovered, and my suspicion is it most likely never will be,” Todd agreed, “especially if the tribal police exhibit the same kind of casual disregard toward property crime that everybody else does.”
Analyzing crime statistics was Todd Hatcher’s major claim to fame.
“Having her car stolen that very night is quite a coincidence,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” Todd concurred.
“And the casino would be on the way back to Seattle from Ellensburg, where Petey’s remains were found.”
“Yup,” Todd replied.
I thought about how the events had played out. Suzanne’s office was well within walking distance from where Petey and Naomi had been living. It made perfect sense that after seeing the Mayfield Glen billboard, Petey might go there in an effort to find out what was going on. And then I thought about Suzanne’s shiny little red Boxster S parked just outside the door to Highline’s office. It had looked brand-new to me. Maybe she’d used insurance proceeds from the stolen Lexus to purchase the Boxster as a replacement.
As for the Lexus itself? That’s when I remembered what Dr. Roz had said about the trajectory of the bullet that had taken Petey’s life. The shooter had been to his left rather than facing him, and the bullet had traveled at a slightly upward angle. Petey had stood six foot two. Suzanne was five-one if that. Had they been standing, the angle would have been sharply upward rather than slightly. But if victim and perpetrator had been seated side by side in a vehicle? That would have evened the playing field. So had Suzanne’s Lexus really been stolen, or had she needed to unload it because the interior was spattered with broken teeth, blood, and brain matter? I happen to know that there are plenty of chop shops out there, operated by lowlifes who’ll turn a blind eye to almost anything in order to make a profit.
“I’ll check all this out, Todd, and thanks a bunch,” I told him, “but I’ve gotta go. I have a hunch you may have located both our shooter and our missing crime scene.”
Across the room I could see Mel and Lucinda laughing and chatting as they headed back toward our table carrying plates laden with desserts.
“Wait, don’t hang up,” Todd said urgently before I could end the call. “There’s something else you need to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Suzanne Nishikawa happens to have a concealed-carry permit, and she owns a Ruger semiautomatic pistol—an LCP.”
There you have it, what guys in homicide call the basic recipe for murder—motive, opportunity, and means, MOM for short.
“In other words, we should consider her armed and dangerous.”
“Exactly,” he said. “When it comes time to talk to her, don’t do anything rash, and don’t let anyone else screw up either.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Mel must have been watching me as she and Lucinda approached our booth. “Who was that on the phone?” she asked, carrying a plate that contained at least five different kinds of chocolate delectables. Have I mentioned that Mel loves chocolate?
“Your hair isn’t exactly standing on end,” she observed, “but it’s close, so what’s going on?”
Mel set her plate down on the table, and that’s when I noticed her bright red nails. Nail polish is so much a part of who Mel is that I seldom pay any attention to it. This time I did, and that’s when I remembered Suzanne Nishikawa’s perfectly manicured red nails. Big Apple Red, maybe?
“That was Todd Hatcher on the phone,” I said. “I think he might have broken our case wide open.”