Chapter 13

 

The sun’s rays strained to peek through the clouds. The glint stung my eyes as I headed to the rental house. I lowered the visor and, having connected the cell phone to the Prius via Bluetooth, contacted Ulyssa Thaller. She said she could meet with me in the morning. I demurred, reminding her that it would be Saturday. She said she didn’t mind. She was an admitted workaholic, which was probably how she’d come to take over her father’s business. Years ago, when my parents had first contacted Thaller Estate Planning to draw up their wills, Ulyssa had been a junior partner. She’d sat in on their meetings but had had no oversight.

The moment I turned onto Glenwood Avenue, my cell phone rang. Thinking it was Ulyssa calling back, I accepted the call.

A man cleared his throat. “Miss Adams,” he said. Not Thaller. Not Viraj Patel. No accent. The voice was deep, like a soul singer’s, but tentative.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Antoine Washington. You called me.”

“Yes, I did.” My heart started to flutter. I pulled to the side of the road.

“To discuss what happened to your parents.”

“That’s right. I’d like to talk to you in person if you have time.”

“Why?” He didn’t sound upset in the least. In fact, he sounded calm and composed. “I didn’t do it. Police cleared me.”

“Yes, I know.” I hadn’t prepared a response. “The case went cold.”

“I heard.”

“My sister, Rosie, wants me to talk to everyone who was questioned. See if I might learn something the police didn’t.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“But you might and not realize it. Please.”

There was a long pause. “How is Rosie?”

“Coping,” I said. “Barely.”

“Still on drugs?”

No sense lying. “Yes.”

Antoine made a sound like a balloon losing air. “I have a break in thirty minutes. If you can come to me, we can talk.”

“Where do you work?” I asked.

“Big Box in Mountain View. On El Camino near San Antonio. You can park beneath the building. Come to the loading dock. I’m a loader.”

“I’ll be there.”

“What do you look like?” he asked.

“I don’t look like Rosie. I’m much shorter. Dark hair.”

“Got it.”

Meeting him at a warehouse-style store meant there would be plenty of people around, I assured myself. No need to be nervous.

Eager to be on time, I didn’t return to the house. I didn’t freshen up.

Traffic was thick near the Stanford Shopping Center, and dense all the way past the district of Palo Alto. After that, it lightened.

Twenty-five minutes later, I drove down the Big Box ramp into its subterranean parking lot. I parked and asked a woman with a cart packed with bread, meat, and other assorted items for directions to the loading dock. She didn’t have a clue. A large delivery truck drove cautiously past us. I followed it on foot.

On the drive over, I’d come up with a few questions I wanted to ask Antoine, but primarily, I wanted to get a read on him. Who was he? Had he, as Evers had claimed, cleaned up his act? The hiss he’d made after hearing that Rosie was still using suggested dismay. Warehouse loaders operated heavy machinery. I’d bet an organization like Big Box tested their drivers with regularity. I couldn’t imagine someone on drugs holding down the job.

The loading dock was large enough to handle six large trucks. An African-American man driving a forklift was delivering palletized freight onto the dock leveler, a hydraulically powered platform used as a bridge between the dock and the truck. The man paused the forklift and glanced in my direction. With a toothy grin, he held up a finger and yelled, “Be right with you. Have a seat.”

I moved to a bench beyond the trucks in what had to be the designated smoking section, given the overfilled ashtray, and I waited.

Five minutes later, Antoine Washington approached.

I rose to my feet.

Dressed in what appeared to be a uniform of brown shirt, brown trousers, and brown shoes, he looked tall and lean. He sported a flattop Afro hairstyle, and he moved with the grace of an agile running back. “Miss Adams.” He jutted out a large manicured hand.

I took hold.

“You lied to me,” he said.

“No—”

“You look a lot like Rosie. Same eyes. Same nose. Though you are a might smaller. I’ll grant you that.” His voice held a gentle twang. His gaze was warm. He released my hand. “Follow me. There’s a break room inside the building.” He loped ahead and said over his shoulder, “Ever been to a Big Box?”

“No, but I’ve been to Costco and the like.”

“Yeah, they’re all the same. My cousin found me the job. Becoming a forklift operator isn’t easy. You’ve got to go to school. Be OSHA-compliant. Get certified. Lots of hoops to jump through.” He opened a heavy metal door into the building and veered left. “This way. If you’re hungry, the donuts are killer.” He balked. “Sorry. That was in bad taste.”

“It’s okay.”

“Coffee’s fine, too.”

Wanting to be sociable, I said, “Sure.” Food sounded horrible. Tammie and I had skipped lunch. I hoped I’d find an appetite by the time I met Serenity for dinner.

Antoine pushed through a swinging door into an employees’ lounge. It was beige with no frills. A couple of leather couches. A few tables with metal chairs. Nothing to encourage the staff to linger. Two other employees were in the room.

After filling two disposable paper cups with coffee, Antoine guided me to a table. “So, let’s cut to the chase. You wanted to meet me to see if you can tell whether I’m guilty. Am I warm?”

I laughed. “No fooling you.”

“My granddaddy made sure I knew the ropes. My mama had her say, too.” He grinned and I could see why Rosie had hooked up with him. He had sex appeal. And confidence. “Tell me more about Rosie,” he went on. “Where’s she living? What’s she doing?”

“She’s a waitress in Auburn.”

“You said she’s still hooked.”

I blinked at his forthrightness. “Yes.”

“That’s too bad. How’s her little girl?”

“She’s a teenager now. Her name’s Candace. She’s living with me.”

He propped his elbows on the table and tented his fingers. “What do you do?”

“I’m a private investigator. In Lake Tahoe.”

“Huh. You don’t look like one.”

I smiled. What should a P.I. look like? Maybe he expected all P.I.’s to be men who wore porkpie hats. I sipped the coffee. It was bitter. I set it aside. “Antoine—may I call you Antoine?”

“Might as well. It’s my name.”

“Where were you at the time of my parents’ deaths?”

“Murders,” he said. “Call ’em what they were.”

I exhaled. “Where were you at the time?”

He scrubbed his chin. “I already answered all these questions. Haven’t you talked to the police?”

“Yes, and I have reviewed case notes, but I’d like to start fresh and pretend I haven’t read anything.”

“Uh-uh.” He tilted his head. “You tell me what you know first. C’mon. Why do a runaround? A dance?”

“Okay, you were hanging out with friends, but none of their accounts about your whereabouts were credible because they were, um, doing drugs.”

“We all were. I don’t anymore.” He took a swig of coffee. “CCTV corroborated I was where I said I was.”

“Yes, I know. Detective Sergeant Evers confirmed that.”

“Evers.” Antoine sniffed. “Mr. Tough Guy. Never cut me any slack. I liked that about him.”

I was surprised to hear him say that.

“My old man believed every lie I ever told him. Maybe if he’d cared enough to question me . . .” Antoine let the rest of the sentence hang. “He walked out on me and my twin sister when we were twelve.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Don’t want to be like him. Don’t want to be like I was. Ever again. I’m in therapy. I’m working on myself. I want to be a better man. Do you believe in therapy?”

I smiled. “I used to be a therapist.”

He coughed out a laugh. “Why’d you leave the biz?”

“One of my patients committed suicide.”

“Wow, that sucks. Did you feel like a failure for not saving him? Was it a him?”

“Yeah, it was a him. And, yeah, I felt like a failure. For a while. I don’t any longer. I’ve seen a therapist, too.” I tamped down the myriad emotions swirling inside me about my patient and my past. I had to stay focused. “Antoine—”

“I never considered suicide,” he said. “Ever.”

“Good for you.”

“A year ago, I had the opportunity to start a pot business with a buddy. All legal and on the up-and-up.” He lifted his chin. “I opted not to do that. It would’ve been a path to the dark side for me. I want a family. Kids. I want to be the father I never had.”

Was he telling me this to snow me? Was I buying his lie or believing the truth? Many of my patients professed that they’d wanted to change. Half—maybe less—could stay the course.

I folded my hands on the table. “I’m sure you’ll make a great father.”

“Thanks.” He sipped his coffee, set it aside, and folded his hands like mine. “Go on.”

“That day . . . the day my parents were murdered . . . when you were with friends. Is it possible that one of them skipped out?”

“And robbed and killed your folks? No way. FYI, no one ever talked about your folks. Or the robbery. No one ever bragged. Get my drift? There’s no honor among thieves.” Antoine ran a finger along the rim of his cup. “Know what that expression means?” He gave me a moment to consider the question before continuing. “Thieves aren’t trustworthy. If someone had done the deed, someone would have talked about it, you know?”

Rosie had said nearly the same thing.

“By the way, that’s a proverb,” he added. “People think it’s a quote, but it’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” He grinned. His teeth were in good shape. He was definitely taking advantage of whatever medical and dental package Big Box was offering. “I know because I’ve enrolled in school. Junior college. Nights. I’m studying English.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to expand my horizons.” His eyes gleamed with hope. “Maybe become a teacher. Or run this place.” He chortled. “Who knows? The sky’s the limit if you get educated, isn’t that right?”

Despite myself, I was liking this guy and what he’d become.

Antoine scratched behind his ear. “By the way, something occurred to me about a year after this all went down. My lawyer told me the police didn’t find fingerprints at the crime scene. They said it had been wiped down.”

“That’s right.”

“Seems to me a robber would’ve been wearing gloves.”

“Your point?”

“All I’m saying is whoever it was, if he’d gone in to rob the place, as his primary goal, then he would’ve been wearing gloves. Ergo, he wouldn’t have needed to wipe things down. Feel me?”

I did feel him and once again my thoughts flew to my conversation with Evers.

Antoine peeked at his watch. “I got two minutes, max. Anything else?”

“No. I appreciate you meeting with me.” I stood.

So did Antoine. He grabbed hold of my arm. “Hey, you tell Rosie I asked about her. Will you do that?”

I hesitated. “Did you and she—”

“Yeah, we did.”

He wasn’t Candace’s father. Couldn’t be.

“It was good between us when we were both, you know . . .”

Between highs.

“When we weren’t sober, it wasn’t so good,” he went on. “But I’m clean now.”

“So you said.”

“Maybe, sometime, I could talk Rosie into doing the same. Wishful thinking?”

“Probably.” I started to leave and turned back. “Hey, Antoine, what kind of car do you drive?” It was inconceivable that he had guessed I had come to town and had staked out Ilona’s house in the hope that I might show up, but I never ruled out a possibility. Especially if Rosie had mentioned my investigation to someone, and that someone had reached out to Antoine.

“I don’t drive one,” he said. “Can’t afford it. I’m a public transportation guy through and through. Maybe one day I’ll own a car, but I want a house first, you know?”

As I was walking to my car rummaging in my jacket pocket for the keys, my cell phone rang. The sound echoed in the cavernous parking lot, which was surprisingly empty of cars, either entering or leaving. I pulled my phone from my purse. Caller Unknown. I tapped the Accept button. “Hello?”

“Aspen Adams?” a man growled.

“Yes, who is—”

“William Fisher. Listen good. I’m telling you one time, stay away from me and my family.”

“Sir, all I want to do is ask—”

“Do not contact me again. Or else.”

He ended the conversation.

I browsed the list of recent calls. His number, one of the three I’d tried last night, was there. I wouldn’t reach out to him right now. But I would tomorrow. I would not be put off by a warning.

Climbing into the Prius, I noticed a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. I got out and nabbed it. It read: GO HOME. All block letters. The hair at the base of my neck stood on end. I felt eyes on me. Had Fisher put the note there? Was he watching me? Or had someone else?

Antoine was nowhere in sight. A man pushing a cart filled with items was leaving the store. To my right, a woman in a Chevy Suburban casually pulled into a parking spot.

Adrenaline pumping, I pitched into the car, switched on the ignition, strapped on my seat belt, and sped to my home away from home. On the way, I tried to reach Nick on his cell phone. The call rolled into voicemail. I left a quick message about my two conversations with Viraj Patel and Antoine Washington, but I didn’t mention Fisher’s call or the note on the car. Why worry him?

A half hour later, safely locked in the house, intent on putting the threatening note from my mind, I poured myself a glass of wine. Maybe it had been a prank. A dare. A teen had taunted a buddy to post it on a windshield. Any windshield. Mine simply happened to be the lucky car.

Frustrated, but not despondent, I took a shower, refreshed my makeup and hair, and dressed for dinner with Serenity. I’d brought a black sheath and heels for the occasion. I wasn’t a fashion freak, but once in a while it felt good to dress up.

Before leaving the house, I checked voicemail. Nothing from Nick. Nothing from my aunt on the license plate. Nothing from Viraj Patel. What debt . . . or threat . . . or bet . . . had he wanted to talk to me about? A string of Dr. Seuss’s rhymes cycled through my head. I stifled a laugh. Whatever Patel had wished to impart would have to wait until morning.