“CAN I COME?” Leah asked.
Leah was smart, inquisitive, and beautiful. A good combination when interviewing a possible recalcitrant male witness. “Yes.”
I rinsed the dishes after we finished breakfast and put them in the dishwasher. Leah grabbed Krista’s bills off the coffee table and headed toward her office down the hall.
“I have to remember to cancel her cell phone service,” she said to herself.
“Hey. Can you bring the phone bill in here?” I rinsed the fry pan and put it in the dishwasher.
Leah appeared around the corner of the kitchen.
“Here you go.” She handed me an AT&T bill.
“I should have thought of this before.”
“Should have thought of what?” Leah peered over my shoulder.
“Krista’s phone was destroyed in the accident but not her call and texting records.” I scanned the three-page bill and saw that the charges covered March 6th to April 5th. The last month of Krista’s life. She died early on the morning of April 1st, so there should be a record of any incoming or outgoing calls from her phone the last night of her life. Maybe we could finally find out what she was doing on State Street at two in the morning.
And who the last person was she talked to on the phone before she died. I was pretty sure the two were connected. Fate didn’t kill Krista. A human being with intent did. I was sure of it. Despite Grimes’ warning about jumping to conclusions. I leapt at this one without a net.
“They don’t send you the records with the bill.” She reached over my shoulder and fingered the bill. “See.”
“That’s right. I forgot. They’re online and you can look them up on your account.”
“But I don’t know the password to her account.”
“You’re the executor of the estate and responsible for paying the bills. You should be able to get access to her call records. Let’s try.”
We sat down at the dinner table, and Leah used her cell phone to call AT&T. After three or four frustrating minutes of pushing numbers and speaking to a recording, Leah finally talked to a human being. That took another four or five minutes of objections to getting access to Krista’s phone call records. Finally, a supervisor told her that she could get access if she brought a copy of Krista’s death certificate to the AT&T store in downtown Santa Barbara.
Getting a copy of Krista’s death certificate wasn’t a problem. As executor of Krista’s estate, Leah had obtained a dozen copies to be safe. Eight days after Krista’s death, she was down to four. When it came to death, no one took your word.
The AT&T store was located in La Cumbre Plaza, one of Santa Barbara’s shopping malls. Santa Barbara had the quaint appeal of a small town with just enough big-city amenities to make life easy.
The manager of the AT&T store was young enough and with enough baby fat to be the manager of an ice cream store. Leah gave him the story and showed him the death certificate. Of course, it wasn’t as easy as the supervisor on the phone said it would be. This was AT&T, after all.
The chubby manager had to make two phone calls that lasted over ten minutes before we finally got six pages of records of Krista’s last phone calls and text messages. I had a hankering for ice cream after the back and forth with the manager so we stopped at McConnell’s Fine Ice Creams on State Street on the way to Joe’s Café. Midday on a weekday, there were only a few people ahead of us in line, and we managed to nab the last remaining open table against the brick wall opposite the counter.
McConnell’s is a Santa Barbara institution. They produce their own ice cream, which can be found in grocery stores as far south as San Diego. The one taste of Santa Barbara I brought back with me to my hometown. They’re mighty proud of their ice cream as reflected in the price, but they should be. It’s the best ice cream I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot.
We looked over the last week of Krista’s phone records while we ate the ice cream. Leah, a scoop of Salted Caramel Chip. Me, Dark Chocolate Chips and Nibs … and Vanilla Bean. Two scoops. Even better than the pints I bought at Vons.
Leah checked off all the numbers she recognized. Hers, her brother, her parents, and police headquarters. That left ten or twelve numbers she didn’t know. We did the same with the text numbers. Krista didn’t have nearly as many texts as phone calls, which was unusual nowadays.
“Why so few texts?” I asked Leah.
“She was old-fashioned. She preferred to talk to people.”
“Or write them a letter on stationary.”
“Right. That was my sister.”
I thought about the one letter Krista mailed me seven or eight years ago. Upbeat and hopeful. For me. I never responded to it, but wished I had. More every day since I learned of her death.
I ran the phone and text numbers that Leah didn’t recognize through a pay people finder website. Three belonged to women whose names Leah recognized as friends of Krista’s, two to cops who worked on MIU, two to restaurants, one to a cable company, one to a bank, and one to Captain Kessler, her boss. That left one phone number that the website didn’t have any data for. The final call that Krista received the last night of her life. Three and a half hours before she died. The call lasted four minutes. Longer than someone would leave on voicemail. Whoever it was, Krista had spoken to them.
Her killer?
We finished our ice cream, and I started heading back to the side street where I’d parked the car.
“Where are you going?” She stopped, still on the corner of State Street. “Joe’s is just a couple blocks this way down State.”
“I know. We have to go back to the car. We need a quiet, enclosed area to see if you recognize the voice of the person who answers at the one phone number we couldn’t find any info on.”
“Okay.” Leah nodded, set her jaw, and walked with me back to the car. She was on her own journey to find the truth. For her sake and those she loved, I prayed it would be a short one.
I set up my iPhone to block caller ID, dialed the number of the last call Krista Landingham ever received, and put the phone on speaker. I let it ring eight times before I hung up. No answer. No voicemail. Unusual. Everyone had voicemail nowadays, even if it was only an automated response.
Who was on the other end of that phone number?