Chapter 22
The drive back to Costa Mesa was a nightmare as Rex chose to fight the traffic rather than wait until it was late enough to make the trip with little or no delays. Ravinia reported what she’d seen and heard. Rex called Dorell Cochran and told him his wife was at Casa del Mar with someone whose first name was Donovan and that they’d taken the elevator to an upstairs hotel room.
“Donovan Spinelli, the eternal surfer boy,” Dorell responded in a voice taut with anger.
“So, you know him,” Rex said.
“Oh, yeah. Calls himself a model. Vacant between the ears, but knows how to sniff out money. My money.” Dorell paused, then added, almost under his breath, “She was supposed to give him up.”
“They’re at the hotel right now if you need proof,” Rex told him.
“Can you get a picture of ’em coming out of the hotel together?”
Rex considered. “I could, but I don’t think that’s going to net you what you want. This is an opportunity for you to . . . see for yourself.”
“Jesus Christ. Sounds like you want me to confront them,” Dorell raged, though Rex could tell he was mad at himself.
“Confrontation . . . no. But having the upper hand, and still acting like a gentleman will go a long way to getting what you want.”
“Fuck that.”
Rex inwardly sighed. “You hired me to follow her and find out if she was having an affair, and I believe that’s what I’ve done.”
“All right, all right. I’ll go and nicely confront the bitch. And I’ll send you a goddamn check.” Dorell slammed down the phone.
Though Ravinia wasn’t part of the call, she heard enough from the passenger seat to get the gist. “He’s not happy.”
“Didn’t expect him to be.”
“You don’t look happy, either,” she pointed out.
Rex shrugged. “Sometimes you just wish for something better.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized how naive and hopeful he must sound. He’d followed a lot of cheaters and it was depressing how little love and caring went into most relationships. Not that he was any kind of romantic, but sometimes the job made him wonder if any good was left in people.
“What?” Ravinia asked.
He realized he’d made some kind of frustrated sound. “Never mind.”
“We’re not going to make it back in time to go to the school, are we?” Ravinia asked, peering out at the traffic.
“Unlikely.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Go home. Get something to eat. Have a beer . . . well, I will. Make some calls that I’ve put off.”
“I want to meet that older woman at the apartments. Brightside.”
“Tomorrow,” he told her firmly. The way he’d let Ravinia take over his life needed to be controlled.
Her expression clouded. “Maybe I should go by myself.”
“Be my guest.”
If he sounded snappy, he didn’t care. He felt snappy. Though he was glad he didn’t have to follow Kimberley Cochran around any longer, it felt like he’d tangled himself up in Ravinia Rutledge’s affairs for no goddamn good reason.
“I’ve helped you. It’s your turn,” she stated stubbornly.
He cut her off. “Symbiosis. I know. But the way I see it, you want to be a part of this investigation, and you’re angling for some kind of long-term position that’s not there. Understand? You’re not a partner of mine. You’re a kid, and as soon as we find your cousin or give up, we’re going our separate ways.”
“Testy,” she said, affronted. “We are going to find her.”
“Then it better be damn soon,” he growled, hitting his brakes and the horn at the same time as a black Mazda suddenly jigged in front of him, narrowly missing his bumper.
“Pain in the ass,” Ravinia said.
“Amen.”
Elizabeth’s cell sounded the default ringtone as she dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, kicked off her heels, and rubbed her right insole. She’d dead-bolted the front door behind her as soon as she’d entered the house. The sensation that someone was following her hadn’t abated once she’d finished work and driven home. She planned to pick up Chloe from preschool by three thirty, but had wanted a moment to unwind and assess first.
Sweeping up the phone, she checked the number. Not one she knew, so she let it go to voice mail. She poured herself a glass of water and drank half of it down, staring through the window above the sink to the small patio beyond. It was a nice house, but she wouldn’t miss it. Chloe, though, had known no other home and it would be one more huge life change in a series of huge life changes.
Maybe she could hang on to it. If she actually sold Mazie’s house, the commission would be enough to keep her afloat awhile. And if the Sorensons would ever settle on a property . . . or any of Mazie’s clients who’d called her and sworn they wanted Elizabeth and had decided to sell . . .
Her cell beeped, alerting her to a voice mail. Curious, she clicked on the number.
“Hello, Elizabeth. It’s Gil Dyne. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tonight? Give me a call at this number and let me know. I’d love to see you again.”
“No,” she said to the empty room, hanging up.
She was in the process of putting on her coat before heading to the preschool—rain was in the forecast again—when her doorbell rang, startling her. She actually jumped at the sound, her heart thrumming. “Geez, Louise,” she muttered, annoyed, then walked to the door and peered through the peephole.
Detective Thronson stood on her doorstep, head bent against the rain, her short gray hair glistening with moisture.
Elizabeth immediately froze. Her heart rate had slowed to normal, but it leaped in fear again. Stop it, she warned herself. Stop it.
She opened the door.
The detective gave her a fleeting smile. “I didn’t hear from you, so I thought I’d just stop by.”
Elizabeth looked past her, that sense of someone, or something, watching her washing over her again. A car drove past, a man at the wheel, but he didn’t look her way. “Yes, uh, I’ve been busy. Come in.”
She led the detective into the family room, then stood by the counter that separated the kitchen, leaning a hand on it for support. A lash of rain battered the sliding glass door.
“You’d never know it was Southern California,” Thronson observed. Her barrel body was wrapped in a navy blue jacket. If she wore a gun, it was probably beneath that coat because it didn’t appear to be at her hip or back.
“I have to pick up my daughter soon.”
“I won’t take much of your time. We’re still looking for the woman who played tag with your husband on the freeway and the one that was at Tres Brisas when your husband and Mrs. Bellhard were there.”
Elizabeth hung onto the counter. “Any luck?” She wanted to press her hands together and wring the hell out of them but managed to hold herself back. Just.
“Some,” Thronson said. “Both women have been described by witnesses as blond, slim, midtwenties.”
“So you said.”
“We’re running on the theory that it’s the same woman.” Her gaze was mild, but Elizabeth felt the scrutiny beneath it.
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“I think it’s someone who knew your husband or Whitney Bellhard or both, and also knew of their love nest at Tres Brisas. I think she followed them down the freeway and, rather than playing a game of tag, she was purposely harassing them. I think she forced them off the freeway, and I think she meant to do it.”
Elizabeth could feel her knees begin to quiver and took one of the counter bar stools, half-falling into it.
“Do you know anyone who looks like that who would wish your husband and/or Whitney Bellhard harm?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Only practically every friend I have . . . “I think what you’re trying to say is that you think it’s me, but I was not anywhere near San Diego that day. I can’t prove my whereabouts, unless there’s a camera somewhere that I didn’t see, but I was here, in Irvine. That’s the truth.”
“Would you consent to a polygraph test?”
Lie detector. “Yes!” Elizabeth said emphatically. “Yes, I would. Set it up.”
The detective slowly nodded. Whether she found Elizabeth’s enthusiasm surprising, she couldn’t say.
“You told me that Peter Bellhard followed my husband and his wife to Tres Brisas,” she reminded the detective.
“That’s correct.”
“But you’re not looking at him as a . . . jealous spouse? It’s just this blond woman who looks like me?”
“We haven’t ruled anything out.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“We want to find this woman.” The detective seemed to want to say something more, but she pressed her lips together and kept it to herself.
Suddenly, Elizabeth felt the urge to tell her everything. Pour it all out. Let the chips fall where they may. She hadn’t been to Tres Brisas, nor had she been on the freeway to San Diego. But she had wished them all deadly harm.
“You have something to say?” Thronson asked, correctly interpreting what the look on Elizabeth’s face was telling her.
But Elizabeth froze, knowing how it would come off if she did start blurting out all the thoughts and feelings jumbled inside her. “I really have to pick up my daughter,” she said, moving toward the door, holding it open for the detective, letting in a mist of rain.
Thronson took her time following after Elizabeth. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to go. “I’ll get back to you on the polygraph.”
Elizabeth was afraid to have her stay, afraid she would change her mind and say too much. She wanted nothing more than to push her out and slam the door shut behind her, but the detective lingered on the outside steps a moment, turning back at the last moment, unmindful of the rain dampening her hair. “I showed a picture of you to the Tres Brisas staff. Two of them identified you as the woman at the hotel.”
Elizabeth heard a buzzing in her ears and felt light-headed. “It wasn’t me,” she choked out, then shut the door on the detective. She threw the dead bolt again and walked backward away from the door. Oh, God . . . oh, dear, God.
She thinks I killed Court.
What if she finds out about GoodGuy?
“There’s nothing to find out,” Elizabeth whispered aloud.
You need to tell her about him. And Mazie. And Officer Unfriendly. You need to come clean. Now! Call her back!
“Jade told me not to . . .” Elizabeth whimpered.
She’s right. I can’t. Everyone would think I’ve lost my mind. And Chloe needs me. What if . . . what if I ended up under a doctor’s care or in a mental hospital? What if they took her away from me?
No. She couldn’t say anything. Nothing. She shouldn’t have even told Jade.
Five minutes later, she dashed out into the rain and jumped into her Escape. Chloe. She needed to grab her daughter and hold her close.
“Let’s go to Wembley Grade School,” Ravinia said, looking at the clock on Rex’s dash. “There’s still time.”
Rex followed her gaze. Three thirty. “Might be too late to find someone who’ll talk to you.”
“You said school gets out at three thirty.”
“It’s a guess. Three o’clock, maybe. And nobody sticks around unless they have to.”
“Just take me there.”
Rather than argue the point, Rex headed in the right direction. What the hell. If it was a waste of time, it was his time to waste.
The series of buildings that made up Wembley Grade School looked as if they could really use a face-lift. They were painted concrete and the paint was faded, appearing as if it had been a few years since the last application of medium brown had been rolled on. The drinking fountains were circa 1965 and though the playground equipment still looked sturdy enough, Rex figured it had been erected enough decades ago to make him question its current safety compliance rating.
“You’re overdressed,” he told her, examining her short black dress.
She made a strangled sound, tugging on the hem. “Underdressed, overdressed. Who cares? I’ll tell her I just came from work.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Yeah, what are you gonna be, my dad? I can handle this.” And with that, she climbed out of the car and hurried somewhat awkwardly on her short heels.
Rex tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He shouldn’t let her just go on her own, but he also sensed she might have more success without him. A man showing up at a grade school without a student and asking questions was enough of an anomaly to raise questions. A young woman, barely more than a girl, looking for a relative might be more palatable. Not that he expected her to come back with any meaningful information. The best link they had to the Gaineses was Marlena from the Brightside Apartments, but he was pretty sure he’d tapped her out. Still, Ravinia wanted to meet her and maybe she should. She isn’t half bad at the job, he thought grudgingly, which made him feel superfluous in a way that bothered him and made him feel far older than his thirty-six years.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. He was thinking about driving away and searching out food, figuring it would take her awhile. He could call her on her cell to let her know, but just as he was reaching for his phone, she suddenly appeared, hurrying as fast as her command of her shoes would let her.
At the car, she ripped the pumps off and flung them into the backseat.
“She went to Van Buren High,” Ravinia said in a rush as she settled herself in her seat. “Some teacher there named Bernice Kampfe—K-A-M-P-F-E—took an interest in her. That’s what Mrs. Holcomb said, the lady I talked to. She said Bernice Kampfe knew Elizabeth Gaines well, so maybe she knows where she is now. Let’s go to Van Buren. How far away is it?”
“How’d you get all that so fast?” he demanded.
“Holcomb was the oldest teacher I could find. I told her I was Elizabeth’s cousin. You were right. They were all leaving. School was already out, but I caught up with this one who walked with a limp. She’s retiring next year. I pretended that Elizabeth and I were close once, but her parents divorced and it was bad and I’ve lost touch with her. I looked into Mrs. Holcomb’s heart and she’s one of those really nice people who want to believe the best in everybody. So anyway, she remembered Elizabeth and said I should talk to Mrs. Kampfe.”
Ravinia was flushed with success, and he could only sit back in reluctant admiration. He didn’t believe in this looking into the heart thing much, but there was no accounting for Ravinia’s ability to suss information out of people.
“Well,” he said, accessing the GPS app on his cell phone. “I think Van Buren’s the one about half a mile away.”
“Good.” She smiled broadly. “And then let’s get food. Pizza.”
“That works.”
Her good mood was infectious, and though Rex sensed he should be a lot more worried about his “new partner” than he was, he drove her to Van Buren High School. She hurried inside again, but was back within ten minutes. “They’ve gone home for the day. Maybe you can look up Bernice Kampfe’s address.”
“Might be easier to find her at the school tomorrow. You never know how people will take it when you show up at their door unannounced.”
“Doesn’t sound like I have a choice,” Ravinia groused. “When I get my license, though . . .” She made it sound like a threat.
“You can go into the private investigation business all on your own.”
“Don’t think I don’t hear the sarcasm.”
A smile crept across his lips and when she glared at him, he just couldn’t help the little bark of laughter that followed.