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WE SAT FACING each other. I was so freaked out about what she might or might not ask, I felt sick. “Can I get you some coffee? Water?” Anything to get out of my chair.
She shook her head, no smile. I was determined to be calm and pleasant—okay, make that to pretend to be calm.
The detective shuffled some folders she had brought with her. “You say you don’t know who Silvia De Aguilar is, correct?”
“No clue, why?”
Without a word, she plucked a clear plastic envelope from one of her folders, slid it toward me, while keeping her fingers on it. “She knew you.” Ah, that gotcha tone.
I reached for the envelope. She pulled it back. “Evidence,” said the b***h.
“What is it? I can’t tell with your hand over it.”
She lifted her hand then slid the envelope a little closer.
Nooo. A ripped business card, my business card. The one I had given to the gray-haired woman I met at the Dumont house.
“Oh, that.” My relief must have been obvious because even in my stressed-to-the-limit state I noticed the disappointment in Liz Reid’s eyes. Her performance wasn’t up to par. Apparently, she did better with a partner. Too bad. I readjusted myself on the chair and waited.
“Monica, this card is evidence in a murder investigation. Care to explain?” She tapped her fingers on top of the envelope.
I shrugged. “Some woman showed up at the Dumonts’ house the day I was picking up the mail for Angelique Dumont. She didn’t tell me her name, just insisted on speaking to Mr. Dumont. I handed her my business card and explained I was a Realtor, not related to the Dumonts. The woman ripped my card in two right in front of me and scribbled on the half she handed back. Then she turned around and was walking down the driveway before I could say boo. The end. I had no clue about her name. So, is she the Silvia De Aguilar you asked me about?”
“Was.” She had a little frown above her nose, right between her eyes as she spoke. Reminded me of a large owl I once saw sitting on the roof of a porch at a house by the mountain preserve.
“Wait, is she the dead woman at the Dumonts’ house?” I didn’t like the glee in her eyes, I quickly added, “Kassandra told me. She said it was on the news.”
“What did you do with the other half of the business card?” Apparently she was here to ask questions, not to provide answers.
“Oh, that. I think it’s in one of my purses,” I lied, I only had one good purse.
“I’m going to need that. Now. Do you want to check your purse? Should we drive to your house? What did it say on the card?” Her adrenaline must have been pumping at full speed. I think even her cheek gained some rosy color. I got up.
“Where are you going?” She stood.
“To check my purse.” Calling her a b***h had been an understatement.
I headed toward my cubicle with Detective Reid on my heels.
I couldn’t believe how calm I felt. Any minute now I’d be coming unglued. If only Tristan had called and put me up to date. To date about what?
I picked up my purse from under the chair and sat it on my tiny desk.
“You store your purse with your personal belongings under a chair?” Ah, the disapproval in the detective’s voice.
“Yes, Mommy Dearest.” I couldn’t help it.
If looks could kill. And the little frown between her eyes deepened. How come I had never noticed that before? Probably because it was my first time alone with her, and hopefully my last. Ms. Reid wasn’t fun at all. I sensed the little wheels churning in her brain as if that would get me to dig in the purse a little faster... ah. Then I remembered—it was in my wallet, because I had planned on giving it to Tristan at the airport. I pulled it out.
The detective snatched it from my fingers before I had a chance to say a word.
She laid my half next to the one in the envelope, on top of the plastic cover, sliding the edges as close as possible. It was an obvious match. Only then did she actually turn the card over, carefully, with the tips of her fingers. She looked at the card with the scribbled phone number and the message then looked at me. Did that a few times. Finally she pulled out a new, empty plastic envelope and slid my half of the card inside. Both envelopes disappeared into the folder. She gifted me another long look.
“Thanks, for now. I must get back to the office, but we will need to talk to you about this.” We, I assumed included Ryan Ross, her partner. I still liked Adam and Eve better.
I put my wallet back in my purse and was going to walk over to Kassandra’s desk when—bam—Detective Liz Reid was back. “By the way, do you remember what day it was when you met Silvia De Aguilar at the Dumonts’ residence?”
“Huh, Tuesday? Yeah, it had to be Tuesday because Wednesday I was at the office in the morning, it was my turn to take calls—”
“This past Tuesday?” she rudely interrupted me.
I nodded and once again she took off like the building was on fire. What a stupid woman. She never asked me if I spoke to Angelique or Tristan about it. She would, at some point, when she remembered she’s a detective. Well, not my problem. I went to talk to Kassandra.
By now, Scott and his tablet had left the building, and something nagged me to no end—something called guilt, one of my specialties, guilt for not giving the ripped business card to Tristan. No excuses. It was meant for him. And I would have if not for Jessie’s impromptu appearance. Now it was too late, and the stranger, the poor woman named Silvia, was dead. Whatever she needed to say to Tristan regarding his father, she took with her.
I watched Kassandra on the phone; she looked—excited? When she noticed me she gave me a thumb up. Huh? She didn’t say who it was, just motioned me to answer the phone, not my cell, the office landline. All the rolling of eyes I gave her didn’t help. I rushed back to my cubicle, my heart thumping to the beat of Tristan, Tristan, Tristan. I picked up the phone and... Greg Coste’s sexy voice said, “Good morning, Monica, are we ready to put together an offer?”
“I am if you are,” I said, forcing myself to delete my cry for Tristan and grabbed my pen and notepad instead.
Mr. Coste—call me Greg-—had done his homework and knew exactly what he wanted to offer, but being practical, had left room for negotiations. Thanks to our computers we would complete the paperwork with the help of digital signatures. Even so, with a ten-page contract and about five other minor but equally important documents to complete, I told him I would be sending over the ready-to-sign package in about an hour. What I didn’t tell him was that I had never done all this by myself. Either Kay Lewis or Sunny were there to assist me with every previous contract I worked on. Today I was all alone. Fingers crossed.
In a way it was a blessing. It would keep me from obsessing over Tristan and Detective Reid. I fully expected the detective to show up or call me and order me to her office... or else. She would, just as soon as she figured out she had never asked me who I had told about the ripped business card. But for now... my time and my brain were at Mr. Coste’s service.
Working was good for me. I had to stay focused so as not to screw up the contract. Lucky for me, Greg Coste had emailed a copy of his bank letter showing his available funds, so I had his legal name with the correct spelling and middle initial as well as his mailing address. However, I only typed with two fingers, sort of an inside joke around the office. Lunchtime came and went, and I was still filling in information with diligence and determination. I saved every page I completed and eventually was ready to send everything in one file.
The powers above smiled at me because just before I hit send, Kay Lewis approached my desk. She was back from the big merger meeting. “Hi, Monica, you look tired. Everything okay?”
First I hugged her, and then I asked her to please check my contract. She led me to her closet-size private office that always looked like a page from House Beautiful and I waited. I had missed two spots: the mark about the right to an inspection and the one about Mr. Coste refusing a home warranty. All in all, she was happy with my work, and if Kay was happy, I was elated. Sort of like getting a gold seal of approval, whatever that is. Everyone talked about it, but I had never seen one on anyone’s desk.
“I heard about that awful thing at the Dumonts’ place,” Kay said.
“You did? So what are they saying? I’ve been working on this most of the day and haven’t had a chance to watch the news at all. I only know what Kassandra said this morning.”
“Oh, you poor thing. It was all the talk at the meeting we had with the lawyers. I’m not sure what the connection with the Dumonts is when it comes to Dale Wolf, but he was actually the first one who brought it up.”
“Dale Wolf? I had no idea he knew Tristan or Angelique.”
“He doesn’t. His partner went to college with Tristan.”
“Oh.” What else could I say? Suddenly everybody in town went to college with Tristan. So what? They posted about the dead woman on some University of Arizona newsletter?
“You okay, Monica? You have a strange look in your eyes.”
“Yeah, sorry. Working on this contract for hours, I forgot to eat and everything.”
“The contract is fine; you’ll need a cover letter for the listing agent. You want me to help with that?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I have been in contact with him. He is expecting the contract. I’m going to send it on as soon as I collect the signatures from my buyer. Thank you so much. I owe you as usual.”
Kay laughed it off. “You’ve come a long way. I’m very proud of you, Monica. Go get them, girl.”
That got me thinking. What if I got home and had difficulties with the electronic signatures? So I went back to my computer and got to work. If a problem arose, Kay had my back.
By two p.m. the contract had been signed and sent to the listing agent with a twenty-four-hour response time. I went up front and let Kassandra know. Really though, I had hoped to find out something new about the Dumont case. Still couldn’t call it what it was—a murder.
Kassandra had two lines going, so I waved at her and motioned I was leaving. She nodded.
I sat in the car in the parking lot, hungry and depressed. I had to talk to Tristan, just had to. How? Every scenario I ran though my head had a bad ending. Did Tristan know that the dead woman was the same one who’d left that scribbled message for him?
Wow, where did all the cars come from? No wonder Kassandra was busy, the whole office was in. And too busy obsessing about the perfect contract and Tristan, I hadn’t even noticed. Damn. I turned on the radio, searching for local news.
It’s not like I knew what the hell I was doing. When I was driving that was all I did, drive. Not even answering the phone. I could do that, thanks to Bluetooth. That was such a weird name for—a service. Was it a service? Well, it serviced me. I landed on a station that sounded local. They spoke of Peoria, a suburb west of Phoenix, and the subject was... another shooting by our local police. That would probably be the main topic for the next twenty-four hours. I left the radio on and headed home.
However, I was going to make a slight detour. I would drive by Tristan’s house. I often did that when I came back from the preserve, so why not today? No one would know. To appease my sense of guilt, I ended up driving all the way to the end of 40th Street where I entered the parking lot and lingered, looking around before driving slowly around the empty lot. I made a U-turn and headed toward the side road that led to the Dumonts’ residence. If someone asked, I could say I was coming from the mountain preserve, and I wouldn’t be lying.
