Fatal Debt Page 14

  “What kind of business?” I asked.

  “The kind of business she should have taken care of a long time ago,” Ruby declared.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  Ruby waved away my question. “Don’t give it a thought. Ida’s fine—and she’ll be much better soon.”

  I didn’t know what all the cryptic talk was about, but I figured that if something serious were wrong, Ruby would have said so.

  “Let’s roll,” Helen declared.

  “You can just drop us off,” Leona said to me, “and pick us up after you get off work this evening.”

  I glanced at my two-door Honda parked at the curb. No way could I fit all these ladies in it, not with those big hats, bigger hips, and large handbags.

  “Ladies, I’m sorry, but my car isn’t roomy enough for everyone,” I said. “There’s no way all of you will fit.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Leona declared. “Gladys said we can use her car. My son, Edward, he got it from her garage last night and brought it over.”

  I followed the ladies around the corner of the house and stopped dead in my tracks. In front of the Wiley’s detached garage sat the Batmobile.

  Okay, it was really a Cadillac Coupe de Ville, late 50’s model, I guessed. Black, with fins and white wall tires, only slightly shorter than the Queen Mary but just about as wide. A convertible, no less.

  “It’s Arthur’s car,” Leona explained, as the ladies climbed inside. “He bought it years ago.”

  I’d wanted to do something to help, and here was my chance. I slid in behind the wheel.

  The interior of the Caddie looked as it must have looked the day it was driven off the showroom floor—gleaming chrome, white supple leather. I cranked up the engine, shifted into gear, and barely touched the gas pedal. The car roared out of the driveway.

  “Where’s the church?” I asked, as we careened around the corner.

  “We’re not going to the church,” Helen said. “We’re going to the Indian casino.”

  “I’m part Indian,” Dora declared. “That’s why my mojo works so good there.”

  I felt like the Grand Marshall of the Rose Parade driving the lead float, as we headed down State Street.

  There were a number of Indian casinos throughout Southern California, all of them very popular. The one in Santa Flores had opened several years ago but I’d never been there.

  I’d heard about it, though. Not only was there a casino and a bingo hall, but slot machines, restaurants, a buffet, gift shop, and a theater that booked A-list entertainers. A hotel had recently been added.

  I headed west on the freeway, then took the Jackson Park exit and turned into the casino entrance. A massive parking structure loomed. I drove in, circled several floors, finally found an empty space, and performed a docking maneuver Captain Picard would have envied.

  The ladies piled out of the car, chatting and laughing, and I followed feeling responsible for them, wanting to make sure they were settled before I left them here.

  We took the elevator to the casino level and headed toward the pinging and ponging of the slot machines. The walkway was bright and clean, with large windows opening to the north and south that offered views of the mountains and the whole Santa Flores valley.

  A security guard was on duty but he didn’t stop us; nobody in this crew looked young enough to be carded.

  Inside the casino sat row after row of slot machines with brightly lit screens luring gamblers into risking more money than they would likely get back. The atmosphere reminded me of Las Vegas, but without the glitz and glamour. Here, middle-class housewives, soccer moms, overweight men, and the probably unemployed, sat with glazed stares, feeding the machines.

  “There’s a card room,” Helen said, gesturing through the casino. “I never play cards, but Ruby does.”

  Ruby gave me a confident not and left. Helen followed.

  “I’ve got to find me a machine. I can feel my mojo working already,” Dora announced, then disappeared into the rows of slots.

  The ladies seemed to know their way around the place, but I felt a little uncomfortable leaving them here all alone with no transportation. It would be hours before I’d come back.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay if I leave?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Leona said. “Leonard used to leave us. He’d stay sometimes, though, and gamble a little. He liked the slots. He was good at them, but not as good as Dora. Nobody’s got mojo like Dora.”

  The mention of Leonard’s name jarred me.

  “Do you think he might be here?” I asked, gazing around the casino.

  Maybe,” Leona said. She looked around, then said. “There’s a friend of his. Why don’t you ask her?”

  I rose on my toes and craned my neck. “Where?”

  “Over there at the Lucky Five slot machine,” Leona said, pointing. “That white girl with the blond hair.”

  I followed her finger and my breath caught.

  Sitting at the slot machine was Belinda Griffin.

  Chapter 17

  “That woman over there? The blonde in the red blouse?” I asked Leona. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” she replied.

  “She’s Leonard’s friend?” I asked.

  “I used to see them talking,” Leona said.

  This was bizarre. I was here attempting to redeem myself for my failure to locate Leonard Sullivan, only to stumble over a friend of his, Belinda Griffin. The same Belinda Griffin who had a mortgage loan with Mid-America that had been headed for foreclosure when her house burned down.

  “Were they involved with each other?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Leona said. “They met here a while back when Leonard was driving us to our weekly bingo game.”

  “She was here that often?” I asked.

  “Just about every time we were here,” Leona said. “Well, bye, honey. I’ve got to catch up with the other girls.”

  “I’ll pick you up after five,” I called.

  I turned back toward Belinda. She must have sensed something because she looked back at me that same instant. Recognition bloomed on her face. She punched the cash-out button on the machine, grabbed her ticket and took off.

  This troubled me. Did she really think that I would approach her here and ask about her past-due payments and possible foreclosure? Did she think I was that callous?

  Apparently so.

  I wove my way through the rows of slot machines, and watched as Belinda hurried down the wide corridor toward the parking garage.

  Then something else hit me. Maybe I wasn’t the callous one. It was Belinda, whose house had burned down; Belinda who didn’t have a home, a stick of furniture, or a personal belonging—not to mention she had two little children and a husband who might need comforting at this difficult time. And she was here gambling?

  I left the casino and cranked up the Caddie. A great deal of work awaited me at the office so I didn’t want to take the time to retrieve my Honda from Leona’s house, then go back and get the Caddie after work to pick up the ladies, so I drove straight to the office.

  I hit the freeway and it occurred to me that maybe I didn’t really have to rush back. Manny was probably still in Riverside talking to the district manager, so I saw no reason not to extend my lunch hour. Besides, I was getting the feel of the Caddie. I hit the gas and it accelerated effortlessly up to the speed limit, and then some.

  Since picking up Leona and the other ladies I hadn’t been able to get Gladys Sullivan off of my mind. Of course, I didn’t expect her to join the bingo trip today, so soon after her husband’s death. But I wondered if she’d ever be able to go again.

  I knew the Sullivans’ financial situation had been precarious for a long time. But after what Leona had said today, it troubled me even more. Mrs. Sullivan might have to move out of the house. Her home. The only thing she had left.

  Still, selling it would solve many of her problems—the financial ones, anyway
. With the money left over from the sale she could pay off all her bills and put the rest away for living expenses, which should be minimal since Leona had offered to share her home.

  I mulled this over as the Caddie purred along the freeway. In my position as asset manager for Mid-America, I was strictly prohibited from paying any amount of money on a customer’s account. I wasn’t, however, restricted from any other form of financial help.

  I hadn’t been able to stop Mr. Sullivan’s murder, identify the man in the house that night, or find Leonard. But I could do something to help, something more than cruise to the Indian casino in the Cadillac.

  Since Mrs. Sullivan intended to sell her house—the obvious solution to her financial woes—it seemed to me that I could help in that endeavor. If I could spend an unseemly amount of money on boots for a Halloween costume, I could spend money to have the Sullivans’ house painted.

  The new coat of paint that Mr. Sullivan had inquired about from Kirk Redmond’s contracting business would go a long way toward improving the salability of the home. And if something changed and Mrs. Sullivan decided not to sell, it was still a nice thing for me to do.

  A little of the weight I’d been carrying around with me for days now lifted from my shoulders. I’d contact the contractor and make arrangements to have the house painted.

  I swung the Caddie into the office parking lot, took up two spaces, and went inside. As I suspected, Manny hadn’t returned from his meeting with the district manager which gave Inez the excuse she wanted to glare at me as I passed her desk. I could tell she was winding up for her where-were-you speech so I picked up my phone as soon as I got to my desk.

  I called Kirk Redmond’s office. Voicemail picked up. I left a message.

  I was slightly bummed that my act of kindness was put on hold, so I took care of a few things I was actually being paid to do, then called again. Kirk Redmond answered.

  I identified myself and said, “I want to talk to you about Arthur Sullivan. I knew you were at his house.”

  A long pause followed, and after a while I wondered if we’d been cut off.

  “Hello? Mr. Redmond?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”

  The man didn’t exactly have the best phone manners, but I pressed on.

  “There’re a couple of things I’d like to clarify,” I said, thinking I should get the details of the job—like the price—before I told him to proceed. “Can we do this over the phone, or should I come by your place?”

  Another lengthy pause. Finally I heard papers shuffling in the background, Redmond looking up the estimate he’d given Mr. Sullivan, no doubt.

  “I’ll get back with you,” he said.

  I wondered how he managed to keep his business going with this crappy attitude. Still, it didn’t deter me nor tarnish my good intentions.

  “That’s fine,” I said, and gave him my cell and work numbers. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea what a painting estimate should entail, so I gave him my parents’ name and home phone number since I’d need my dad to act as a translator.

  We hung up and I drew a breath, altogether pleased with myself for my brilliant idea and my generosity. I dashed off a quick text message to my dad explaining that Redmond would call and that I’d fill him in on the details later.

  My personal mojo seemed to be working for me so I pulled out Leonard Sullivan’s file folder and once again phoned all of his family and friends hoping that maybe I could at least get a new lead on him. Everyone pleasantly and willingly gave info, but I learned nothing new. No one knew where to find him.

  My personal mojo got worse when Manny walked into the office. He looked even more stressed than usual.

  “I need you to go to a house,” he said, dropping into his chair.

  I managed not to groan aloud. The last thing I wanted was to talk to yet another Mid-America customer who might lose their home. I kept my thoughts to myself, though, since Manny didn’t look any happier than I felt at the moment.

  “Janet Teague,” he said, thrusting a file at me. “Talk to her. Find out what’s going on. Get inside. See what kind of shape the house is in. You know the drill.”

  Yes, unfortunately I did.

  “She’s probably at work right now,” I said.

  Manny gave me a just-handle-it wave, and turned away.

  When I take over the world, rest assured everybody is going to be able to make their mortgage payment.

  At the end of the day, I left the office along with everyone else and slipped behind the wheel of the Caddie. Before I could close the door, Nick walked up.

  “Nice ride, Batgirl,” he said. “Got a few minutes? There’s a café around the corner.”

  I stepped out of the car. “Why do you try and feed me all the time? Do I look undernourished, or something?”

  Nick took several seconds to look me up and down, then said, “You look hot, Dana.”

  My self-esteem meter jumped off the scale.

  Nick nodded toward the corner. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you about my day.”

  “Is this something I want to hear?” I asked.

  “Come with me and you’ll find out,” he told me.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. I’d told the ladies I’d pick them up after five, but I figured they wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer.

  Nick and I walked around the corner to a little restaurant. It had ferns and ceiling fans, and café style tables with green cushions on the chairs. Most of their business came from the lunch crowd, so Nick and I had the place to ourselves this late in the day.

  We ordered sandwiches and drinks at the counter. Nick picked up the tab—one of the benefits of looking hot, I suppose.

  We sat at a table by the front window sipping our drinks. Outside, traffic was heavy as the office and government buildings emptied out for the night.

  “Do I get to hear about your day now?” I asked.

  “Not on an empty stomach,” Nick said. “Let me hear about your day.”

  My first thought was to tell him that everything was great, but instead I went with the truth.

  “Things could be better, work-wise,” I said. “There’s a guy who’s making me crazy. He’s so irritating. You know, if I could pick out one person I could run over with my car, he’d be the one.”

  Nick nodded. “I know the feeling.”

  The waitress brought our sandwiches. We ate and talked a little, mostly about nothing. It was nice talking about nothing with Nick.

  When we finished, Nick dumped our trash, refilled our drinks and sat down at the table again.

  “Today,” he said, “was a day of good fortune.”

  Must have been something big, coming from a homicide detective in the Murder Capital of America.

  “I found your jealous husband, the security guard,” Nick said.

  “Gerald Mayhew?” My excitement spiked. “Did he murder Mr. Sullivan? Did he confess?”

  “No. But he did come up with a better alibi,” Nick said. “Seems Mayhew wasn’t at work the night of the murder because he was at his girlfriend’s house.”

  “What?” I nearly came out of my chair. “He accused his wife of cheating on him with Mr. Sullivan and, all along, he had a girlfriend himself?”

  Nick nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “That dog,” I said.

  “I talked to the girlfriend and another witness who saw them together the night of the murder. Air-tight alibi,” Nick said. “Unfortunately, all of this unfolded in front of Mayhew’s wife. She didn’t take it well.”

  “Serves the bastard right,” I said.

  No wonder Ida hadn’t gone to bingo today. She’d left her husband.

  While I was good with Gerald Mayhew getting what he deserved, it left me without a murder suspect.

  Nick seemed to read my mind.

  “So Mayhew’s out of the picture,” he said. “Who else have you got for me, Inspector Gadget?”

>   “Aren’t you supposed to develop some leads yourself?” I asked.

  “Didn’t we agree on a mutual exchange of information?” he countered.

  We had. And I’d been holding back telling him about Leonard Sullivan, thinking it was a family situation and nothing more. Now, though, a weird little knot in my stomach had gotten tighter since this afternoon when Leona Wiley had pointed out Belinda Griffin to me as one of Leonard’s friends.

  Nick had successfully debunked my Mayhew-as-murderer theory. Maybe he could relieve my anxiety over Leonard. Maybe he could even help me find him.

  “Mr. Sullivan’s grandson Leonard,” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s missing … sort of,” I said.

  Nick’s detective scowl settled over his face. “How is someone sort of missing?”

  “No one has seen Leonard since the day of Mr. Sullivan’s death,” I said. “Gladys Sullivan told me he was at the house that afternoon, and he and Mr. Sullivan had a terrible argument.”

  “About what?”

  “She didn’t know. She got scared and left,” I said. “But she did say that Mr. Sullivan threatened to go to the police about it.”

  “You’re thinking Leonard might have killed his grandfather?” Nick asked.

  “No, I’m not thinking that at all,” I said, not sure why I still felt inclined to defend Leonard. “He might have witnessed something and that’s why he ran away.”

  “Or he might have disappeared because he’s an accomplice,” Nick said.

  “Maybe he’s hiding because he’s scared,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s hiding because he’s guilty,” Nick said.

  Nick and his cop-logic were starting to annoy me.

  “Listen,” I said, “I just wanted to mention it to you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll check into it. Anything else?”

  “No,” I said, not feeling the urge to share anything more with him. “What about you?”

  “Actually, I do have some information,” Nick said. “We turned up something on the contractor who’d been at the Sullivan house.”