The Women on Retford Drive, page 10
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
Silence blankets the room, and Detective Johnson motions for his partner to hand him the envelope on the table. He opens it and says, “Based on a note we found jammed into the spare tire compartment, I think there’s a good chance your husband is no longer with us, Julia. With that in mind, this is no longer a missing persons case. It’s now a homicide investigation.” He removes a sheet of crumpled paper from the envelope. It looks like a piece of newspaper. It’s in a plastic bag. I gasp upon seeing it, and nausea overtakes me when I realize the message is scribbled in blood:
SHE KI LL ME
Chapter 12
Blythe
Staring at a crack on the pastel green wall, I think about my favorite police and legal TV series—Law & Order. In one episode Detective Olivia Benson, played by Mariska Hargitay, kicks this perp’s ass. She slams his head on the desk and stomps on him. I smile thinking about Julia playing a badass dick. As if on cue, my phone vibrates, and I read Julia’s text message.
Thu, 06/15/2017
Hey, sweetie. Hope ur ok. I think ur in the room next door. Done w/my interview. Torturous, but I know you’re strong & you were right, they got a match. Stephen’s on his way. He’ll be there to support. Love you!
6:03 PM
The blood in the car is my father’s, and most likely the blood on the shirt is his too. The shirt was found at the house, so he was probably killed at home. Based on my timeline, someone murdered him Tuesday between 6:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. Or someone injured him between 6:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. There was blood on his shirt. I sound like a damn broken record. I keep repeating the same things, trying to keep up with it all. Was he shot? Was he stabbed? Was he stabbed with the missing knife? Maybe I should share my thoughts with the detectives. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t, I think when Stephen enters. During our mock interview, he kept stressing that less is more.
“You’re up, Blythe. Are you ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, locking my phone.
Looking toward the door, he removes a handkerchief from his pocket and mops the perspiration from his forehead. I sit upright when the detectives enter. The tall black guy carrying a clipboard looks like he could hurt somebody on the football field, but he’s dressed like the chairman of the board. His eyes lock on me. They’re the best thing he has going. He sets a couple of bottles of water on the table. Stephen takes one and hands me the other. His partner looks like a homeless woman who just wandered in off the street. She’s holding a gold envelope and a recording device.
“Hello, I’m Detective Brian Johnson.” He sits across from me.
“And I’m Detective Rhonda Carson.”
“We want to first say that we deeply sympathize with your situation. No child wants to lose a parent,” Detective Johnson says.
Terror bolts through me. “So you’re confirming that my father’s dead?”
“No, Blythe. Is it okay if I call you Blythe?”
“That’s fine,” I say.
“We still don’t know where your father is. As we told Julia, we got a DNA match. The DNA from the blood that was found in the trunk of your father’s Maserati matches the DNA found in the hair that was in his comb. We also found his wallet in the car. He had a thousand dollars in cash and several credit cards.”
“So this isn’t a robbery case,” I interject.
“Exactly,” Detective Johnson says, seeming a little pissed at my interruption. He continues, “There was also a Louis Vuitton luggage set containing clothes, shoes, undergarments, and toiletries. His phone and keys were not in the car—nor were there any electronic devices. And we didn’t find a briefcase.”
“He doesn’t use a laptop or a briefcase. He does everything on his smartphone. Have you tried to track his phone?”
The detectives share a chuckle. “Who’s interviewing who here?” Detective Carson asks.
“Blythe is about to take the LSAT, and she’s going to be applying to law school. She wants to be a lawyer,” Stephen says.
“Good for you,” Detective Johnson says.
“Did you try to track his cell phone?” I ask again.
“Yes. His assistant gave us the number, and we’ve attempted to track the phone, but it’s apparently turned off. As you already said, we don’t believe he was robbed. The luggage was in the backseat. We believe your father may at one time have been in the trunk of the car. Whether he was alive or dead, we don’t know for a fact.”
I sit in stunned silence as the reality seeps in, imagining my father in the trunk of his car, yelling and cursing at his executioner, kicking his feet and then begging for his life. Like Julia would have that time he tried to kill her, if she could have gotten the words out. Or maybe he was already dead.
“Blythe, are you okay?” Stephen asks.
With burning eyes, I nod, and then I remember Stephen saying to be audible. I force out, “I’m okay.”
“Do you need to take a break?” Stephen asks.
He looks at me like a concerned father. I’ve forgotten what that feels like—to have a father be worried about you, to care about you.
Fighting back tears, I say, “I’m good.”
“We need to ask you a few questions, Blythe. Are you up to it?”
“Yes,” I say with resolve.
“We’re going to record you, so nothing is misconstrued,” Detective Johnson says.
“That’s fine,” I say.
Detective Carson turns on the recorder, and her partner takes over.
“For the record, please state your full name, date of birth, and residence address.”
“Blythe Renee Pritchard; April 27, 1995; 3981 Retford Drive, Dancing Hills, California.”
“Blythe, when was the last time you saw your father?” he asks, his eyes on his clipboard.
“The morning of Tuesday, June 13, at home.”
Shaking my head, I think about how he ignored Julia and me while we packed our things, whistling and mumbling to himself, preparing to go to work. A few times I saw him looking at us with a pained and puzzled expression, as though he had no clue why we were leaving him. I held my breath most of the morning, waiting for him to grab a gun from the collection he keeps in the attic, so he could blow our brains out. But he never said a word. Maybe Julia’s right. Maybe he let us go because he had this all planned—the shirt, the blood, us being questioned by the police and eventually charged with his fake murder.
“What kind of mood was he in?”
Startled out of my thoughts, I say, “He was jazzed. Excited about going public with his company.”
“Did you see or talk to him later that day?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you contact him again that day?”
“Because he was traveling, and I was still packing and moving. We were both busy.”
“Why were you moving?”
This was one of the questions on Stephen’s list. Less is more.
“Because I had a new apartment to move into.”
“Your father’s assistant said your father filed for divorce because Julia had cheated on him. Is that true?”
“No, that’s not true. Julia filed for divorce, and she wasn’t cheating on him. My dad told Kathleen that, to save face.”
“So Kathleen told the truth about the divorce, but she was misinformed about the cheating and who filed for divorce.”
“Right.”
The detectives nod in sync. I glance at Stephen, wondering what he thinks about the interview so far. He smiles, reassuring. I turn toward the detectives, wanting them to keep it moving. I decide to help them along.
“Again, the last time I saw or spoke to my father was Tuesday morning when he was leaving to go to work. I spent the day packing with Julia, and that night, I stayed at our new apartment. When I got up the following morning, I had voicemails and text messages from Kathleen telling me my father did not show up for his flight to New York. Then I got a call from her where she said the same thing.”
“Did Julia stay at the apartment with you?”
Here’s one of those trick questions Stephen warned me about.
“No, Julia stayed at her mother’s nursing home Tuesday night.”
“What time was your father scheduled to leave for New York?”
“Five in the morning. He and his team were flying out of Van Nuys on his private plane to New York, and from there they were scheduled to go to London.”
“So just to be clear, you have not seen or spoken to your father since the morning of Tuesday, June 13?”
“Correct.”
“Does your father have any enemies that you know of?”
“How much time do we have?”
“So he had enemies.”
“My father is an asshole. Most people he did business with hated him, but not enough to kill him. I don’t know who could have hurt my father.”
“What about his business partner, Richard Calhoun?”
“Possibly.”
“I know you said your father was jazzed about business, but could his excitement have been a front? Is there a chance your father did harm to himself?”
I think about the bloody shirt again, but I keep the memory to myself and say, “No, I don’t think he would have hurt himself.”
“Officers Williams and Stone said Julia had a bruise on her face when they visited you at home yesterday. Did your father hit her?”
“She slipped and hit her head at my grandmother’s nursing home.”
“Are you sure?”
Stephen gives me a look. I know he wants me to talk about the abuse, but I agreed with Julia that it gives us a motive. But Stephen also has a point. The police need to know who my father really is. He’s not the wonderful man the protestors seem to think he is.
“My father didn’t hit her that time.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“My father was a batterer. He beat Julia for five years.”
The detectives nod, and I can’t tell if they’re feeling empathy or a sense of victory.
“Where were you Tuesday, June 13, between the hours of 6 and 8 p.m.?”
Keep it general, Blythe.
“I was unpacking at our new apartment.”
“And where is that located?”
“1120 Crescent Avenue.”
“And you were there the entire two hours?”
“As I said before, I stayed at the apartment overnight. I slept on the floor.”
“I see,” he says. “When did you find out your father was missing?”
“I told you already. When I woke up Wednesday morning.”
“What time was that?”
“Around 8:20 a.m. Like I said, my father’s assistant called me and told me he was a no-show for the flight.”
“Why didn’t you report him missing at that time?”
“Because we didn’t think he was actually missing, but that he had just missed the flight. At one point, we thought he might have still been at home.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me, Julia, and Martha, our housekeeper.”
“Was the housekeeper there Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have her contact information? We’d like to talk to her.”
“You don’t have to answer that.”
Damn, why did I bring up Martha?
“According to his assistant, this trip was life-changing and that there’s no way he would have missed his flight. Because of that she called us and reported him missing. But you didn’t.”
“Detective, as Miss Pritchard stated, she thought her father had just missed his flight.”
“Was your father abusive toward you as well?”
Clenching my fists, I think about how he slapped me a few times and cursed me out on more than one occasion. But what he did to me pales in comparison to what he did to Julia.
“As I said before, he was mainly abusive to Julia.”
“Have you ever reported him to the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he threatened to kill us.”
“How long did this go on?”
“As I already stated, for five years.”
“So you and Julia finally got fed up?”
“Yes.”
“You snapped.”
“You’re putting words in her mouth,” Stephen says.
“Excuse me. You decided to take action.”
“Yes. We decided to leave.”
“You and Julia. She was fed up, too.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a team.”
“We’ve been through hell and back together,” I say.
“Detective, let’s wrap this up,” Stephen says.
I want to jump for friggin’ joy, knowing the interview is about to end, but I’m pissed that I still don’t know if my father’s alive or dead. “Detective Johnson, how long have you been on the force?”
“Thirty years.”
“What does your police instinct tell you about my father? Do you think he’s still alive?”
Detective Carson hands him the gold envelope. He opens it and says, “We found a note jammed into the spare tire compartment. Based on that, there’s a good chance your father’s no longer with us. This is no longer a missing persons case—it’s a homicide investigation.” He removes a sheet of crumpled paper from the envelope. It looks like torn newspaper. It’s in a plastic bag. I drop the F-bomb upon seeing it, and a sickening feeling builds in my stomach when I realize the message is scribbled in blood:
SHE KI LL ME
Chapter 13
Detective Brian Johnson
Rhonda and I head to my car parked in the Dancing Hills Police Department garage, steering clear of the reporters who have been here since the Pritchard women, accompanied by their attorney, came to the station earlier today to be interviewed. A few of the reporters are doing live feeds for the evening news. I do a double take when I spot Janice Tolliver from the cable show 2 Catch a Killer. Dressed in an expensive-looking skirt suit, her brown hair perfectly coiffed, she stands like a mannequin while a younger woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt dabs at her face with powder. You know you’re working a big case when a heavy hitter like Janice leaves the comfort of her studio.
“Get a load of Barbie,” Rhonda says, snickering. “I’ve never seen her report from the field before. We’re in the big time, boss.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I get into my unmarked car.
“You good?” Rhonda slides into the passenger seat.
“Yep. I was just thinking about the interviews.” I drive forward.
“I thought they were both going to pass out during the big reveal,” she says with a dry chuckle.
“That was dramatic.”
Images of Julia falling out of her chair invade my head. I attempted to catch her, but the attorney intercepted me. I thought she was going to pass out. I wish she would have once she started asking a bunch of questions, wanting to know who we thought “she” was.
“It’s a miracle the note wasn’t leaked to the press,” Rhonda says.
“Yeah, but the DNA match was, and don’t be surprised if we end up finding out the note was too. Speaking of the note—we’re assuming that Keith wrote it. But what if the killer wrote it, wanting us to think a woman killed him?”
“Damn—that’s a good point.”
“These leaks are really pissing me off. That’s why we had that damn circus out front. Make sure Williams and Stone follow up on that Rambo character wearing camouflage. He was the one with that trio of women. Something’s familiar about him and not in a good way.” I flip through my mental Rolodex of ex-cons and troublemakers.
“So what do you think? I’ve been dying to touch base with you.”
“I know. Sorry, I got pulled into that meeting. I didn’t think it was ever going to end.”
“Was the chief there?”
“No, just the captain and a few knuckleheads from internal affairs. Regarding my thoughts about the Pritchard women, I’m still mulling over them. You know when I was a patrol officer, I answered my share of domestic abuse calls, but even until this day, I can’t wrap my head around why some women stay in abusive relationships.”
“They do for a bunch of reasons, the number one usually being financial.”
“But Julia was a sitcom star. I’m sure she had some kind of money.” I look over my shoulder and change lanes, heading toward the freeway.
“Her show was over years ago. She’s what they call a has-been, probably barely receiving residuals.”
“Ouch.” I’m surprised Rhonda’s being so harsh. “So she stayed for the money?”
“There’s more to it than that, Brian. Rich guys like Keith tend to look at everything in their lives as possessions, property. They’re control freaks and manipulators. Why else would a beautiful twenty-something girl who had graduated from college still be living under her father’s roof? He’s probably manipulated both of them over the years—threatened to cut them off if they didn’t march to the sick beat of his drum.”
“Damn, Rhonda, you act like you know him.”
“I know the type. Why do you think I never remarried?”
“So like they both said, they got tired of it one day and decided to up and leave him.”
“The question is, did one or both of them decide to take him out of the game before they made the move?” Rhonda says with raised brows.
“Well, we’ll have to see about that.” But before we jump to any conclusions, I want to take another look at all the players now that we have a complete list. Let’s make sure we get Julia’s and Blythe’s alibis checked out as well.”
“Will do.” She fishes her phone out of her purse, then reads off names:
Julia Pritchard, wife (divorcing)
Blythe Pritchard, daughter
Dolores Pritchard, mother
Jim Pritchard, father
Richard Calhoun, business partner
Theodore Schmidt, attorney
Kathleen Brody, assistant
Sherry Mueller, Julia’s agent
Martha Ramirez, housekeeper
“CSI says the car was clean. Not a print on it,” I say. “At least none that could be lifted. Did you receive the photos the assistant emailed us?”
