The Women on Retford Drive, page 26
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Stephen Miller—Julia and Blythe Pritchard’s attorney. We heard a loud crash, just wondering what that was.”
“Sorry about that. A few things fell in the kitchen. It was an accident,” he says, his face reddening, as though he were personally responsible.
“So what’s up in the laundry room?” I ask.
“We’re checking for blood.”
“I see. How much longer do you think you guys are going to be?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll have the detectives touch base with you when they’re done. They’ll be going upstairs next.”
“I’m in the living room with Julia.”
“Okay,” he says, turning away from me.
On the way back to Julia, I spot a couple of uniformed officers standing at the top of the stairs. When I enter the living room, Julia casts a hopeful look my way.
“They’re still checking the laundry room,” I tell her.
“I’m worried about Blythe. She should’ve returned my call by now.”
“Don’t worry about her. Besides, didn’t your agent say she’d check on Blythe and call you?” Faye says.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Julia gets up from the sofa and goes to the window. I stand next to her, and we both look out at the reporters and spectators. “This is crazy,” she says.
“It’s going to be over soon,” I say, not believing my own words.
“How did I end up here, Stephen?”
My eyes sting, and I look away, not wanting her to think I’m a wimp. It’s killing me inside that I can’t stop this madness. I want to whisk her away to a deserted island far away from here and make her feel safe and loved.
“What are you thinking? Do you think I’m guilty?”
“No, I don’t think you’re guilty.”
“You don’t have to spare my feelings.”
“I’m not trying to spare your feelings.”
At the sound of heavy footfalls and voices, Faye and I make a beeline toward the noise, Julia following.
Detective Johnson walks toward the staircase, and I approach him. “What’s happening?”
“The laundry room is clean,” he says.
Julia bursts into tears and falls onto my chest. The detectives and the other officers rush upstairs, and I hold her in my arms, with Faye looking on. “I told you it was going to be okay, Julia.”
She composes herself, and we return to the living room. We all sit, breathing huge sighs of relief. “I can’t believe it. I thought for sure Keith was killed in the laundry room,” Julia says.
“It’s going to be over soon,” I say, with renewed confidence.
“What happens if they don’t find anything?” she asks.
“The shirt is circumstantial evidence. I don’t think they would be able to charge you with only the shirt. Not to mention, there’s no body. Basically, it’s Martha’s and Pedro’s words against yours and Blythe’s.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“He is right,” Faye says.
“What are they doing up there?” Julia casts her eyes toward the ceiling. “Stephen, do you mind checking?”
“Of course I’ll check.” I climb two and three stairs at a time, hoping to again hear those magic words: It’s clean.
I reach the top of the stairs, and Williams blocks me. “Sorry, you can’t come up here.”
“But—”
“Sir, I have strict orders not to let anyone past this point.”
We pause when a policewoman with a buzzcut comes out of a bedroom, carrying a black pantsuit.
“I see.” I turn away, then look over my shoulder at the female officer. The trepidation returns with a vengeance. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and make my way back to the living room. Before entering, I force a smile.
Julia approaches me. “How’s it going up there?”
“They wouldn’t let me go past a certain point.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” she says.
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy. Why don’t we go outside and get some air?” Faye says. “If you don’t mind, I really need a cigarette.”
“That’s fine,” Julia says. “Why don’t you go smoke? I’ll wait here with Stephen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Faye. Go ahead.”
We watch Faye leave, then Julia walks to me. She takes my hand. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that you’ve been a great lawyer, and I hope that when this is all over with, I can get to know you better.”
“Other than Detective Johnson telling us the laundry room is clean, that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Stephen, I’ve been so worried about what they’re going to find, I forgot about the knife. We need to tell the detectives about the apartment being ransacked and the killer taking the knife.”
“You’re right. I should have remembered that.” And if I hadn’t been so busy being caught up in my feelings for Julia, I would have remembered. It’s time to focus, Stephen Miller.
Chapter 34
Detective Brian Johnson
I stand at the foot of the king-size bed in the green room, my eyes darting from wall to floor to ceiling. “Who came up with the bright idea to paint every bedroom a different color?”
“I like the color of the master bedroom,” Rhonda says. She’s in the throes of a walk-through with the CSI team.
“That was way too much white,” I say. I remove the duvet, blanket, and sheets from the bed, and my eyes lock on the mattress. I run my gloved hand over it, looking for evidence. The click of our crime scene photographer’s camera punctuates our sporadic conversation. A uniformed officer joins me, and we lift the mattress and lean it against the wall that’s covered in expensive-looking paintings that remind me of the ones I saw at a fancy art show my late wife took me to. Crazy, odd shapes and pastel colors mixed together. I move out of the way when the photographer moves in for closer shots.
Rhonda and a few of the CSI guys head to the bathroom. “One thing I can say, that Martha does a good job. I could eat off the floor in here it’s so clean,” Rhonda says.
“Let’s see how clean it really is,” Chris, the head of the CSI team says.
I stop what I’m doing and enter to see the results of the luminol test. We all stand in the restroom, sharing curious looks. “You can start eating, Rhonda,” Chris says. He pushes his red hair out of his face. Strained laughter fills the room.
We return to the bedroom, and luminol is applied to the bedding, carpet, and walls. We look closely for traces of blood, but it’s also clean. The door opens, and Marlene, a senior investigator, enters.
“Here’s the black pantsuit you were looking for. It was in the pink room. There aren’t many women’s clothes in either of the rooms,” she says.
“That’s because Julia and Blythe had already moved their things,” Rhonda says.
“How many more bedrooms are there, Chris?” I ask.
“We’ve checked the master, now the brown, we still have five more rooms to go.”
“So what’s your gut tell you, Rhonda? Are we going to find anything?” I ask, changing my gloves.
“I’ll bet you fifty bucks the smoking gun is going to be in the pink room.”
“That’s where I found the pantsuit, and I’m sure that’s Julia’s room,” Marlene says.
“Brian, what room are you banking on?” Rhonda asks.
“Hell, I thought he was killed in the laundry room. I have no clue.” I head to the pink room, with the group following me. Before I can get there, Williams motions for me to join him on the staircase.
“What’s up?”
“The lawyer’s gettin’ antsy. He hit me up when you were in the laundry room, and then he tried to get upstairs.”
“Where is he now?” My gaze shifts from Williams to the reporters I can see through the window above the front door.
“They’re in the living room.”
My focus returns to Williams. “Let Rhonda and Chris know I’ll be up there in a minute.”
I go downstairs and enter the living room, pausing, taking in the downcast faces and dreary atmosphere. My eyes lock with Julia’s. She looks like she’s aged ten years since I last saw her. She perks up as though she’s suddenly realizing it’s me. Sitting next to her is a woman who, back in the neighborhood, we would’ve described as “big-boned.” She purses her dark lips. I’d bet money she’s a smoker. The lawyer, standing near the window, walks toward me, and I figure now’s a good time to deliver my spiel about being patient and that we have a job to do.
“Officer Williams mentioned you were trying to contact me.”
“Yes, I’d like to share a very important development in the case,” the lawyer says.
“I’d love to hear it, but right now I’m tied up. As soon as I’m done here, we can have a chat.”
“But—”
“Detective Johnson, they need you upstairs.” I turn toward Williams, who appears to be out of breath. “I need to get back to work. But we’ll talk soon,” I say to the lawyer. Then I bolt upstairs.
“Brian, check this out.” Rhonda says when I reach the top of the stairs, motioning me into the pink room.
“You got something?” I ask, my heart racing a bit.
“Step right here,” Rhonda says.
I do so, and she gestures toward the area between the bed and the nightstand. She points her flashlight at the object. “Is that what I think it is?” I ask.
“Yep.” She reaches for the black-handled knife with her gloved hand.
Chris steps over to her with an evidence bag, and she drops the knife inside. “Brian, looks like you owe Rhonda fifty bucks,” he says.
“Do you think it’s the murder weapon?” Rhonda asks.
“Could be,” Chris says. “But I don’t see any traces of blood on it.”
“Marlene, how do you know this is Julia’s room?” I ask.
“Over there by the computer are papers that look like some kind of contract. Her name is printed and signed on all the documents, and the brush in the bathroom has blond hair in it.”
“Chris, you need to give Marlene a raise.”
“We’re all gonna get one if this is the murder weapon,” Chris says.
“Let’s finish checking things out.” I dissemble the bed. Chris and some of the team members check out the bathroom. Rhonda and Marlene search the drawers and closet. I lift the mattress, looking for any and all kind of evidence, a piece of clothing, a diary, photos, and of course, blood. I find nothing.
“We sprayed, and it’s clean in the bathroom,” Chris says. “Ready to light this baby up?” he asks, making a sweeping gesture across the room.
“Go ahead,” I say.
Chris sprays the room while we all stand frozen, holding our breath, hoping we get what we came for.
“I’ll be damned,” Rhonda says, eyes roaming the walls and floor.
“It’s clean,” Chris says.
“What’s the ETA on the K-9 unit?” I ask.
“They should be on the way,” Chris says.
“On to the red room,” I say, shaking my head.
Chapter 35
Blythe
Outside my car at Hollis Park, Shelbie and I swivel our heads, looking for Carla. It’s two in the afternoon on a summer day. The park is filled with school-age children and nannies. I imagine the parents stuck in their offices and cubicles, wishing they could revisit their carefree, happy childhoods—god knows I wish I could, at least the early part. Numerous people walk their dogs on leashes, while a few of them let them dart about and meet new four-legged friends.
“Maybe she meant Hudson Park,” Shelbie says.
“No, it was Hollis, and this is where we had the search. I’m worried about her. She’s only twelve.” A dog catches a Frisbee, and another one nearby runs with a stick in its mouth.
“What did Julia say? Was she pissed?”
“I haven’t listened to her message yet.” I take my phone out of my pocket and click voicemail.
Blythe, where are you? I hope you’re not trying to confront Martha and Pedro. Call me asap.
“She knows what I’m doing. Look, there’s Carla.” I point to her walking toward the playground. “Let’s go meet her.”
Shelbie and I run to Carla, and I wrap my arms around her. “Where were you? We’ve been waiting forever. We were worried about you. Why didn’t you call me? We could have picked you up.”
“I was trying to use that car service,” she says, slipping out of my grasp, “but I couldn’t figure out the app. My mother gave me some of the money you gave her. And then I walked for a while. And I was going to take a taxi, but I got hungry, and I stopped to get something to eat. Then I walked some more. I didn’t realize it, but I wasn’t that far from the park. And my mother’s phone died.”
“You look wiped out. Let’s sit down.”
We all do so, and Carla says, “I ran away from my parents after I heard what they did to you and Julia.”
“When did you run away, Carla?” Shelbie asks.
“This morning. I know they’re looking for me. I was at my friend’s house, and they came there, but she told them I wasn’t there.”
“They’re going to put out an Amber Alert soon, Carla. You’re going to have to go back home.”
“I don’t want to be there. My father made my mother tell the police all those lies. He threatened her. He was putting on an act at the church for the priest. I heard him joking about it with his friends, drinking beer in our garage. And I heard him talk about getting the reward money, that he was taking the shirt to the police.”
“He did go to the police, Carla. And now they’re searching our house.”
“What will happen if the police find evidence?”
“It depends on what they find,” I say. “Julia and I could end up in jail.”
“But you guys didn’t kill your father.”
“I know we didn’t. But the police don’t know that. Carla, I need to talk your mother. If I could speak to her, I might be able to convince her to tell the police the truth.”
“She’s at home. She didn’t go to work at your house today. My father says she doesn’t have to anymore because we’re going to be rich. He even told Jorge he could quit his new job.”
“Is your father there?” Shelbie asks.
“He was this morning, but he might not be now.”
“Would you be okay with us going there?” I ask.
She looks around and nods. “Yes, but when we get there, let’s make sure my father isn’t home.”
“Let’s go,” I say.
~~~
I look at Carla in my rearview mirror, the trepidation in her saucer-sized eyes belying her bravado. “I don’t see my mother’s car, so I don’t think he’s here. He needs to get his truck fixed. Somebody ran into him a couple of weeks ago. And now he’s having problems with his transmission. He was telling his friends he’s going to buy a Maserati like your father when he gets the reward money.”
I stop in front of the house.
“You should park up the street in case Pedro comes back,” Shelbie says.
“You’re right.” I do so, and we emerge from the car and trek to Carla’s house.
She runs ahead of us and unlocks the door with a key on the chain around her scrawny neck. I think about how she traveled to the park, determined to meet with us. She has more courage than most adults I know. My eyes burn, taking in her slight frame, her overrun tennis shoes, and baggy pants. I hope she’s getting enough to eat.
“Wait right here,” she says. “Let me make sure everything is okay first.”
She goes inside, and I look around the neighborhood, eyeing the houses in need of fresh paint, the trash in the streets, and junk cars on a few lawns.
“I feel like a sitting duck out here,” Shelbie says. “There are about a dozen gangs in this area, and they don’t have a problem shooting innocent bystanders.”
“How do you know that?”
“You know my parents work at County in the emergency room. That’s about twenty minutes from here. The majority of people who come through the ER are gunshot victims.”
Feeling vulnerable, I knock on the door. Loud voices in Spanish halt me. We wait a few more minutes, and then I motion to Shelbie for us to take off.
Before we leave the porch, the door opens, and Carla peeks her head out. “Come in.”
We brush past her into the house. The living room is empty and dark. Carla closes the door and opens the blinds. “My mother is scared to come out. She thinks you’re mad at her. And she said Sherry was here looking for you.”
“Tell her I’m not mad. I just need to speak to her.”
“I’ll try. You guys can sit on the sofa.”
We remain standing while Carla goes in the back. I look around at the pictures on the wall, of Martha, Pedro, Jorge, and Carla during happier times. Shelbie points to a baby picture of Carla. “She was so cute.”
“What are you doing here?”
We turn toward the front door. Jorge, wearing a fast food uniform, passes his hand over his bushy, dark hair, narrowing his brown eyes at us. “You shouldn’t be here. My mother doesn’t work for you anymore. You’d better leave our house before my father comes back.”
I try to think of what I could say to get him on our side. “Jorge, I’m here to see your mother. I care about her. I was the one who helped her when your father beat her. You know he’s abusive, and I know you don’t appreciate your father hurting your mother.”
He averts his eyes and storms into the back room, cursing.
