The Women on Retford Drive, page 9
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Let’s table that issue for now. Does your husband have an attorney?”
“His corporate attorney and estate attorney is Theodore Schmidt. His divorce attorney is Jerry Mangrove.”
“That’s good to know,” Stephen says. “Well, let’s get busy, ladies.”
~~~
Sitting next to Julia in her Mercedes, I press on my jittery stomach. Her car, like her bedroom, conjures bad memories. My father bought her this car two weeks after he had cracked one of her ribs. It was his apology. I glance at the console. It’s Thursday, June 15, 4:00 p.m. He’s been missing for thirty-six hours. I remember once reading that National Geographic Channel’s Brain Games explored how three volunteers would fare after going thirty-six hours without sleep. They discovered that when we’re sleep deprived, the brain shuts down parts not vital to survival. Maybe my father has been kidnapped like my mother supposedly was. Maybe his captors are keeping him awake. Then again, maybe he’s asleep—eternally asleep.
“Blythe, you don’t look well,” Julia says. She pulls into the Dancing Hills Police Department visitor lot and parks in a space next to Stephen.
“I’m okay. Just a little blue. I remember all the times I used to pray for my father to drop dead, and now that he might be, I feel lost, scared, sad. I hate all these mixed feelings.”
“There was a time in your life when your father was your hero.” She hands me a tissue. “You can’t forget that time. Nor can I forget the man who swept me off my feet over a latte. I don’t know how I’m going to react if he turns up dead.”
“What do you think about Stephen?” I change the subject.
“He’s phenomenal.”
“He is, isn’t he? He’s divorced, too.”
“And,” Julia says, brows knitted.
“You guys would make a great couple.”
“The last thing I need is romance, Blythe.”
“Uh huh,” I say, with a doubtful tone, reflecting on her and Stephen’s cozy first encounter.
Linking our pinkies, we jump at a knock on the driver’s side window. “You scared the crap out of us,” Julia says, rolling down the window.
“I’m sorry, ladies. We need to head in,” Stephen says.
“We’re coming,” Julia says, exiting the car. I follow.
Stephen, with long, confident strides, leads the way. We stop short at the entrance that’s overrun with reporters, cameramen, and protestors.
“What are all these people doing here?” Julia asks.
“Follow me,” Stephen says. He ushers us through the mob. Julia and I exchange horrified looks at the sight of a trio of chanting women hoisting picket signs, accompanied by a robust bald man wearing camouflage.
GET OUT OF DANCING HILLS.
MONSTER MOTHER, DEVILISH DAUGHTER.
NO PEACE WITHOUT JUSTICE FOR KEITH.
We enter the police station, and Stephen walks to the front desk. Julia pulls me to the side. “Something’s going on, Blythe. Where did all these people come from? They’ve already tried and convicted us.”
We turn toward Stephen when he approaches. “What’s going on, Stephen?” I ask.
“It’s strange. I’ve never seen anything like this before. You’re not suspects.”
“Could somebody be behind this?” Julia asks.
“That’s a possibility,” Stephen says. He eyes the bald man, whose face is pressed against the glass door. “Ignore them and stay focused.”
“But how do we stand a chance if people are already pointing fingers at us?” I ask.
“You fight back. That’s what your meeting with the media is for. And you have a great interview so that the police will have empathy for you. Once they see you’re telling the truth, they can become your biggest allies.”
Julia and I hold hands. “Okay, let’s do this,” she says.
Chapter 11
Julia
In the interview room, I think about the role I’m going to play in the police drama. I pray I have the opportunity to do the part. Stephen, sitting next to me, places his hand on mine. It’s warm and soft. I hope he removes it soon, because it’s distracting. He must read my mind because he takes it away. Thank goodness. We were escorted to this room by a female cop in her early twenties, not much older than Blythe. She told us two detectives would join us in a few minutes. That was fifteen minutes ago. I was surprised there would be more than one. Stephen said he expected as much. He said he didn’t mention it because he didn’t want us to feel overwhelmed. I wish he would have told us.
“Don’t be nervous.” He smiles. “After this, you’re home free. You can meet with the press and conduct your searches. Hopefully, Keith will be found.”
“And if he isn’t?” I ask.
“It will be up to the police to get him justice, not you, Julia, and not Blythe.”
We turn toward the door when two detectives enter. The man is an imposing sight: burly, six-foot-something with a close-shaved head. Wearing a gray suit, a starched white dress shirt, and black tie, he could easily pass for a Fortune 500 CEO. I momentarily study his mahogany, square-jawed face. His hazel eyes, flecked with light brown, are his best asset. “Hello, I’m Detective Brian Johnson,” he says. On the table, he sets down a clipboard with papers attached. His baritone voice resonates throughout the small room that’s outfitted with a table and four chairs. The dingy, cracked walls are pastel green.
If I were casting a commercial featuring a loving, cookie-baking grandmother, the woman—donning an unshapely cardigan over a frumpy blue dress, with salt-and-pepper hair, thick glasses, and a pockmarked face—would be perfect. “I’m Detective Rhonda Carson.” She places a digital recorder and a gold envelope on the table.
“Glad you could make it in, Mrs. Pritchard,” Detective Johnson says.
“I want to be as helpful as possible, and please call me Julia. This is my attorney, Stephen Miller.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” they say, nodding like Siamese twins. All their movements so far are synchronized. You can tell they’ve worked together for a long time.
“There was a TV show back in the 60s called Julia,” Detective Carson says through a toothy grin.
“There sure was. Diahann Carroll starred in that show,” Detective Johnson says, sounding star-struck. “I hear you’re in show biz yourself.”
“I had a hit sitcom ten years ago, and I’ve done a few movies.”
“Tough business,” Detective Carson says.
“Yes, it is,” I say, sweat beading on my neck.
Stephen apparently notices my discomfort. “Detectives, can we have some water? It’s a bit warm in here, and we have another scheduled appointment, so we’re hoping to get this interview done expeditiously. Julia’s daughter, Blythe, is joining us at our upcoming meeting, and you’re interviewing her next. So as you can imagine, time is of the essence.”
What appointment is he talking about? Oh, I get it. Wow, he’s an argute cookie.
The detectives seem apologetic. Detective Carson walks to the door and opens it. “Tammy, please bring a few bottles of water this way.”
“Yes, ma’am. Coming right up.”
She shuts the door and sits. Detective Johnson also sits, then folds his arms on the table. He looks me square in the eyes and says, “Julia, I want you to relax. This is a friendly interview. You’re not a suspect or a person of interest. And we apologize for the circus outside. Please know that we don’t base our investigations on what’s being said on social media or on the popular cable news shows. We’re about facts and truth. I’ll be asking all the questions,” he says. “Where were you born and raised?”
Surprised by that query, I’m momentarily stumped. Stephen nudges me out of my stupor. “I was born and raised in Lakewood, California.”
“How long have you lived in Dancing Hills?”
“Eleven years.”
“So you’re a native now. We’re sorry about your husband. We know you’re concerned and that you’ve filed a missing persons report.”
“Thank you,” I say, figuring that he’s playing the good cop.
The door opens, and the young officer sets four bottles of water on the table. Stephen opens a bottle and hands it to me. My hands are shaking so badly, I never would have gotten the cap off. I drink heartily, hoping the water will settle my nerves.
“Julia, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the DNA from the blood found in the trunk of your husband’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 numerous credit cards.
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 such as a laptop found. Nor was there any type of briefcase. We don’t believe he was robbed. And of course, we don’t have a body. The luggage was in the backseat. We believe your husband may at one time have been in the trunk of the car. Now whether he was alive or dead, we don’t know for a fact.”
Detective Johnson looks at me, seemingly studying my face, judging my reaction. I look toward Stephen, and he takes my hand. “I’m sorry, Julia,” Detective Johnson says. “Do you need a minute?”
I try to speak, but the lump in my throat chokes me. I grab the water and take a gulp. My eyes burn with tears. Images of Keith bleeding in the trunk of his car make my stomach turn. I didn’t know the blood was in the trunk. I assumed it was on the seat or on the console. My god, he’s dead. Who would kill him? And where is his body?
“Julia, do you need to take a break?” Stephen asks. “You’re shaking and perspiring.”
I look down at my juddering legs and nod. Sweat pours down my face. I reach into my purse for a tissue. Dammit, I’m having a hot flash on top of everything else.
“Detectives, can you give us a moment?” Stephen asks.
“Of course,” they say, leaving the room.
“I’m sorry, Julia.”
“I am too. He’s dead, Stephen,” I say, dabbing at my face.
“Not necessarily. It depends on the amount of blood that was found. I’m worried about you. You don’t have to continue with the interview. You’ve done your part. The police wanted you to come in to tell you about their findings. They have. Of course, they’re going to want to ask you questions. You don’t have to answer them. We can leave now.”
“But you said I should be cooperative.”
“True, it would look better if you stayed, and I’m here to intervene if necessary.”
“Let’s get it over with,” I say, repelling images of Keith’s corpse.
Stephen heads toward the door, opens it, and says, “We’re ready now.”
The detectives return and take their seats, their faces coated in sympathy. If they’re feigning it, they’re better actors than I am. “Julia, we’re deeply sorry,” Detective Carson says.
“How much blood was there?” I ask.
“A substantial amount,” Brian says, studying my face like he’s waiting for me to break down like a guilty person in a Perry Mason courtroom scene. “Julia, we need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper, rethinking the interview. Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead. I shift in my seat when Detective Carson reaches for the recorder.
“We’re going to tape the interview, so nothing is misconstrued,” Detective Carson says.
“That’s fine,” I say. I sit on my clammy hands and cross one leg over the other to keep myself from running out the door.
Detective Carson turns on the recorder, and Detective Johnson begins the interview.
“For the record, please state your full name, date of birth, and residence address.”
“Julia Wesley Pritchard; May 1, 1977; 3981 Retford Drive, Dancing Hills, California.”
“Julia, when was the last time you saw Keith?” he asks, looking at notes on his clipboard.
“The morning of Tuesday, June 13, at home.”
“What kind of mood was he in?”
“He was excited because he was flying to New York and then on to London on Wednesday for his roadshow. He was taking his investment banking firm public.”
“Did you see or talk to him later that day?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Was that because you had moved out by then?”
I free my hands and turn toward Stephen, taken aback by Detective Johnson’s bluntness.
“Keith’s assistant told officers Williams and Stone that you’re in the process of divorcing your husband and that you had moved out.”
“Detective, for the record, that’s hearsay,” Stephen says.
I smile internally, remembering the mock interview. Stephen had mentioned this would come up and that I could answer the question. Like Blythe had mentioned, my divorce filing is available to the public and of course to the police.
“She’s right. Keith and I are going through a divorce, and I was in the process of moving out. While he was getting ready for work Tuesday and after he had left for the office, Blythe and I were packing. I returned to the house on Wednesday, June 14, at approximately 10:30 a.m., to get the rest of our belongings. Keith was not at the house when I got there. I assumed he was on his flight to New York.”
“What time was he scheduled to leave?”
“Five in the morning. He and his team were flying out of Van Nuys on his private plane.”
“Why are you and your husband divorcing?”
I think about the mock interview again. Stephen said it was important to tell the police about the domestic violence because it will provide them a picture of Keith’s true character—a man who moves through life with no thought or consideration for others—a man who possibly has enemies that I’m unaware of. But I agree with Blythe. It gives me a motive. I’d rather not get into the abuse right now. I give Stephen a firm look, hoping he can read me. He said he wouldn’t make me say or do anything that I wasn’t comfortable with. After a few seconds, he speaks on my behalf. He gets me. I like that.
“You don’t have to answer that, Julia.”
Detective Johnson glares at Stephen, then continues. “So just to be clear, you have not seen or spoken to Keith since the morning of Tuesday, June 13?”
“Correct.”
“Does your husband have any enemies that you know of?”
“My husband is a hard businessman. I’m sure he’s rubbed a few people the wrong way.”
“Do you know of anyone specifically?”
“He and his business partner, Richard Calhoun, have had run-ins.”
“Do you think Mr. Calhoun has anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you know where Mr. Calhoun is at this time?”
“He’s in London with my husband’s other associates. My stepdaughter mentioned to me that Richard and the other bankers will be back in town on Saturday.”
“Is it possible your husband did harm to himself? I know you said he was excited about business, but could his exuberance have been a front? Maybe he had planned to do harm to himself all along.”
The shirt Martha found runs through my mind. But I keep the memory to myself and say, “No, I don’t think he would have hurt himself.”
“How long have you been married to Keith?”
“Eleven years.”
“Officers Williams and Stone said you had a bruise on your face when they visited you at home yesterday. They witnessed it themselves. It’s not hearsay.” He casts Stephen a snide look.
“That’s true. I fell.”
“Where were you Tuesday, June 13, between the hours of 6 and 8 p.m.?”
Stephen had advised me not to get into specifics. I consider my approach. We all share glances, the intensity among us almost palpable in the room’s small confines. “I was … uh … taking care of my mother.”
“Julia, who filed for divorce?”
“I did. And I signed a prenup. I’m leaving the marriage with nothing.”
“When did you find out Keith was missing?”
“Wednesday morning after 10 a.m. Blythe came to the house and told me Keith’s assistant, Kathleen, had called and left messages about Keith missing his flight. She had reached out to me too, but I had left my phone charging at my mother’s nursing home. So I never received the messages.”
“Why didn’t you report him missing at that time?”
“Things were unfolding so quickly we barely had processed what was going on before your officers showed up at the house. We were just about to report him missing.”
“According to his assistant, this trip was life-changing. She said there’s no way he would have missed his flight. And because of that she called us and reported him missing. But you didn’t.”
“Detective, as Mrs. Pritchard said, she was going to report him missing,” Stephen says.
“I understand.” He pauses. “Julia, was Keith abusive toward you?”
I look at Stephen, and he nods for me to answer. “Yes, he was abusive.”
“Have you ever reported him to the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he threatened to kill Blythe and me if I did.”
“How long did this go on?”
“For five years.”
“So you finally got fed up?”
“Yes.”
“You snapped.”
“You’re putting words in her mouth,” Stephen interjects.
“Forgive me. You decided to take action.”
“Yes. I decided to leave.”
“You and Blythe.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a team.”
“We love each other.”
“I see that. You’ve been through a lot together?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Detective, where is this line of questioning going? As I mentioned, we have—” Stephen says.
“An appointment. I understand. We’re done.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief, happy the interview is ending, but displeased that I still don’t have closure. “Detective Johnson, you mentioned there was a substantial amount of blood found in the trunk of my husband’s car. Does that mean he suffered a fatal wound? Could he still be alive?”
