What the Widow Knew Page 8

  “Track practices on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Oh,” I said, momentarily stymied. “Would you happen to know where he lives? Maybe I can catch him at home.”

  “Somewhere on Maple,” the tallest of the girls offered. “My friend Jocelyn lives on the same court.” She clearly had forgotten the beware-of-strangers lesson.

  “Thanks.”

  Court was good. There would be a limited number of houses to canvass.

  I found Maple Court with the help of my navigation app, chose a house at random, and rang the bell. A woman answered.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong house. Theirs is about three houses down.” She stepped on onto the porch and pointed. “The one with the large tree in the yard.”

  I thanked her and moved on.

  The Alvarez house looked almost unlived in. Closed drapes darkened every window, and the lawn was overgrown and mottled with weeds. I rang the bell and was surprised when a woman answered. She was thin and pale, and her dark hair hung lank around her face . She stood behind the screen door.

  “Mrs. Alvarez?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for your husband. Is he around?”

  “No.”

  “Is he at work? Maybe I can catch him there.”

  She stood as still and silent as a statue.

  “It’s important I talk to him.”

  “Is this about the loan?”

  I couldn’t decide how best to answer so I opted for the truth. ““No, it’s . . . I’d like to talk to him about a mutual friend. Can you tell me where he works?”

  “At the BMW dealership.”

  She closed the door before I could thank her, or learn the location.

  I pulled out my handy-dandy, all-purpose smartphone and looked up BMW dealerships. The closest one was in Concord, about twenty minutes away. I called, verified that Alvarez did indeed work at that location, then drove out to shop for a new car.

  I hadn’t been in the showroom thirty seconds when I was approached by a smiling and very upbeat salesman. I could see by his name tag that he wasn’t Alvarez.

  “Actually,” I told him, “a friend recommended I talk to Mr. Alvarez. Is he around?”

  The man’s smile was gone in an instant. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  A stocky, middle-aged man in a neon-blue suit emerged from a back office and introduced himself as Leo Alvarez.

  “Which model were you interested in?” he asked in a booming voice. His eyes were close set, his face fleshy. He reeked of cologne.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure. Maybe you can give me an overview of what’s available.”

  Alvarez walked me around the showroom, highlighting the selling points of each model, suggesting I step in and see how it felt, then describing for me in detail all the features I should appreciate. He was a pushy, slick-talking salesman, the sort I’d have nothing to do with if I were actually shopping for a car.

  “Wow,” I said after slipping into and out of several cars, “there’s a lot to think about. Can you make a list of the cars I’ve seen today?”

  “Sure, have a seat.” He guided me to a desk and collected an assortment of brochures. “All models are going fast, though. We can hardly keep them in stock. And financing is really good right now so you’ll want to make a decision soon.”

  I looked helplessly at the brochures. “If you could spell some of this out for me in writing it would be really helpful. Just the highlights you pointed out to me. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  Begrudgingly, he pulled out a pad of paper and jotted down what I’d ask for, then handed me the sheet. I quickly glanced at the handwritten page, then looked away, afraid my expression might betray me. Leo Alvarez’s handwriting looked very much like the same angular script as the threatening note Ariel had found in her husband’s jacket pocket.

  SIXTEEN

  Although I was no handwriting expert, the penmanship struck me a similar enough to merit further investigation. I decided to swing by Ariel’s, pick up the note, and hand it over to ADA Huff along with the BMW summary sheet I’d picked up from Leo Alvarez. But when I slowed to pull into Ariel’s driveway, I saw Steve Abbot heading up the walkway toward her front door. He carried a large pizza box and what looked to be a bottle of wine. I changed my mind about stopping, and drove on.

  Sharing pizza and wine with a friend was hardly evidence of romantic entanglement, much less a conspiracy to commit murder, but I had a strange, uneasy feeling about the whole thing. Had I been blind to the possibility that Ariel had, in fact, killed her husband?

  The mantra among defense lawyers is that everyone, innocent or guilty, deserves a fair hearing, The legal system only worked when both sides were afforded competent counsel. And I honestly believed all of that was true. But I struggled to reconcile that fundamental tenet of justice with my own feelings and sense of right. I was far more comfortable representing clients I believed in.

  When I noticed work trucks were still in front of the house down the street, I pulled in there instead, and cautiously poked my head inside. The radio was blaring and two men were in the living room prepping it for paint.

  I called out, “Hello?”

  They looked my direction, then turned down the volume. “Is the music too loud? We forgot the windows were open.”

  “I’m not here about the music, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a couple of questions.” I stepped into the room. “I’m looking into a recent homicide that happened down the street. Were either of you working the night of October sixth?”

  “We just got started on this house yesterday,” one of the men replied.

  A third man appeared from another room. “Can I help you? I’m the project manager.”

  I explained again the reason for my visit.

  “I would have been here that night,” he said. “But I don’t recall seeing anything unusual. You think it was a break-in?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine.” The “we” might have been misleading but it wasn’t factually wrong. Sometimes my sense of “right” gets a little squishy.

  “You might contact the owner of this place,” the manager told me. “He has a couple of outside security cameras. I don’t know whether they store data or for how long, but it might be worth checking.”

  “Good idea.” I wrote down the owner’s name—Gary Monroe—and his phone number. “One of the neighbors saw a van parked on the street that night. Would that have belonged to one of the men on your crew?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t say for sure. I’d have to check to see who all was working that night.”

  I thanked him for his help and headed for my car.

  My phone sounded with Bryce’s ringtone.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Glenwood. Why?”

  “I thought we were going out for dinner tonight.”

  Dinner. How could I have forgotten about our date? I checked the time. “My God. I’m so sorry. I got tied up and didn’t realize it was as late as it is.”

  “I was worried when you weren’t here. I came by to pick you up, about got mowed down by an excitable dog, but no sign of you.”

  “I am really sorry. I can be home in about thirty minutes. Is that okay or would you rather we skip tonight?”

  He chuckled. “You can’t get out of it that easily. Of course I’ll wait. Some things are worth waiting for, Kali.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I berated myself all the way home. I’ve always considered my time with Bryce special, and something I eagerly looked forward to. I was looking forward to seeing him tonight, too, once I’d been reminded that we had a date. But I hadn’t simply lost track of the time. Until his call, our date tonight hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Nonetheless, we had a lovely dinner, accompanied by easy conversation fueled by a bottle of good cabernet. Bryce was looking into a ski lease for the upcoming winter, and eagerly pain
ted for me a romantic picture of the evenings we’d spend by the fire after a hard day on the slopes.

  “Winter is month’s away,” I teased. “Let me enjoy the fall while I still have it.”

  “I enjoy fall, too. As a matter of fact, I was thinking we should take a trip down the coast and visit some of the wineries in the Saint Ynez Valley.”

  It was a trip we’d taken several springs ago, and enjoyed. The wineries are less crowded and commercial than the ones in Napa. “I’d love that. What’s your schedule look like?”

  We settled on a couple of possible weekends and Bryce said he’d check hotel availability. That was one of the many things I appreciated about him. Bryce was a get-it-done kind of guy.

  Over desert—a decadent and rich flourless chocolate cake—Bryce put his hand on mine, entwining our fingers, and again raised the issue that lurked under the surface of every exchange lately.

  “Are you any closer to saying yes?”

  “Are you any closer to simply moving in?”

  “Too many complications,” he replied.

  “Like what?”

  “Giving up my condo, for example.”

  “So rent it out.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Being married doesn’t involve complications?” I asked.

  “It’s not the same.”

  Our discussions went in circles every time. The same circles, sometimes almost word for word. It was marriage or nothing. And Bryce wanted an answer.

  After dinner, he drove me home, walked me to the door, and kissed me in a way that sent a lovely tingle across my skin. But he didn’t stay the night.

  “I’ve got an early morning,” he said by way of excuse. But he’d had plenty of early mornings where he managed just fine leaving from my house.

  I took his early departure as a rebuke, perhaps rightfully deserved. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning with misgivings about Ariel, which were overshadowed by thoughts about Bryce.

  I loved him. I loved being with him. I missed him when he was gone. So what was my problem? He’d implied I was worth waiting for, but for how long? I knew from experience his patience had limits.

  I lay in bed in the morning trying to come to a decision. I envisioned alternate scenarios. In one, we were married. In the other, Bryce had moved on and I was alone. I sometimes found this approach helpful in deciding what felt right. In this case both options scared me. That’s why I thought we should try living together. But Bryce resisted.

  I gave up trying to reach a decision that morning and turned my thoughts to Ariel instead. There, at least, I could actually do something.

  Already agitated, I drank my coffee and scanned the morning paper. My mood wasn’t helped when I saw another article about the investigation into Warren’s death. Once again, the focus on Ariel was largely by innuendo and suggestion. And once again the byline was E.J. Masters.

  Who was this clown? And what was his fascination with Ariel?

  On the way into work, I called ADA Huff to tell him about the note from Leo Alvarez. When he didn’t answer, I left a message. Next, I called Gary Monroe about his security camera.

  “Does it save and store footage?” I asked after explaining my interest.

  “For a while. When was this incident?”

  I gave him the date.

  “You may be in luck. I usually clear things out after a week, but I’ve been out of town and haven’t gotten around to it yet. I don’t have time to check, but if you want to come by and take a look yourself, feel free. I’ll be in the office this afternoon.”

  I called Ariel to tell her I’d be by to pick up the note.

  “You’ve decided to give it to the police?” she asked when I arrived.

  “The prosecutor. The case is in his hands now.”

  She led me to the den. “What made you change your mind?”

  “I followed up on the boy you said Warren knew from the park. There’s a Danny Alvarez who hangs out there, and I think that might be who Warren talked to. I’ve obtained a sample of his father’s handwriting. It’s similar to the handwriting on the note. I’m hoping the authorities look into it.

  Ariel’s expression brightened. “So I won’t be a suspect any more?”

  “That’s the goal. It depends on whether the father looks like a viable suspect though.”

  “Did he say why he didn’t want Warren around his son?” Ariel handed me the note, still in the file folder. Her face registered alarm.

  “We didn’t discuss that.”

  “I’m certain Warren wouldn’t do anything . . . you know, anything wrong or abusive. What if that’s what the dad thinks? He could accuse Warren of all sorts of horrible stuff.”

  “It’s still not a justification for murder.”

  “But that would be so unfair to Warren. He’s not here to defend himself.”

  “We’ll deal with that if it becomes an issue. Right now, I’m interested in Huff’s focusing on someone besides you.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “Depends on what he learns about Danny’s father.” We were walking toward the door when I asked casually, “Have you seen Steve Abbot lately?”

  She faced me, arms crossed. “Why do you keep bugging me about him? I told you there’s nothing between us.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “Of course, I’ve seen him. Why shouldn’t I? I’m going through a terrible time. My husband is dead, the cops think I killed him, and people are spreading rumors about me. Even some of my friends are keeping their distance.”

  Despite my own suspicions, I felt bad for her. I understood the appeal of a friendly face in the midst of such emotional upheaval, and Steve was a friendly face.

  “You want to be careful how things appear,” I explained. “Especially right now when so many eyes are on you. You should consider how your actions might be portrayed if there’s a trial.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t want to give people reason to suspect you, that’s all.”

  “They already do.”

  “If people think you’re having an affair it only fuels the fire,” I explained.

  “So I’m supposed to lock myself in the house and never talk to anyone?”

  I wasn’t going to win that argument. “Speaking of which, have you talked to anyone in the press?”

  “No.”

  “Not even E.J. Masters?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The reporter who wrote the piece about Warren in today’s paper. I assume you’ve seen it? The same person wrote the earlier piece, too.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Totally one-sided, like he’s got something against me. I told you, everyone suspects me.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t crossed paths with Masters at some point?”

  “I never heard the name until you mentioned it. It’s some reporter named Maria who hounds me all the time. She shows up at my door with a cameraman just to film me refusing to talk to her.”

  Ariel stopped at the doorway and took a breath. “Sometimes it hits me all over again, out of nowhere,” she said. “Warren is dead. I won’t ever see him again.”

  “I know this is painful for you. And distressing.”

  She nodded, blinking back tears. “More than you can imagine.”

  ~*~

  I took the note back to the office, where I made a copy and again called Huff. This time he picked up. Returning my call from that morning had clearly not been a priority for him.

  “There’s something I think you should see.” I told him about the note.

  “You don’t find it odd, and rather convenient, that your client just now found it?” His skepticism was evident in his tone.

  “No, I don’t. She was packing up her deceased husband’s clothing and found it in a jacket pocket.”

  Huff ignored me. “Have you had a chance to talk to her about cooperating with us? It would be much easier on her in the long run.”


  “She’s not interested in going to prison for something she didn’t do,” I told him. “I’ll drop off the original note and the sample of Leo Alvarez’s handwriting this afternoon. I hope you’ll look into it.”

  “And I hope you’ll talk to your client.”

  Once I was off the phone, Jared came into my office carrying a notebook. “I’ve got more information on Ariel’s former boyfriend, Kirk Miller.”

  “You still pushing for that trip to Florida?”

  He laughed. “It wouldn’t do much good. Kirk moved to Santa Cruz about six months ago. He works construction and appears to have stayed clean since his release from prison.”

  Santa Cruz, a mere two hours away. It would be an easy drive to the Bay Area.

  “Any idea why he moved here to California?” I asked.

  “Nope. Should we dig deeper? See if he has it in for Ariel?”

  “Let’s hold off a bit. I’m on my way to examine the surveillance tape of the neighborhood the night of Warren’s death. We’ll see what that shows.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Gary Monroe’s real estate and property management office was in a sprawling business park in Concord. His secretary showed me to a small conference room and informed me that Mr. Monroe would be with me shortly.

  The man himself bustled in not long after, hurriedly shook my hand, brushed a hand through his hair and asked, “This is about a murder, you said?”

  “A suspicious death.”

  He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “That’s going to make selling the house difficult. People get nervous about crime. Is this one of those gruesome things that will be splashed all over the headlines?”

  “Probably not.” It seemed easiest to give him the answer he was hoping for.

  “What was the date you were interested again?”

  “October sixth.”

  He turned on the video screen and handed me the control. “Press here to stop and start. This other button is fast forward, and the one below it is reverse. The sixth should be about halfway through. I hope you’ve got lots of time. Even sped up, it’s going to take a couple of hours to go through.”