Turning from the glass, he pressed his thumbs to his temples, recalling the frustration of seeing her pass the guard station into her Spyglass Hill development. Although getting past the gate presented little difficulty, doing so while following her was another story.
No matter, he thought. There are other ways.
Her class would be over in minutes. On Tuesdays she showered at the gym before driving to the school on San Joaquin Hills Road to pick up her children. He checked his watch, deciding he could take a steam bath and still be outside in time. He stared through the glass several seconds more, then decided that today was too important to leave anything to chance. Today he would talk with her. Maybe even touch her.
Whistling happily, Victor Carns headed downstairs.
Julie Welsh stopped on the health-club steps, rummaging through her purse for her keys. Irritated, she pawed through a jumble of tissues, makeup, and a handful of change. Giving up, she pushed a damp lock from her forehead, trying to remember where she had last seen them. Her locker? No, after showering she’d checked, making sure the locker was empty. The car? Oh, please God, not the car. The last time she’d locked her keys in the BMW, it had taken hours to get a locksmith, not to mention the expense. Worse, later that evening she’d had to suffer another infuriating lecture from her husband on the value of organization.
“Ah, there you are,” she said aloud, pulling a bulky key ring from her jacket pocket. She smiled, relieved she wouldn’t be butting heads with Wes again over what he termed her habitual lapses of memory.
Keys in hand, Julie hurried down the steps. Barring unforeseen delays, she would just be able to pick up Heather and Brian and make it to their orthodontic appointment on time. Barely. Upon arriving at the parking lot, however, she found a dark-haired man leaning against her car.
“Excuse me, is this your BMW?” the man asked politely. “I’m afraid I’ve damaged it.”
“What?”
The man smiled apologetically, using an expensive-looking gym bag to indicate a scrape behind the BMW’s left rear wheel. “I was backing out and clipped the fender,” he said. “Is this your car?”
Julie nodded, bending to examine the damage.
“I’m terribly sorry. Naturally, my insurance will cover the cost of repair.”
“It doesn’t seem too bad,” Julie said doubtfully.
“It may not look like much, but you know how expensive body work is these days,” the man insisted.
“Well…”
“Listen, I want to make things right. By the way, my name’s Jeff Millford.” Without removing his leather driving gloves, the man pulled a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper from his pocket. “At first I was simply going to leave a note, but I decided the right thing to do would be to wait.”
“That was nice of you, Mr. Millford. A lot of people would have just taken off.”
“Call me Jeff. Are you a member here? I feel as if I’ve seen you before.”
“I belong to the club. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you, though.”
“I usually do my workouts in the evening. Listen, this is sort of embarrassing, but I rushed out today without my wallet. I don’t have my license or insurance papers with me, but I can supply all the information you’ll need. That’s my car,” the man added, pointing to a blue Toyota in the adjacent space. “If you’ll give me your insurance details, I’ll report the accident to my carrier. They’ll get in touch with your company, or with you directly. Whichever you want.”
“My insurance company will be fine,” Julie sighed, realizing she would be late picking up the kids. She leaned into her car and spent several moments finding the insurance papers. “Here,” she said, handing the man a rectangular white card. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Won’t take a minute.” The man glanced at the card and made a quick entry on his pad, then ripped off the sheet and passed the pen and notebook to Julie. “I’m with Continental Casualty, but I don’t know the policy number,” he said, removing his gloves. “By the way, I noticed on your insurance certificate that you live on Montecito Drive. I have friends up there on Spyglass Hill. Do you have a view of the bay?”
“A slice,” Julie answered, jotting the names “Jeff Millford” and “Continental Casualty” on the pad, then adding an address and phone number he gave her moments later. She walked to the front of the blue Toyota and copied down its license number, too. “Well, thanks for waiting, Mr. Millford. I mean Jeff. Perhaps I’ll see you around,” she said as she tore off the sheet and dropped it into her purse.
The man’s fingers brushed Julie’s as he retrieved his pad and pen. “Perhaps,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You know how life is. We’ll probably meet again when you least expect it.”
12
After leaving headquarters, I made two quick calls on my way back across town. Although I realized it would take most of the afternoon to transfer my active cases to other members of the West LA homicide unit, I also realized that this might be my last chance for independent action on the Larson murders, and I wanted to make the most of it. My first call was to Philip Nostrant, a detective friend in Administrative Narcotics. He wasn’t in, so I left a message. The second call was to Graysha Hunt, the realtor whose name I had seen on the property listed for sale next to the Larsons’ house. Graysha was in, and although puzzled by my call, she agreed to meet me for lunch.
Forty minutes later, after parking on Twenty-Sixth Street in Santa Monica, I entered an open-air shopping mall with picnic tables and green umbrellas reading “Country Mart” on their canopies. I’d been there before and knew the food was great. Deciding to grab something to eat before finding the realtor, I crossed to a booth advertising deli sandwiches and barbecue. I squinted at a sign above the booth, briefly considering ordering a sandwich.
A leather-faced attendant wearing a “Grateful Dead” T-shirt scowled across the counter. “Made up your mind yet, bud? Sometime this century would be nice.”
“Chicken basket,” I said, deciding on my usual.
“You get fries or slaw with that.”
“Fries. And make ’em crispy.”
“You got it.”
Behind a glass shield, sizzling spits of whole chickens turned on a vertical roaster, one above the other, the juice from each spit dripping onto the next. The counterman removed the lowest spit and slid a well done bird from the metal rod onto a cutting board. After replacing the spit, he cut the bird lengthwise and sectioned one of the half-portions with shears, placing the pieces into a paper-lined basket brimming with French fries.
I paid for the chicken and picked up a quart of whole milk two stalls over. Food in hand, I started looking for Graysha. I finally spotted an attractive brunette in her late twenties sitting alone at a table near the back. As I approached, she looked up from her lunch. “Graysha Hunt?” I asked.
The woman nodded and extended a hand. “Detective Kane. I appreciate your meeting me here. I sometimes have to squeeze in lunch when I can.”
“No problem. I like this place, and I hadn’t eaten yet myself,” I said, briefly taking her hand in mine. Sliding onto a redwood bench across from Graysha, I glanced at her food, a tiny spinach salad with a parsimonious sprinkling of goat cheese. “That all you’re having?”
“It’s all I can afford.”
“Real estate market’s that bad?”
“You know what I mean,” Graysha laughed. Her voice sounded musical, like a tinkling of bells. “A girl has to watch her figure. What did you want to talk about, Detective?”
Direct. I liked that. “How long has that house you have listed on Michael Lane been on the market?” I asked.
Graysha withdrew a notebook from her purse and flipped through. “Over two months,” she answered, finding her place. “We haven’t had many showings, though.”
“Do you keep a record of prospective buyers who go through?”