B006JIBKIS EBOK (9 page)

The picture was in color and had been taken in front of a church alter. Jarvis had a head full of hair, hanging just below his ears. The bride was looking up at him with a large smile. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders, black under the white lace of the cap and veil. She wasn’t the Connie Sanborne I knew.

“Let me show you a picture of the woman whose death I’m investigating,” I said, pulling the picture of Connie taken by my pool that hot summer day. “Do you recognize her?”

“No,” he said. “Can’t say that I do. Are you sure this woman graduated from Northwestern at the same time as my Connie? There couldn’t have been two people with the same name without Connie knowing about it.”

I put the picture back in the inside pocket of my suit coat. “That ‘s the information I was given, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” We shook hands, and he showed me to the door.

I settled into my rental car, turned the ignition, placed the seatbelt in the prescribed position, and was about to leave, when I heard Jarski call to me. He was coming down the sidewalk at a fast pace, and came around to the driver’s side of the car. I hit the power button to lower the window.

“May I see that picture again?” he asked.

I dug it out of the pocket of my coat laying on the passenger seat, and handed it to him. He studied the picture intently for a minute or so.

“You know,” he said, so low I could hardly hear him. “I may know this woman. If it’s who I think it is, she had long black hair, and worked with my wife for awhile in Chicago.”

“What’s her name?”

“If I’m right, this is a woman named Vivian Pickens. I only met her once, and that was before we left Chicago. But she and Connie were pretty close for awhile. Connie gave me a list of people to notify of her death, and Vivian was one of them. I dropped her a card a few weeks after the funeral.”

“What kind of work did Connie do in Chicago?” I asked.

“She was a social worker, but after Lisa was born she stayed home.”

“Do you still have Vivian’s address?”

“I think so. Come on back inside.”

We climbed the steps to the porch and went into the living room. He went to the writing desk, opened the middle drawer and came back with a sheet of paper with typewritten names and addresses.

“This is the list of people Connie wanted notified,” he said as he handed me the paper.

Vivian’s name was next to a street address in Chicago. I noticed several other names that did not mean anything to me, and the Office of Alumni Affairs at Northwestern University.

“Did you notify the Alumni Office at Northwestern too?” I asked.

“Yeah. I made sure I let everyone on the list know. I guess Connie wanted to have her death listed in the Alumni magazine so that people she had known in college would know.”

“This is strange,” I said. “I got your address from the Alumni Office and was told that Connie’s death had been reported about four years ago, and then a few days later, they got a call from Connie telling them that she had divorced you, and that you must have sent the death notice out of spite.”

“That’s absurd,” he said, his voice rising. “Why in the world would anyone want to do something like that?”

“I don’t know, but maybe I can find out. Did you meet Connie in college?”

“No, I went to the University of Chicago to graduate school. Connie had finished Northwestern and was working at a half-way house for women near the UC campus. I actually met her while waiting for a bus one day.”

“What kind of place was the half-way house?”

“It was a place for women who had been released from prison but hadn’t completed their sentences yet. The state would send them to this half-way house, where they could go to work during the day and have a structured environment in which to live. They got job training and help in finding a job. It was really quite successful, but Connie seemed to burn out after a few years. She was glad not to have to go back to work, I think.”

“Was it run by the state?”

“No. It was run by a private foundation. I think someone had given the foundation a lot of money at some point, and it ran this place as a non-profit. It was called the Grant Settlement House.”

“Is it still there?” I asked.

“As far as I know. It had been in business for thirty or so years when Connie worked there. They’re on East 63rd Street, almost right under I-94. In fact, the address for Vivian is the same as for the Grant.”

“You’ve been a big help, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry I had to bother you.”

“Look, Mr. Royal, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you find out that someone is impersonating my wife, I’d like to know about it.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out Dr. Jarski.”

Chapter 11 

My airline guide book told me that the first flight I could get out to Midway Airport in Chicago was at six o’clock the next morning. I found a motel off the interstate near the airport and checked in. I ate a greasy country fried steak dinner in the motel coffee shop, and headed for my room. I read a few chapters of Dennis Lehane’s latest novel and went to sleep.

I got up early, dressed and drove to the airport, turned in my car and took the shuttle to the terminal. I boarded an American Trans Air flight, a small passenger jet, and was offered a cup of coffee and a sweet roll for breakfast. I arrived at Midway at 7:30, rented a car at the Hertz desk, got into a new Chevrolet and left. I took 63rd street out of the airport and drove the few blocks to the Grant Settlement House.

Just as I was parking the car, my cell phone rang. It was Logan.

“How are you, buddy?” he asked.

“Great. Look Logan, was Connie a real red head?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You saw her naked.”

“Oh. Nah. She was red on top and black on bottom. Like a Georgia football player. Why?”

“Not funny, Logan. I was just wondering. How are you doing?”

“About the same. Still moving around. Where are you?”

“In Chicago.”

“Chicago. What the hell are you doing there?”

“I’ll tell you later. Call me in a couple of days. Gotta go now.” I clicked the off button on the phone and got out of the car.

The Grant Settlement House was a four story nondescript building, set in a block of buildings that looked much the same. A glass double door had its name painted at about eye level. I pushed through the door and found myself in a small reception area that was furnished with two straight back chairs and a sofa that looked a little more comfortable. There was a green metal desk in front and to the side of a door that I assumed led to the rest of the building. A woman in some kind of uniform sat at the desk. She was about forty with close cropped brown hair going to gray. She was trim, wearing glasses and a smile. Her uniform shirt, open at the neck, had a badge and a shoulder patch with a private security firms logo.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes. I’m trying to find out some information about a woman who worked here several years ago. Is there someone I can see who might help me?”

“I’m sure our Ms. Turner would be the one to see. She’s the director. Have a seat and let me see if she can see you now.” She picked up a phone and turned her back to me, speaking softly. She hung up and said, “Ms. Turner will be right out.”

I took a seat on the sofa. I was still wearing my lawyer suit and tie, and felt like a professional. I wondered what kind of woman Ms. Turner would be. Probably some matronly type, I guessed. I was right. A woman of about sixty came through the door and approached me. She was a few pounds overweight with gray hair hanging almost to her shoulders. She wore a green dress, a gold wedding band on her ring finger, and no other jewelry. She was smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Cynthia Turner,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Matt Royal, Ms. Turner. I’m interested in a woman who used to work here. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

“Certainly. Come on back. I’m not sure how much help I can be, given confidentiality restraints. Who are you interested in?”

We went through the door behind the receptionist and down a corridor with offices on either side. We turned into the fourth office, which was furnished with a metal desk like the one in front, and a couple of old side chairs.

“Connie Sanborne,” I said.

“Forgive the offices, Mr. Royal. We operate on a tight budget and take a lot of government cast-offs for our furniture. May I ask what your interest in Connie Sanborne is?”

“Did you know her?”

“I’ve been here since the beginning, Mr. Royal, more than forty years. I know everyone who ever worked here.”

I gave her one of my cards, one of the real ones that identified me as Matthew Royal, Attorney at Law, Longboat Key, Florida. “I’m looking into the murder of a woman whose name was Connie Sanborne, and I have been told that she worked here some years ago.”

“Yes, Connie worked here after she graduated from Northwestern. But she married a boy from U of C and moved to Iowa, I think. But I don’t understand. Her husband wrote me a note a few years back saying that Connie had died of breast cancer.”

“I just left her husband in Des Moines. I don’t think I’m dealing with the same Connie Sanborne, but the murdered woman claimed to have graduated from Northwestern the same year that your Connie did. Yet, the alumni office only has a record of one Connie Sanborne.”

“What is your interest in this, Mr. Royal, if I may ask?”

“I’m representing the man who is accused of killing Connie.”

I pulled out the picture of Connie taken by my pool, and handed it to Ms. Turner. “Is that Connie Sanborne?”

“Oh, no. This doesn’t look anything like Connie.”

“Do you recognize this woman?”

“No. She doesn’t look familiar.”

“Does the name Vivian Pickens mean anything to you?”

“Why, yes. She was one of our clients.”

She looked at the picture again, studying it intently.

“If you imagine long black hair on the woman in the picture...”

“Of course,” she interrupted. “This is Vivian. Was she murdered?”

“The woman in that picture was murdered in Longboat Key about six weeks ago. She used the name Connie Sanborne, though. I’d never heard Vivian’s name until yesterday. You said she was one of your clients. What does that mean? It was my understanding that she worked here.”

“Mr. Royal, what I’m about to tell you is mostly a matter of public record, and some of it is gossip. But I guess it can’t hurt Vivian now.”

She told me this story. Vivian Pickens was from somewhere down south. She had come to Chicago when she was sixteen, running from an abusive parent. She waitressed for a while in coffee shops and fast food joints, and began to experiment with drugs. Her salary and meager tips could not keep pace with the drug bills, and one night she had sex with a dealer for a vial of crack. It was easy. She tried this a few more times, and then started sleeping with men for money to feed her growing habit. Within two years of coming to Chicago she was working as a call girl in a ring run by a pimp known as Golden Joe. She sold her body and provided her johns with cocaine. When she was twenty-five, she was arrested and charged with prostitution and the sale of cocaine. She was tried, convicted and sentenced to eight years in prison. She had spent four years at the Illinois women’s prison and was released to the Grant Settlement House.

It was at Grant that Vivian had met Connie, who was the social worker assigned to her. Vivian was an innately intelligent woman and had taken some business and secretarial courses while in prison. She had used those skills at Grant and became sort of an assistant business manager for the foundation. Vivian had been good at it, and was considered a great success. She and Connie were the same age and had become close. Connie once told Ms. Turner that she, Connie, might have ended up the same way Vivian had if she had come from the same background.

Vivian had spent one year at the Grant, as it was called, and was ready to venture out on her own. She was put on probation and found a job at an accountant’s office a few blocks north of the University. She would stop in periodically, but eventually the visits stopped. Some time after the visits had ended, Vivian’s probation officer called the Grant looking for her. She had missed two mandatory meetings, and a warrant would be issued for her arrest if she missed another.

A few weeks later Ms. Turner called the probation officer to inquire about Vivian. She was told that Vivian never showed up again, and that a warrant had been issued for her arrest. This was about the same time that Ms. Turner had gotten the note from Dr. Jarski telling her about Connie’s death. She’d had never heard anything about Vivian again.

“We have a lot of success stories here, Mr. Royal, but we can’t save them all. Some of these women never get their lives straightened out. I thought Vivian would be one who did.”

“Perhaps she did, Ms. Turner. If the woman in that picture is really Vivian Pickens, she came to Longboat Key as Connie Sanborne and started a new life. She was the sales manager for one of the beach hotels, and she had a lot of friends.”

Mrs. Turner expressed her regrets about Vivian’s death, and gave me the name and address of Vivian’s probation officer. I thanked her and left the building.

I sat in my car at the curb and called Bill Lester on my cell phone. After identifying myself to the police department operator, I was put through.

“Where the hell are you, Matt?” Bill asked.

“In Chicago. Look, Bill, don’t you routinely fingerprint murder victims?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. But first, tell me if you ran Connie Sanborne’s fingerprints.”

“I’m sure the medical examiner printed her, but there was no need to run the prints. We all new who she was.”

“Maybe not, Bill. Do me a favor and run Connie’s prints through the FBI computer.”

“I guess I can do that, but why?”

“I don’t think the person we thought was Connie was really named Connie Sanborne.”

The chief let out a slow exclamation of breath. “Wow,” he said. “Then who the hell was she?”

“I have an idea, but I’d like you to run those prints for me and let me know what comes up.”

“Okay. If she was ever printed anywhere, I should have the information in a couple of hours. Where can I reach you?”

I gave him my cell phone number.

I suddenly remembered that I had not had breakfast. It was almost mid-morning, and the day was getting hot; an unusually warm Spring in Chicago. I spotted a coffee shop at the corner and left the car and walked down the street. The neighborhood was decaying. The signs were everywhere. Graffiti were on the walls of many of the building, and no attempt had been made to clean it off or paint over it. Some of the buildings were empty, with large slabs of plywood covering the windows. I guessed that thirty years before this had been a neighborhood shopping district with small shops and grocery and hardware stores. Down a side street I saw what must have been a trucking terminal of some kind. There were about a dozen semi trucks backed into a loading dock, but otherwise the street was deserted.

I opened the door to the coffee shop, which bore a computer printed sign that said, “Home of the bottomless cup of coffee.” A blast of air came shooting down from some kind of overhead contraption, startling me. I shut the door and the air stopped. A waitress standing by the door chuckled. “It keeps the bugs out,” she said. The small restaurant was awash in air conditioning, the cups of coffee before the diners steaming in the cool air. A television set perched on a shelf high up in a corner, placed so the patrons could see it. CNN was running a newscast about Governor Wentworth and his chances of getting his party’s nomination for President. There was a counter along the length of the shop and booths against the window. The counter seats were taken by burly men and two hard looking women. I assumed these to be the drivers of the rigs parked down the block. I was definitely out of place with the lawyer look. They probably thought I was a pimp.

I took a seat in a booth and ordered eggs over easy with grits and white toast. The waitress, a small boned middle aged woman in a pink uniform and hair net, informed me that she did not have grits, but that I could have hash browns. I told her that was okay. I asked for coffee, no cream. She said, “You can’t get it here without cream. You can get it without milk, though.” She hooted at her joke and walked off.

I sat and reviewed what I knew. I was feeling a little out of sorts. How could Connie or Vivian or whatever her name was have fooled all her friends so badly? I was a little angry at Connie/Vivian because she had made a fool out of me and the others. Then I mentally kicked myself, thinking, “You idiot. Think what that poor woman must have gone through.” I wondered how Vivian could have turned herself into Connie so easily, but as I thought about it, I knew it wasn’t that hard.

They were close to the same age, and Vivian knew enough about Connie to handle any idle questions. She knew where Connie was born, so it would have been easy for her to go to Connie’s hometown and get a certified copy of her birth certificate. She probably had access to Connie’s social security number from her work at the Grant, and could adopt it as her own. She would have gone to a driver’s license bureau in Des Moines, identified herself as Connie Sanborne and told them that she had lost her driver’s license. With the birth certificate and proper social security number, she would have had no trouble getting a duplicate license issued. When she got to Florida she would only have had to turn that license in at any Florida Driver’s license office and gotten a Florida license issued. It was simple. With the license and birth certificate, she had a new identity. She also now owned a degree from Northwestern University, and assuming that a prospective employer did not check too far back, she would have no trouble getting a job. Unless you were trying to find employment in a classified government agency, there was not much of a check done on anyone. The human resources manager of the typical employer might send a routine inquiry to the college to make sure that the employee had the degree she said she did, but that would be the end of it. That is about what happened to Connie, I thought. She had made herself into a different person by taking a dead woman’s identity. But why?