Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay (21 page)

Ross didn’t seem aware of the slight and Madeline and Mike took it in stride. Ross had accurately pegged them as being neophytes. Madeline took out her iPad and went to work on
the contract.

“Ross, how about we amend our duties to include our own investigation into who killed your mother?”

Though Madeline had used her most diplomatic tone, there was a harshness and finality to her words. Ross reacted as though he’d just taken a punch in the gut. He drained what was left in his glass to steady his trembling hands. When he had regained his composure, he nodded
his consent.

“If you give me an email address, I can send this to you and you can sign it right away. Then we won’t have to intrude on your privacy again,” Madeline said, as she typed the pertinent information into the form fields of her P.I. app.

“I guess I need to write you a check…” Ross said, hands in his pockets, as the reality of what he was now engaged in
hit home.

“I have your mother’s retainer. I haven’t had a chance to calculate the amount of hours spent on this case so far, but I’m sure there’s still enough in the trust account to cover several days of investigation.”

Ross nodded imperceptibly before wandering over to stare out the window again. Madeline and Mike locked eyes and read each other’s thoughts. What they both silently agreed on was this was going to be a tough case. They would need to use every bit of their cunning and know-how—and maybe a little “beyond the grave” help from Burt Latham—to sort this one out. But as sad and unsavory as the job might be, they were thrilled to have a crack
at it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

It took only a few more minutes to get the paperwork finalized. Ross already seemed more like his normal self. Madeline understood from personal experience that people accustomed to being in charge functioned better in dire situations when they were able to take action.

“Thanks,” Ross said, shaking both P.I.’s hands as he walked with them toward
the door.

“We’ll do everything we can to locate the girl and get to the bottom of her story,” Mike said. Ross stopped abruptly as he took in what Mike had just said.

“Your mother apparently asked Helen to drive Teresa home last night. After leading Helen on a wild goose chase to Isla Vista, the girl jumped out of the car and disappeared into the darkness,” Madeline
informed him.

“Why the hell would she do something like that?” Ross demanded angrily.

“According to Helen, she fired the girl on the drive out to I.V.” Ross closed his eyes as if that would shut out this disturbing news. “I believe Helen did it out of a sense of loyalty to you,” Madeline suggested. “She said you had a problem with an undocumented worker on your payroll before.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. So now we have no idea who or where this
girl is.”

“Not at this time,” Mike said. “But we’ll find her.” Madeline looked at him askance. First rule of the P.I. business: never make claims you can’t guarantee. She smiled tightly to hide her irritation. At least Ross seemed somewhat comforted by
this pledge.

“Oh, one more thing before we go,” Madeline said, bringing them all to a halt again. “It would help our investigation tremendously if we could get a copy of any insurance riders you had for the missing items. Your mother told me you put her valuables under your policy when she moved in here. Is
that correct?”

“Yes,” Ross said, his glance straying as he tried to recall the details. “I’ll call my agent. I should alert them of their disappearance anyway,” he said, walking to his desk to make a note
to himself.

As he did so, all three became aware of several vehicles coming up the gravel drive. Even through the thick walls, the muffled sound of car doors closing and voices conferring could be heard. Ross ushered his visitors down the hallway just as Helen approached the front door from the other side of the house. She opened the door as Ross, Madeline and Mike came to a halt in
the foyer.

“How can I help you?” Helen asked, all business as she regarded the crowd of police personnel gathered on the front steps. Madeline recognized several of them from last night and other previous encounters with law enforcement. Detective Eames was leading the brigade followed by two detectives with the sheriff’s department, Loman and Pulaski. Eames flashed his badge in one hand and held up a piece of paper in
the other.

“We have a warrant to search this property, including the house, the grounds and any other structures on the grounds,”
he said.

“Does this have to happen now?” Helen asked indignantly. “The house is in mourning, as
you know.”

“Yes, ma’am, we do know. But it’s our job to solve this case, which is why we have to expand our search before any evidence can be removed or destroyed,” Detective Eames said, standing aside to let the uniformed
police in.

“My wife is under doctor’s care and is sedated right now. I do not want her disturbed,” Ross said, stepping forward to block the invasion. “Can’t this be done later?” he demanded to know.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Alexander. You have our sympathies for your loss, but I’m sure you can appreciate that we need to catch whoever did this to your mother,” Detective Eames said, guiding Ross out of the doorway so the others
could pass.

“I really resent this intrusion into our privacy,” Ross countered, his tone hard and unyielding. “What exactly are you looking for? Who signed that warrant?” he demanded. Eames handed the document to him. Ross smirked and handed it back. He took his cell phone from his pocket, his agitation growing as Eames pointed the team of investigators in
various directions.

“Judge Haskell happens to be an old friend of mine,” Ross informed the detective as he scrolled through his contacts. “I’m sure he would be appalled at this gross lack of consideration in our time of grief.” He found Lawrence Haskell’s cell phone number and placed
the call.

Detective Slovitch brought up the rear of the procession that seemed to Madeline to be a dozen-strong. He gave the others an inquiring look, as if to ask what the holdup was. Eames shrugged, his eyes shifting
to Ross.

“Larry? Ross Alexander.” Ross regarded the detectives as he paused to receive condolences from the judge. “Thank you. It has been a huge loss.” The detectives shifted uncomfortably as Ross lorded his influence over them. “Actually, there is something you could do…”

Ross turned toward his study as he conferred with the judge. Apparently the conversation hit a snag, for Ross’s body language signaled a change in his former confidence. He lowered his voice as he moved further away from the foyer. Slovitch and Eames exchanged knowing glances and Slovitch headed for
the staircase.

“What are you two doing here?” Eames asked the private investigators, his tone accusing
and blunt.

“We are here at the request of Mr. Alexander,” Mike said, matching Eames
in attitude.

“For
what purpose?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him, as we’re not at liberty to discuss our privileged conversation with anyone,” Mike replied coolly. Ross’s voice suddenly rose, momentarily putting a halt to the
muscle flexing.

“What do you mean you can’t rescind the warrant? You signed it.” Ross’s voice trailed off again as he shut the door to
the library.

“In case you failed to grasp the fact, your ‘partner’ is on the short list of suspects in the murder of Vivian Story,”
Eames said.

“You know that’s totally ludicrous,” Mike shot back. “In case your memory failed you, my ‘partner’ has herself been the victim of two very recent crimes—breaking and entering and attempted murder. With all that going on, do you seriously believe she has the motive or inclination to kill her own client? Doesn’t that strike you as just a
tad unlikely?”

“Could the two of you please stop talking as though I’m not here,” Madeline butted in. “I’m a suspect in the technical sense of being in the vicinity of the crime when it was committed, but so were four other people. And Mike makes a point that’s hard to dismiss. Plus, killing my own client when I know I’m going to show up on surveillance footage would be sheer stupidity. I sincerely hope the SBPD has a more sophisticated way of detecting
probable suspects.”

Mike wore a lopsided grin in appreciation of his partner’s chutzpah, while Eames’s cocky expression lost most of its smug authority. But the victory of MDPI over the law was short lived.

Ross returned to the foyer and thrust the warrant back at Detective Eames. “You can do your damn search for the item mentioned, but if any of you disturb my sleeping wife, I will sue your asses from here to doomsday. Do you understand me?”

In lieu of a response, Detective Eames folded the warrant slowly and placed it in his jacket pocket. Without a word, he headed up
the stairs.

Mike pressed in the last pushpin and stood back to regard the two incident boards. The one on the wall across from his desk was devoted to photos and other data regarding Vivian Story’s death and the disappearance of her jewelry. The board on the wall to the right was covered in index cards that laid out the timeline of the two crimes committed against Madeline. He backed up and rested against his desk next to her as they contemplated the two
complex cases.

“Okay,” he said, picking up his coffee, hoping the caffeine and the boards would bring the details into clearer focus. He took a sip and waited. Somewhere in all this information were the keys to unlocking three mysteries. Madeline got up and switched the order of two index cards and stepped off to the side to let Mike see
the changes.

“Why do I feel like the answers are staring us in the face?”
he asked.

“Because they probably are,” Madeline replied. “What are we missing?” She went back to her former vantage point, her head pivoting from one cork board to the other. She barked out a sharp,
ironic laugh.

“What
is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,”
Mike coaxed.

“I’m sure it’s just the product of an
overwrought mind.”

“Tell me,” Mike insisted. Madeline positioned herself between the two boards,
then hesitated.

“Never mind, it’s too farfetched,”
she said.

“Would you just tell me, for God’
s sake.”

“All right…the assault on me started with the death of Rick Yeoman…” she said, coming back to the desk to write his name on an index card. She moved the first card on her board down and placed the new one at
the top.

“You mean psychologically,”
Mike surmised.

“Yes. That should’ve been enough warning
by itself.”

“Warning against what, exactly?”

Madeline mulled this over.
What was Usherwood’s game plan?
The attempt on her life seemed to be the final blow that failed. If he was only trying to make her pay for her testimony against him, then all this would make sense and would be in keeping with his extremely warped sense of justice. It would also follow that he wasn’t through with
her yet.

“Of what’s to come,” she said at length.

“So, killing Yeoman and rearranging your furniture were the appetizers to the main course of a fatal car crash caused by compromised
brake lines…?”

“Yes. But the big crescendo fell flat. So, what does a devious sadist like Usherwood do to make up for his failure to kill me—
and you?”

“Try again?” Mike said after attempting to divine the answer from Madeline’
s expression.

“What if…” Madeline said as she pointed to both incident boards, “these two situations are
linked somehow…?”

“Vivian’s murder and your attempted murder?” Mike asked, clearly baffled by the suggestion.

“Yeoman’s death, the psychological assault on my home, the brake failure
and
Vivian’s death…” Mike still looked puzzled. “Okay, I know it’s sort of a stretch, but I’m finding it more than a bit curious that after almost being killed, I’m now considered a suspect in Vivian’s murder.”

Mike’s mouth went slack as he connected Madeline’s dots. “You’re suggesting Lionel Usherwood killed Vivian so you would be framed for her murder?” Hearing her wild notion repeated back to her by Mike’s unlikely voice of reason made her slump dejectedly. “Problem with that idea is the attempt on our lives happened after Vivian’
s death.”

“Right.” Madeline let out a self-deprecating laugh and rubbed her sore neck. “I told you I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was just a wild theory, anyway,” she said, returning to her perch on Mike’s desk. “I think I’ve gone too long
without sleep.”

“Maybe your theory’s not all that wild,” Mike said, getting to his feet as he examined both boards. “So far, we don’t have a clear motive-plus-opportunity combo with any of the five suspects, counting you. But the big question here is how would Usherwood gain access to the house when it was heavily guarded?” The question spurred him to
his computer.

“What are you looking up?” Madeline asked, coming around to look over his shoulder. What she saw was an aerial view of dense vegetation dotted with sprawling structures, land bisected by snaky gray paths she recognized as roads. Mike zoomed in closer to the Alexander estate, then shifted toward the rear of the property to the parcels directly adjacent to it.

He hit the plus sign again, and as the image refocused, they found themselves staring at what looked to be a subdivided parcel directly behind the estate, with several residences on it.

“I know that street,” Madeline said, checking her contacts on her cell phone for confirmation. “Lindsey Paul lives at the
very end.”

“Give me the address,” Mike said as he opened Google Earth. Madeline gave it to him and within seconds he was closing in on
the street.

“I can’t quite tell—is this
street gated?”

“No, but most of the individual properties
have gates.”

“How about your friend’s place?”
Mike asked.

“No gate. She runs a photography studio in her guesthouse, so people are always coming and going. And I wouldn’t call us ‘friends’ anymore,” Madeline said with a meaningful look. Not many of her former friendships survived the breakup of her marriage and the exposé of her ex-husband’s illegal business dealings. Many of those friends and acquaintances who didn’t take a sizable financial hit were still scandalized by the events that precipitated Madeline’s fall from the height of Montecito society and the incarceration of
Steven Ridley.