Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay (25 page)

There, on the cold metal table lay the body of Teresa Maria Alvarez. The wide gash across her throat caused Madeline to rear back in horror. Though she had suspected the worst after Slovitch’s call, she hadn’t been sufficiently prepared for the sight of such brutality. Clean and even as the wound was, it was impossible not to imagine the act that had ended this sweet young woman’
s life.

“Can you identify her as the girl in the
surveillance videos?”

“Yes. This is the girl known as Teresa Maria Gomez. She was the companion to Vivian Story. She’s the one seen leaving with Helen Bagley
last night.”

Madeline related this information as though she were reading it from a script. At the sight of the lifeless Teresa, her mind had shifted to autopilot, allowing her to detach from her emotions long enough to get through the heartbreaking task. Even so, she had a hard time steadying her
trembling legs.

As Dr. Ferguson replaced the sheet over the young Latina’s face, Madeline brought up her hand to stop him. Ferguson looked to Detective Slovitch, who nodded
his consent.

Madeline bent down for a closer examination. On both sides of Teresa’s neck, above the deadly gash that cut clear through her windpipe, were two faint red marks,
almost identical.

“What do you make of these?” Madeline asked the coroner.

A subliminal message passed between Slovitch and Ferguson. “Offhand, I’d say they look like marks made by yanking a chain from the victim’s neck,” Ferguson said. “We’ll know more when we start
our tests.”

“Did you see her wearing anything like that last night?”
Slovitch asked.

Madeline thought back. She remembered Lauren and Teresa standing in the foyer as they arrived ahead of the other partygoers. She recalled how pretty and excited Teresa had been, wearing a pale pink dress and matching jacket… She shook her head as the detail of jewelry eluded her memory. “I have seen her wearing a medallion on a thin gold chain, but I can’t be sure she had it on last night. There might be photos of her with Vivian at the party. I assume you have the contact info for the photographer and videographer… I would check with them,” Madeline said.

She avoided making eye contact with the men because she wasn’t telling all she knew. It surprised her that she would consciously withhold information, but then again, this didn’t seem the time or place to share her visit to Enrique Alvarez with the authorities. She couldn’t help wondering if Enrique and Teresa wore matching medallions in lieu of
wedding rings.

Turning to Ferguson, she asked, “Do you have an approximate time
of death?”

“She’s been dead for more than twelve hours,” the coroner replied, keeping his answer vague. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
But will you tell me?
Madeline
wondered doubtfully.

Slovitch motioned to the coroner and gently drew Madeline away from the dead girl by her elbow. As they exited the morgue, Detective Slovitch brought them to
a halt.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know that couldn’t have been easy, but it will save us a lot of time getting
her data.”

“I doubt you’ll find her in any database,” Madeline said, her voice flat and emotionless. She turned to face Slovitch. “As you know, I was hired by Vivian Story to do a background check on her. I only got a break today when I traced the ownership of the cell number she listed on her application.”

Slovitch recoiled slightly at this admission. “What else do you know about the dead girl you haven’t told us?” he asked, his officious tone grating against Madeline’s already
frayed nerves.

“Let’s not forget that I just learned of her death,” she countered. “Until twenty minutes ago, I was still trying to track
her down.”

“You knew she was missing?”

“Yes.” Madeline hesitated before telling Slovitch about her encounter with Enrique Alvarez and their child, who was now motherless. As she recounted their conversation, she became increasingly saddened by the fate that had befallen the little family. It pained her even more to imagine the police breaking the news of Teresa’s death to the already
distraught Enrique.

“What’s the address?” Slovitch asked. Madeline hesitated. Slovitch gave her an exasperated look, trying to shame her
into compliance.

“I did you a favor by coming down here. Let me break the news to her husband.”

Slovitch looked at his watch. “I’ll give you a twenty-minute head start,”
he said.

Mike had remained in the waiting room while Madeline made the identification. He nodded circumspectly to Slovitch before ushering his partner out to the car. Sensing her mental state, he walked her around to the passenger’s side and held the door open as she got in. It wasn’t until they pulled out of the parking lot that he broke
the silence.

“Are you okay?”

There was a lot of information packed into her irritated snort.
No, she was not okay. How could she be after all that had happened in less than a day? Two sweet, gentle women had been callously murdered, and she had no
idea why.

“Where to?” he
tried again.

“Back to Enrique’s. Slovitch is letting me break the news to him.” Mike knew better than to weigh in on that idea. He got back on the freeway, cruising at a respectable speed, giving Madeline all the space she needed. It didn’t take long for her to test her most reliable
sounding board.

“I just don’t understand this,” she said, averting her eyes out the window. “Helen takes Teresa out to I.V., where she bolts, and her body ends up on Rattlesnake Trail. That’s got to be at least ten
miles away.”

“Do we know if she was killed at the scene or taken there afterwards?”

Madeline rubbed her shoulder. They were at a distinct disadvantage in their roles as private investigators. “No. We don’t know. They do, but they aren’t saying much.” Madeline let out a rueful huff and fell quiet for a moment. “I wish I knew if they have CCTV out in Isla Vista,” she thought
out loud.

“We could have a look for ourselves. Or we could
ask Slovitch.”

“We might have to take a drive out there,” Madeline said. She became silent again, but now Mike’s mind was churning with hypotheses.

“Maybe Helen made that whole story up…”
he suggested.

“Believe me, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I just can’t
imagine why.”

“Well, Teresa was a thorn in her side, right, for being an illegal in her employ? Maybe she fired her and forced her out in a bad part of Santa Barbara, like around the baseball field on Cabrillo. A lot of crazy shit goes on down there…murders, attempted murders, rape—”

“All right, I get your point,” Madeline
said irritably.

“Sorry…just brainstorming…”

“I know. I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Enrique…” her voice trailed off and she bit her lip to keep from crying.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Mike pulled up in front of the duplex this time. He opened his door, thinking he was going to accompany her, but Madeline said she preferred to do
it alone.

The front door opened as Madeline approached. Mike could see Enrique, the terse exchange before he let her into the house. Mike knew he should use the time to assimilate all that had transpired since Vivian Story was found dead, but he was too anxious about Madeline. She hadn’t been under this kind of stress since her sadist of a husband had torn her life apart and nearly succeeded in getting her killed.

On top of the murders of Vivian and Teresa, Madeline also had to cope with the resurfacing of Lionel Usherwood. Mike hadn’t had the chance to tell her the latest on that front. Now he was afraid to even mention it. Out of sheer nervousness, he got out of his car and paced back and forth, continually checking his watch for lack of anything better
to do.

After fifteen minutes of weaving an unproductive path beside his car, Mike heard Enrique’s door open. He waited until Madeline was on the front walk before going around to her side to let
her in.

“Where to now?” he asked as he started the car. Madeline opened her mouth to speak and suddenly burst
into tears.

“Can we just get out of here?” she asked, shielding her face with her hands. There was so much to mourn on top of so much to process. As the sobs broke from her chest, Madeline wasn’t sure who she was crying for. All she knew for certain was that there was a lot more pain yet
to come.

THIRTY-ONE

“Do you know where the trailhead for Rattlesnake Canyon is?” Mike shook his head. “Okay, I’ll tell you how to get there. I think the quickest way from here is to take A.P.S.”

Mike got in the left hand lane and made a U-turn, heading north. He had been driving aimlessly while Madeline unburdened herself of the sorrow that had finally overwhelmed her. Now, despite bloodshot eyes, she had sprung back into her role of private investigator. If there was one thing Madeline did especially well, it was compartmentalizing her life. Now she was all business, as good a defense against uncertainty as she could erect.

When they pulled up to the entrance to Skofield Park, they realized by the number of TV station vans present that Teresa’s death had already been picked up by the
local media.

“Oh perfect,” Madeline said dejectedly as Mike scouted out a place to park.

“Maybe they know something we don’t,” Mike said, his cheery optimism earning him a cynical look from his partner. As Madeline got out of the car, she recognized Julia Cummings, one of the reporters from the Santa Barbara station. Her first instinct was avoidance, but Mike’s comment made her reassess the opportunity. Instead of ducking out of sight, Madeline walked straight into Julia’s line
of vision.

Julia wrapped up her report and made a beeline for Madeline, whom she had been acquainted with for several years, long before Madeline Ridley, socialite and fundraiser, had transformed into Madeline Dawkins, event coordinator and sleuth.

“Madeline!” Julia called out amidst the confusion of reporters, police personnel and curious locals. Pretending to acquiesce, Madeline came to a halt and waited for Julia to catch up. Mike, sensing her game, gave the women a wide berth and wandered up to where the police had strung up an impressive amount of crime
scene tape.

“Julia,” Madeline said, wearing the expression of
captured prey.

“Is it true that you were the coordinator for Cherie Alexander’s party last night?” Julia asked conspiratorially. What she really wanted to know was if Madeline had an inside scoop on the death of Vivian Story.

“I can’t really talk about that,” Madeline said, looking over her shoulder as if she expected spies. “Confidentiality, you know…” A reporter and camera man from a rival station traipsed past on their way to the cordoned off site.

Julia pulled Madeline aside to make sure she got the full message in her loaded look. The subliminal message Julia was sending was this:
don’t forget I gave you a pass when the news about your criminal ex hit
the airwaves.

Madeline responded with an aloof expression that said:
don’t give me that—you were as blood thirsty as the rest of them.
Julia got the message and covered the sting of it with a
faltering smile.

“Isn’t there anything you can give me without breaching confidentiality?” she asked. “I mean, really—Ross Alexander and his mother are public figures. They’re used to being hounded by the press. It comes with the territory. Besides, the law says they’re fair game.” Madeline let out a haughty sniff and turned to leave.

“Madeline, wait. What are you doing here?” Julia asked, belatedly realizing how odd it was that she should turn up at this crime scene. Madeline smiled tightly, as though she’d been
caught out.

“What do you know about this?” Julia asked, motioning with her head to the activity behind her. When Madeline just regarded her silently, Julia got the message:
tit for tat, her
turn first.

“A young Hispanic woman was found here around seven a.m. this morning. The authorities don’t know who she is, or if she’s even from around here.
Your turn.”

“That much I know already. Are they saying if she was murdered here or if they think she was killed elsewhere and dumped here?” Madeline asked, ignoring Julia’s demand for reciprocation.

“They aren’
t saying.”

“I thought you were an ace reporter,” Madeline said a little louder than Julia liked. Julia glanced around and pulled Madeline away from the foot traffic.

“You can’t really see any blood up there. From what I was told—and if it gets out, they’ll know who leaked it—she had a pretty deep cut across her throat. With that kind of injury, there would’ve been plenty
of blood.”

“Why can’t you report that?”
Madeline asked.

“The next of kin hasn’t been found and notified yet. They don’t want anyone finding out on TV that their daughter or sister has been slain in some savagely gruesome way. Now, you tell me, what’s the scoop with Vivian Story?”

“How much do you know?”

“Only what I’ve read in the tabloids,” Julia said.

“Which is what?”

“That her daughter-in-law did it. That a crazed, eighty-year-old fan who had been stalking her for months did it. That she hung herself because she had Alzheimer’s… all that loony kind of stuff.” Now Madeline was in a spot because she really couldn’t give
Julia anything.

“I can pretty much confirm it wasn’t the latter,” she said. Julia laughed feebly, as if Madeline were making a joke.

“That’s it?” she asked incredulously as Madeline went mute. “Does that mean Cherie Alexander did it?” Julia
asked excitedly.

“With dozens of people around her? Don’t let your imagination run away
with you.”

“You were there—who do they suspect?” That question made Madeline look away, lest the reporter’s nose got a whiff of her unease about being on the short list of
potential suspects.

“It’s been pandemonium over there. You do know that almost a hundred Hollywood hotshots were in attendance…and every one of them had to have their statements taken…?” Julia’s eyes grew big as she envisioned such
a scene.

“I knew there was a grand soiree going on when it happened, but I didn’t know the extent of it. Whoa. That must’ve been
a mess…”

“It was,” Madeline confirmed. Julia looked lost in thought for a moment before remembering
her mission.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” she said irritably. Just as she was putting the screws to Madeline again, Mike came walking down the path from where the body was discovered. With a wag of his head, he let Madeline know he had gotten everything he could out of the cops at
the site.

“Sorry, Julia—I’ve got to go. My partner’s leaving…” With that, Madeline slipped away, leaving a very pissed-off reporter in
her wake.

“Madeline, wait!” she called out. The P.I.s quickened
their pace.

“Did you learn anything?” Madeline asked once they were out of hearing range. Mike gave her a look that said he was insulted by her lack of confidence in him. “Okay, tell me,” she said, opening the passenger’s side door. Mike smiled to himself; he’d rather see Madeline feisty
than depressed.

“No blood at the scene, other than what was on her clothes. The sheriff’s department is out en masse in I.V. with K-9 units, while the rest are canvassing door to door. We’ll see,” Mike said doubtfully. “What about you? Did you pick up
anything useful?”

“Not really. We clearly know more than the press does, which tells us the sheriff’s department is being quite tight-lipped about what little they do know. According to Julia, the tabloids are having an orgy of speculation about Vivian’s death. She said one claimed Cherie killed her.” It took each of them a couple of seconds before they were on the
same wavelength.

“I think we need to see which rag pinned the tail on the donkey, don’t you?” Mike said. “Maybe someone’s got an inside source more willing to part with information than our sources are.” Madeline was one step ahead of him. She had taken out her iPad and was searching for any info on Vivian’
s death.

“It’s more than a little weird that both Vivian and Teresa were killed on the same night,” she said as she scrolled through
her options.

“In two different places, with two different weapons. What we need is a motive, for one or the other, or both,” Mike said as they glided to a stop in front of the Mission. “
You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Sutton’s okay? Their deli’s open
all day.”

“Perfect,” Madeline replied as she skimmed the Intruder, already appalled by what she had read. But at this point in the investigation, any harebrained theories were worthy of at least a
cursory glance.

Madeline dug into her macaroni and cheese like it was the first edible thing she’d seen in days. Once she had conquered the gnawing in her stomach, she followed Mike’s example and helped herself to the stack of tabloids they had picked up at the checkout counter. Now that she had some food in her, the wild, far-flung speculations on Vivian Story’s demise seemed ridiculous, almost to the point of laughable. She wondered when and if the press would pick up on the murder of her companion, and what loony suppositions that discovery would
bring about.

“I hope someone’s keeping this kind of thing from Cherie,” Mike said, passing one of the rag sheets across the table for Madeline’s perusal.

“‘Director’s wife kills mother-in-law. 40th birthday bash ends over bizarre love-triangle. Was this woman playing casting couch with Ross Alexander under wife’s nose?’ This is a picture of Sally,” Madeline said, looking up at Mike incredulously. “This must be photo-shopped,” she insisted. Mike raised his eyebrows as if reminding her he had suspected something of this nature from
the beginning.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still stuck on that wild-ass idea of Sally and Cherie cooking up this whole thing,” Madeline scoffed. Mike’s maddening leer made her want to throw the paper
at him.

“Hey, I was trained to keep an open mind,” Mike said calmly. Madeline tossed the tabloid aside and studied her partner, not so much for what he was saying, but more to pick up the thread of earlier, more constructive dialogs.

“Finding Teresa with her throat slashed only hours after Vivian’s strangulation is perplexing. Either they are inextricably linked or they’re a very unfortunate coincidence. You know how I feel about coincidences.”

“I do,” Mike said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m inclined to believe that myself, but sometimes coincidences
do happen.”

“Okay, let’s run through this again. There were only five people seen going upstairs, besides Vivian—Cherie, Teresa, Helen, Sally
and me.”

“Do we know for sure there wasn’t someone already up there, maybe camped out for hours, lying in wait until Vivian was alone?” Madeline let out a perplexed wheeze as she tried to discount the validity of Mike’s hypothesis. “There aren’t any cameras upstairs, right?”

Madeline shook her head. “I was sitting there when Slovitch fast-forwarded through the footage on both staircases. If someone else was hiding up there, it would’ve had to have been someone who was cleared at
the gates.”

“Not necessarily,” Mike
said stubbornly.

“Then when did that person leave, and how? The place was crawling with cops within minutes of me finding Vivian. And why are we looking for ghosts when we already have several suspects to choose from?” Madeline sat back, hands behind her head as she picked Mike’s assertion apart. “Even if they could’ve blended in with the crowd, they still had to descend one of
the staircases.”

“Or exit out of one of the second floor balconies,” Mike
chimed in.

“That reminds me,” Madeline said, taking out her phone to make a note
to herself.

“Are you going to share that thought with me?” Mike asked, sneaking a forkful of her macaroni while she
was preoccupied.

“I want to ask Ross if his security system is set up to record the opening of those doors upstairs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did, and it would be one way for us to scratch the phantom killer theory off
the list.”

“Maybe it was someone on the payroll, like the household staff or all the people hired for the party.”

Madeline groaned at the suggestion. “If that’s the case, we may never know who did it. Regardless of who killed her, we need a motive. I can understand Teresa’s murder being a product of opportunity and impulse. But strangling Vivian in her bedroom requires opportunity, planning and
a motive.”

“You don’t think it was brought on by a flash of anger?”
Mike asked.

“I didn’t say that. I could see Cherie losing it and acting on a rash impulse, unfortunately. I wish I could say she wasn’t a high-strung, impetuous spoiled brat, but after all the time I’ve spent with her, I know how irrational she can get.”

Madeline let out a groan of frustration, her gaze drifting as she willed herself to come up with good reasons why Cherie Alexander couldn’t have killed her mother-in-law. Sadly, this vein of reasoning only added to the list of
motivating factors.