Silent Witness (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

The office of Susan Fleming & Associates was located a short distance from downtown in an old house that had probably been built in the boom shortly after World War II. It was a red brick, two story affair with a make-shift wooden sign over the front door that read: Fleming & Associates – Investigative Services.

We pulled into the driveway and parked behind a late model Lexus. Kate and I glanced at each other. “PI business must be pretty good,” I mused.

“Ever hear of Susan Fleming?”

“Can't say that I have, you?”

“Me neither.”

“Assuming Ginsberg hired her, I think it's a little odd that she hasn't called you.”

“Even if he didn't hire her, you'd think she might have contacted us. Maybe she doesn't read or listen to the news.”

“Let's go find out.”

A buzzer sounded as we opened the front door announcing our presence. The living room served as the business office. Two oak desks with high-back leather chairs faced each other from opposite corners of the room. A rectangular shaped Persian rug in the center partially covered reconditioned, hardwood floors. A female voice from somewhere in the back of the house said, “Please have a seat, I'll be with you in a minute.”

Moments later in walked a woman who, if one were to describe her in a word, stunning would have said it best. Tall, leggy, blond hair that looked natural and a tan that didn't. She had enormous green eyes, and puffy, Angelina Jolie lips. A PI, I didn't think so; a model out of the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalogue, that I could see.

We introduced ourselves. She was Susan Fleming. She offered us coffee or tea. We declined and got down to business. “I think I know why you're here,” she said. “It's concerning Arnold Ginsberg, isn't it?”

We nodded.

“And you're probably wondering why I haven't contacted you.”

“As a matter of fact, Sam and I were discussing that on our way over here.”

“It's a fair question. The answer is that my partner and I just returned from a business trip to Lake Tahoe. We didn't hear about the murder until we got back.”

I explained to Fleming that Ginsberg's secretary, Linda Beggs, had given us her name. “Did Arnold retain your services prior to his death?”

“He did.”

“And you were retained to do what?”

She hesitated momentarily. “My client is now deceased so I guess that terminates the existing confidentiality agreement he insisted I sign.”

I nodded. “The best thing that you can do for Arnold Ginsberg is to help us catch the people who killed him.”

She agreed. She reached into a file cabinet behind her desk and removed a file folder with Ginsberg's name on it. “I met Arnold over lunch about three weeks prior to his murder. He expressed concern that his live-in partner, Rodney Plow, might be having an affair with someone behind his back.”

“And he wanted you to verify if this was true?”

“That's a lot of what we do in this agency. And yes, he asked us to make that determination.”

“What did you learn?”

“Unfortunately, I had to deliver bad news. Our surveillance, conducted over a period of almost a week, revealed that Mr. Plow was indeed involved with another man, intimately, I'm afraid.”

“And who was this other man?” Kate asked.

“His personal trainer and massage therapist.” Fleming paused while she read the file. “Yeah, here it is. His name is Steven Ambrose. Mr. Ambrose is a personal fitness trainer who works out of the same health club that Rodney and Arnold belonged to. I suspect that's how they met, although I'm not certain of that. He's got an office at 90
^th
South State Street, where he takes his massage appointments.”

“How often were they seeing each other?”

“My colleague and I followed Rodney on-and-off for six days. He and Ambrose only met during the day, never at night. Rodney had plenty of opportunity during the day because Arnold worked. At night, he was always home with Ginsberg. They had lunch together twice, and both times went back to Ambrose's Midvale condo afterward for what we assumed was a nooner. The other time they met at the massage studio.”

Kate would be sorry that she asked the next question. “How did you determine that Rodney and Mr. Ambrose were intimate?”

“You really want to know….I feigned a mistake and actually walked in on them during a massage at Ambrose's office. They were doing a sixty-nine with Rodney on top and Ambrose underneath. They were giving each other's Johnson a serious workout.”

“I hope nobody was injured,” I said.

Fleming smiled, Kate didn't. “All in a day's work,” Fleming said.

“How did Ginsberg react when you gave him the news?” asked Kate.

“Genuine emotion—he broke down and cried. Whenever I have to deliver this kind of news, emotions tend to run the gamut from feelings of anger, betrayal, sorrow, to self pity, and occasionally, rage. In this instance, shame and sorrow probably best describe Arnold's reaction.”

“When did you report the results of your investigation to Arnold?”

That gave her pause. She checked her day planner. “Damn,” she finally said. “I guess I didn't write it down. I remember that Arnold asked me to meet him for lunch downtown. I think it was about a week before his murder.”

“Did Arnold ever express anything to you that led you to believe that he was in danger? Threats from anybody. Anything like that?”

“He never gave me any indication that his life might be in danger. Just sadness at what I think he believed would be the end of his relationship with Plow.”

“Did you ever confront Plow?”

“No. I almost never do that. Clients typically don't ask us to. They want us to bring them evidence, surveillance notes, digital stills, video—that sort of thing. I carry a piece, but why push my luck.”

She had a good point.

“Are these the kinds of cases your firm usually handles?” Kate asked.

“Unfortunately, we handle a lot of domestic cases—cheating spouses, child custody, that sort of thing. We do some employment backgrounds, and I occasionally pick up a personal injury or wrongful death case.”

“Been in business long?”

“Two years next month. Right after my divorce I bought this place, managed to get the city to give me a zoning variance, got my PI license and opened for business, all in a matter of a few weeks.”

Susan Fleming had been helpful. Before we left, she gave us a copy of her report as well as digital photos and a CD Rom with surveillance video clips of Ambrose and Plow.

***

We had worked through the lunch hour and both of us were starving. We stopped at a Crown Royal burger joint on Fourth South, ordered sandwiches at the drive up window, and ate them in the car.

“Now what do you think of the bereaved partner?”

“Makes me think that my original instincts about him were on the mark all along,” replied Kate.

“You mean the Oscar performance as the distraught, grieving partner?”

“Yup.”

“Might be a motive for murder,” I said, “but only if we can establish that the victim was about to disinherit Rodney over the infidelity, and Rodney found out about it.”

“It wouldn't be the first murder case to come down the pike with infidelity and greed as the motive.” She paused. “You ever wonder why guys spend so much time thinking with their dicks?”

“Can't say that I have. Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the guy who named his own penis?”

Kate looked at me warily. “Can't say that you have, but I think you're about to.”

“Yeah, he named it Earl. The reason he did it is because he didn't like the idea of a total stranger making ninety percent of his decisions for him.”

Kate laughed. “Jesus, you're hopeless.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Robin Joiner slept until after eleven in the morning, hung over from the effects of another night of sleep meds. She got up, showered, dressed, and checked out of the dingy motel. Another memorable night in the lap of luxury, she thought.

Joiner walked three blocks to a nearby Applebee's Restaurant where she took a seat at the bar in the lounge. A big screen television mounted overhead was broadcasting some kind of celebrity pro-am tennis match. Any other time, she would have found the tennis match an entertaining distraction while she waited for her food. Today it annoyed her. She bummed a copy of the morning
Deseret News
from a guy seated two stools away, and read through it while she waited for her cheeseburger, fries, and cup of clam chowder. She had eaten little the previous day, and she was famished.

Joiner discovered a short article about the Ginsberg murder case in which a police spokesperson refused to talk about physical evidence purportedly found at the crime scene. The article was largely devoid of specifics and full of the usual vaguely worded bullshit about all leads being actively pursued. Her name wasn't mentioned at all.

Joiner knew she was taking a chance. She was dangerously close to being out of money. She decided to hangout at Applebee's until three and then walk the short distance to the Outback Steakhouse about the time Tracy Sanders would be ending her lunch shift. Tracy would help her, she was sure of it. It was a risk, but one she felt she had to take.

Shortly after three, Joiner approached the Outback. Her senses were on full alert. Her otherwise carefree spirit had given way to an almost paranoid sense of caution. She scanned the parking lot looking for anything that appeared suspicious, and for Sander's blue Toyota Corolla. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Sander's car was parked behind the restaurant near two large garbage dumpsters.

When she entered the restaurant, Joiner spotted Sanders almost immediately, nodded at her, and walked directly into the women's restroom. Sanders followed.

They were alone in the restroom. “God, Rob, what are you doing here? Everybody is looking for you.”

“I'm sorry, Tracy. You've got to help me, please.”

Sanders hesitated as if she were about to decline. Then she shook her head and said, “Okay, wait here until I get off shift. It'll just be a few minutes. Lock yourself in a stall and don't come out until I come back for you.”

“I can trust you, can't I,” pleaded Joiner.

Tracy nodded.

A little after three-thirty, Sanders exited through the back door of the restaurant, looked around, and then motioned for Joiner to follow. They left the restaurant parking lot and headed east on Sixth South toward the university and Sander's apartment complex.

“You don't know how risky this is,” said Sanders. “The cops have been all over our study group. They even came to the campus.”

Looking out the passenger side window, Joiner said, “I'm so sorry to have gotten all of you involved in this.”

“Forget it. Nobody feels that way about it, well, on second thought, maybe Michael. He hadn't planned on ending up spread-eagled over the hood of your car and then hauled down to the police department.”

“God, I'm so embarrassed about that. He must hate me.”

“Nobody hates you, Rob. We're your friends, and we're concerned about your welfare, that's all.”

“What questions did they ask?”

“Questions about how they might be able to find you. They think you're in real danger. Surely you know by now that the guy who was murdered the other night was the other witness in the armored car robbery.”

Joiner nodded. “Have the cops been to your apartment looking for me?”

“No. Like I said, this cop, Kincaid, came to school and pulled the entire study group out of class and was asking us all kinds of questions about you. But he never came to the apartment. That doesn't mean he won't or that they're not watching.”

“So you think that the cops are just trying to protect me?”

Sanders paused. “Until this morning, that's exactly what I thought. And then I met this Kincaid at Einstein's. He showed me a picture. It was a picture of the guy who was with you that day I borrowed your lecture notes.”

Sounding anxious, Joiner asked, “What did you tell him?”

“Rob, I told him the truth. I told him that I'd met this guy, Joey, that one time at my apartment.”

Joiner's head dropped to her chest. She reached for a tissue in her pocket and stifled a sob.

“Rob, I'm your friend. You need to tell me what's going on. I think this Joey is really Joseph Bradshaw, one of the guys wanted in the armored car robbery. Am I right? I mean, why else would the police have had his picture?”

Joiner turned away, blew her nose, and dabbed at the tears running down her cheeks. “Yeah, he is Joseph Bradshaw, but he's not the bad person the cops are making him out to be.”

“God, Rob, listen to what you're saying. People died in that robbery. These guys were a part of Warren Jeffs' polygamist church until they apparently became so extreme that they got booted out and then went and formed their own church.”

“It's not like that. You don't understand.”

Tracy sighed. They had arrived at her apartment building and she parked the Corolla in her assigned spot. The building had a covered ground level parking terrace with a four story apartment complex built above it.

“C'mon. Let's go upstairs. I'll fix us some coffee and something to eat if you're hungry. You can take a bath, and we'll talk this thing through. We'll get it figured out.”

They walked to the elevator, got in, and pushed the third floor button. At the apartment door, Sanders reached for her key. If she hadn't been so busy talking, she might have noticed the scrapes and pry marks on the door jam. She unlocked the door and they entered.

Three of them were waiting in the apartment—the Allred brothers and Joseph Bradshaw. The moment the women stepped into the living room and saw the intruders, they spun and attempted a hasty retreat to the front door. Randy Allred anticipated that move and blocked their exit.

Bradshaw called the shots. Pointing to Sanders, he directed Randy and Robby Allred. “Take her into the bedroom, tape her mouth, and tie her up. Leave her on the bed.”

“Don't do that to her,” said Joiner. “She won't say anything. It isn't necessary.”

“Yes, it is,” said Bradshaw. He nodded at the grinning Allred brothers, who grabbed a wild-eyed Sanders by each arm, and dragged her into the bedroom.

“Don't hurt her,” shouted Joiner.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Bradshaw, pulling a resisting Joiner into the kitchen away from the bedlam.

“Did you think I'd forgotten about this place?”

Joiner didn't answer.

“Why did you disappear? Are you crazy? Did you think you could just walk away from this?”

“Yes, I did, Joey. And that's what you need to do if you ever want to have any chance of a normal life.”

“I have a life and you do, too. My life is in the Reformed Church of the Divine Christ. My father is the prophet. We can be together. I know I can straighten it all out with him. He'll love you, Robin, just like I do; and he'll forgive you, just as I do.”

“Are you crazy, Joey. This isn't some fairy tale, and your father isn't Robin Hood. It was one thing when he began stealing from the Jeffs and the FLDS. I could understand it—a payback of sorts for what happened to his family. But it's gone way beyond that now….”

Bradshaw interrupted. “Hold your voice down, Robin, and show a little respect, at least for my father and the church, even if you can't do it for me.”

“I will not. People are dead, Joey. The government that your father and his church so detest, isn't going to just let you build your private compound in southern Utah, and walk off happily into the sunset. Look what they did to Warren Jeffs. He made it to the FBI's ten most wanted list, and he didn't kill anybody.”

Randy Allred poked his head around the kitchen corner. Eyeing Joiner with open contempt, he said, “Everything all right, Brother Joseph?”

“Yes, we're just talking.”

“We need to get out of here.”

“I know. You and Brother Robert go down and get the van. Bring it as close as possible to the elevator door. We'll be right down.”

He glanced suspiciously at Joiner. “Are you sure you don't need my help?”

“No, just go get the van. We'll be right along.”

Allred nodded. Moments later, he and Robby left the apartment.

“I want to see Tracy right now before we leave.”

“Okay. But don't touch her or make any attempt to untie her.”

When Joiner walked into the bedroom and saw Sanders tied wrists to ankles, with silver duct tape over her mouth, tears streamed down her face. She looked at Sanders and mouthed, “Everything will be all right.”

Joseph pulled her by the arm out of the bedroom and walked her to the apartment's front door. “No stunts walking out of here. If you do, you'll force us to restrain you. Clear?”

Joiner glared at him.

“Am I making myself clear, Robin?”

“As a bell,” replied Joiner, her voice rising with contempt.

“Good. And by the way, we have your laptop. I'll need those e-mails you and I exchanged.”

They left the apartment with Bradshaw's arm tucked snuggly under Joiner's in a vice-like grip.