Stalker (9780307823557) (5 page)

He chuckled. “Whoever you go to, it’s going to cost. You know that?”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure?”

She didn’t like the mocking twinkle in his eyes. “I want to hire an investigator. I wouldn’t expect not to pay.”

“Okay, then, since you’ve got a few dollars, you might try Crandall and Kline. They’ve got an office in that new Towers Building over on Upper Broadway near Mestina. Think you can find it?”

“I know the building,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she should take him seriously. He seemed to be making fun of her.

He shoved a pad of paper and stubby pencil toward her. “Write down your name, address, and phone number,” he said. He stared at her for a moment, then added, “In case.”

She quickly scribbled the information on the pad, then stood up and looked at him. “In case? Does that mean you might help?”

“No,” he said, ripping the sheet from the pad, folding it, and tucking it into his shirt pocket. “But you never can tell what might turn up.”

That taunting look was still in his eyes; so without another word to him, Jennifer turned and left his office.

It was only a few blocks to the Towers Building. This was a trim, modern structure with a sleek, mirrored facade, and a lobby floored and walled in black marble as
cold as the arctic air that spewed from the air conditioner. A glassed-in wall directory gave the Crandall and Kline number on the twelfth floor, and an elevator door opened at her touch on the panel.

This office was plain, but neatly carpeted and decorated in blues and beige. Even the receptionist at the front desk matched the decor with her pale hair and light blue blouse. “May I help you?” she asked with such a friendly smile that Jennifer’s story tumbled out.

“Mr. Crandall and Mr. Kline will take a murder investigation case, won’t they?” she finished.

“Oh, my, yes,” the receptionist said. “But Mr. Crandall is out of town, and Mr. Kline has an appointment in fifteen minutes.” She added hopefully, “Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment?”

Jennifer eagerly leaned on the desk. “I could tell him in
five
minutes! Really I could! Only five minutes of his time, if he’ll just talk to me!”

The receptionist began to frown, then abruptly seemed to change her mind. “Well, we’ll give it a try,” she said cheerfully. “Sit down over there, and I’ll find out.”

Jennifer obediently perched on one of the straight chairs at the side of the room, holding her hands together so tightly her fingers hurt, as the receptionist spoke into the phone in a voice so low that Jennifer couldn’t hear what she said. Finally the woman raised her head and smiled. “Go ahead, through that door on the right,” she said, adding, “Good luck!”

The man who came to meet Jennifer was around forty and trim in neat slacks and a sport shirt. He shook hands with Jennifer and smiled as she stammered her name. “Please sit down,” he said. “Can you tell me your story as quickly as you told it to Sandy?”

“Yes,” Jennifer answered, so intent she was unable to
return the smile. Remembering that five-minutes promise, she took even less time than when she had told her problem to the receptionist.

Mr. Kline made a steeple of his fingers, pressing them against his chin as he thought. The room was silent, except for the tick of a small wooden clock on a corner table. Finally he sat upright and said to Jennifer, “I agree with you on two points. First, there have been cases in which private investigators have uncovered evidence crucial to a case, which the police have overlooked. And second, I am also of the opinion that certain personality types would be highly unlikely to commit murder.”

Jennifer perched on the end of her chair, so excited she could hardly breathe. “Then you’ll help me?”

“I’ll talk it over with my partner when he gets back to town tomorrow, and I’ll call you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Jennifer cried. “Thank you!”

Mr. Kline smiled. “Will Bobbie’s family pay for the investigation? If so, I should meet with them, too.”

“Oh. Oh, no. I’ll take care of it,” Jennifer said. “Bobbie doesn’t know where her father is, and her two stepbrothers wouldn’t do a thing to help her.”

“You’ll be able to handle it financially?”

Jennifer took a long breath. “I guess I’d better find out what an investigation will cost.”

“It’s pretty standard,” Mr. Kline said. “Investigators are paid by the day. Most of us charge seventy-five to a hundred dollars a day with a retainer up front to cover expenses. In this case a five-hundred-dollar retainer ought to be enough.”

Jennifer closed her eyes, fighting down the sick feeling in her stomach. “Oh, no,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I haven’t got that much money.” Jennifer looked into
Mr. Kline’s eyes, hoping—she supposed—that a miracle would happen.

“Perhaps we could arrange an extended payment plan.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Jennifer said. “I don’t have nearly enough money. It would take years for me to earn the rest.”

Mr. Kline swiveled his chair so that he was facing the window, his back to Jennifer, who was trying to breathe normally. Finally he turned and got to his feet. “I hope you understand, Jennifer, that I am sympathetic to your friend’s problem. But this is a business, and I have a responsibility to my partner and his family as well as to our employees, and—Well, I just can’t afford to take this case without remuneration.”

Jennifer swallowed hard. It hurt her throat. Somehow she managed to get to her feet and heard herself thanking Mr. Kline for his time. She shut the office door behind her, nodding to Sandy, who was chatting with Mr. Kline’s next appointment.

As she waited for the elevator, she rested her head against the wall. There had to be an answer! There must be someone who was a good investigator who would help her.

A good investigator. The best investigative officer ever.

She could see the man who had leaned against the desk in the homicide room at the police station. She remembered his smile, his easy manner. She even remembered his name: Lucas Maldonaldo. Retired. Wanted to keep his hand in.

She heard the hum of the elevator approaching, and she straightened. Maybe. Maybe. There must be a telephone directory in the lobby of this building. She could look up his telephone number. No—his address.

If Lucas Maldonaldo was as good a policeman as the detective had said he was, then he would want to find out who really had murdered Bobbie’s mother.

It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Less than an hour later Jennifer stood on the small front porch of a pink brick home in a tract on the south side of Corpus Christi. The scraggly crepe myrtles on each side of the house were still in bloom, and the bed of deep red mums seemed to fight against the clutching tendrils of Saint Augustine grass that should have been cut back.

She could hear footsteps as someone came to answer the bell, and she nervously wet her dry lips with the edge of her tongue, hoping—praying—that she would say the right words.

The door swung open, and she looked up at the man she had seen in the homicide department.

The light, inquisitive smile that had deepened the lines at the edges of his dark eyes lasted only a moment. His look became penetrating, and Jennifer realized that he had recognized her, too.

Before he could speak, she quickly blurted out, “Mr. Maldonaldo, I need you to find a murderer!”

She’s like a gnat. A small nuisance. Brush it away. Slap at it. Why should she get in the way? It’s not her business. It was over and done with. It should stay that way.

I’ll be aware of what she does. I’ll be watching.

For her sake she better not become more than just a nuisance.

Lucas Maldonaldo didn’t answer. His eyes—the gray-black color of Grannie’s battered skillet—drilled into her mind as though they could explore her thoughts without speech. Jennifer stood a little straighter, trying to match his stiff-backed posture. If he thought he could intimidate her by staring at her, he was wrong.

Finally he said, “You want a private investigator. I’m just a retired police officer.”

“I don’t have enough money to hire a private eye,” she said. “The detective at the police station told me you were the best investigative officer he ever knew. That’s why I’m here.”

A corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I see. You can’t hire a P.I., so you came to me. You think my services come at cut-rate prices?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No. If you’ve been a good detective for so many years, then there’s something in you that wants to see the right person tried for a crime,
not the wrong one. I came to you because I think if I tell you about Bobbie, you’ll want to help me.”

There was another long pause, until finally he said, “Come on inside. I’ll hear what you have to say.”

On the surface the living room seemed to be tidy, but Jennifer noted a thin layer of dust on the tables and on the array of small figurines that covered the top of an upright piano.

Lucas Maldonaldo’s glance followed hers to the figurines. He had been holding a small bottle of aspirin, and he placed it on the piano lid next to a full-skirted china balloon-seller.

Jennifer glanced at the aspirin bottle. “If you’ve got a headache—I mean, I don’t want to bother you, and—”

“No headache. Just one of the penalties of growing older. Arthritis,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry.” Flustered, she tried to change the subject. “I like your figurines.” She carefully picked one up and examined it. “They need dusting.”

Jennifer wished she hadn’t spoken so bluntly, but he didn’t seem to mind. “They’re not mine. They were Lila’s, and I can’t seem to get around to all the housecleaning she used to do.” He motioned to a chair. “Lila was my wife,” he said.

Jennifer perched on the edge of a deep, upholstered chair, waiting until he slowly lowered himself onto the sofa across from her. “Mr. Maldonaldo, I’ll tell you about Bobbie,” she said.

He nodded agreement, so she went through the story from the time she had gone to the island until they had been taken to the police station.

“That’s all of it,” she said.

“No, it isn’t,” he answered. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and began to question her.

“Where are her brothers? How much do you know about them?

“What kind of relationship did Bobbie have with her brothers? With her mother?

“Had her brother Darryl ever been convicted on a drugs charge? When? Where does he live?

“Has Bobbie ever used drugs?

“What was Bobbie’s schoolwork like? What grades did she make?

“Did she have an after-school job?

“What were her plans after graduation?

“Had she ever been in trouble at school? Ever arrested?

“Was she in touch with her father?

“When did she last see him?

“Did her mother have a boyfriend? A live-in boyfriend?

“How did Bobbie feel about the men in her mother’s life?”

The questions went on and on, all of them delivered in the same firm, quiet tone that demanded nonemotional answers scraped from the bottom of her mind. At last he leaned back against the plump sofa cushions; and Jennifer, numb as though a skinned place had finally stopped throbbing, sighed with relief.

“You weren’t aware that you knew so much about your friend, were you?” he asked.

“Or
didn’t
know,” Jennifer added. “You asked so many kinds of questions. Most of them didn’t have anything to do with the murder. I can’t see how they’d help.”

“They helped me get a better idea of the situation,” he said. “A murder doesn’t just happen. There’s a background
to it, events leading up to it, personalities involved. This information gives a total picture.”

He stood up, stretching a little, rolling his left shoulder as though it were stiff. “Next step,” he said. “I’ll talk to Bobbie.”

Jennifer quickly got to her feet. “You’ll help me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I’ll decide after I talk to Bobbie.”

“But you might? You’ll really consider it?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Because you believe in Bobbie?”

“At the moment,” he told her, “I believe in
you.
” He fumbled through the papers in a nearby desk drawer, finally finding a clean sheet. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Write down your phone number and address. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I make up my mind.”

Jennifer was so excited, she passed the supermarket on Staples and had to backtrack to get the groceries for dinner. Grannie was right. Dad did want things to be special tonight. She counted the grocery money she had folded and stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans—not enough to make a bulge—and decided to go for chicken with that mandarin orange sauce. She had found the recipe in a magazine a few months back and made it, and Dad had been enthusiastic about it. And—let’s see—brown rice, a green salad, broccoli—maybe string beans.

By the time she got home, Grannie was fretting at the open doorway.

“Well, thank goodness you showed up,” Grannie said. “I thought you plain forgot about that woman coming for dinner tonight.”

“Gloria,” Jennifer said. She edged past Grannie and
heaved the heavy pair of grocery sacks to the counter top in the kitchen.

“Whatever,” Grannie said. She stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby saucer. “She’s kind of prissy, I think. Prissy and sure as heck not good-lookin’ enough to stop traffic.”

Jennifer washed her hands and got busy with the chicken. Grannie pulled up a kitchen chair.

“You didn’t notice I fixed a bouquet of my yellow chrysanthemums for the table.”

Jennifer looked up and smiled. “It looks nice, Grannie. Really nice.”

“Don’t want that woman to think I don’t know how to make things look good when company’s comin’ over.”

“Gloria,” Jennifer said, still smiling. “Dad will appreciate the flowers. He likes Gloria a lot, you know.”

“I know.”

Grannie looked like a child who’d been sent up a dark stairway to bed. Jennifer wiped her hands on her apron and went to her, bending so that her head was on her grandmother’s level. She took her by the shoulders and said, “Hey, Grannie, Gloria’s a nice person. She’ll like you a lot if you give her the chance.”