Authors: Cindy Sample
Dying for a Date (27 page)
"You know I've tried to be brave about this situation but you guys don't seem to be getting anywhere,” I blubbered. “Anytime now Bradford is going to show up on my doorstep, arrest warrant in hand. I don't want to be Miranda-ized."
Tom waited until my outburst was over and my sniffling had subsided.
"So are you checking to make sure I'm staying out of trouble?"
"I'm not sure that's possible. Is it?"
I wasn't in the mood for sarcasm. “Did you make any progress with those tax returns?"
"We reached a couple of his clients but all we've learned so far is that Garrett had been their CPA for years. None of them had any complaints about his tax work. Why he chose to store those particular returns in a clothes hamper is beyond me. Do you have any ideas?"
"Moi? My job is to provide the evidence, not evaluate it."
He grunted. “Well, just in case you happen to run across an extra copy of those returns and after looking through them, happen to discover something we've missed, you will report back to me, right?"
Did I hear him correctly? Did Tom officially promote me to unofficial underwriting detective?
"Of course. Don't I always?"
"Yeah,” he replied, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “Listen, I'm about to share some critical information with you. Remember that motorcycle accident I mentioned last night? The one off of Salmon Falls Road?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"The victim was a guy named Mike Clark. Does the name ring any bells?"
"No. Should it?"
"Not necessarily.” He sounded relieved for some reason. “He's a part-time real estate appraiser. That's why I thought you might know him."
"Are you kidding? Every Tom, Dick and Mike became licensed appraisers in that last refinance boom. They made a fortune doing eight to ten appraisals a day. Half the time they didn't even bother getting out of their cars."
"Interesting, but not relevant,” he replied.
"So what exactly is relevant?” I asked.
"Give me a minute. Originally we thought the victim took the curve too fast and then crashed down into this steep canyon. The rear of his bike is bashed, which could have occurred when it rolled down the hill. His body probably wouldn't have been discovered for days if some teenagers hadn't been wandering around looking for a private spot to do something they shouldn't be doing."
I chuckled. “You'll have to give them a medal."
"Yeah. Anyway when the guys examined the body, they found an unusual wound on the back of his head that seemed inconsistent with the fact he was wearing a helmet. We think someone rammed his bike then went back and finished the job."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"The crime scene guys think there may be a similarity between Lindstrom's head injury and this one."
"Tom. You can't possibly think I had anything to do with this incident. Just because the guy is an appraiser."
His sigh reverberated over the phone line. “Let's just say I'm not the detective you need to convince. But as far as I'm concerned you're still the most beautiful murder suspect in the county."
Being told I was the most beautiful murder suspect in El Dorado County may have boosted my self-esteem, but it certainly did nothing for my peace of mind. Tom's remark just reinforced my belief that I would have to solve these murders before they hauled me off to jail.
Four new loans requiring a rush underwriting decision were perched on the corner of my desk when I arrived at work the next morning, so I wasn't able to look at the delinquent loans until late afternoon. I finally had time to open both files and compare them, line item by line item.
The Carters were moving from a half-million dollar house to the two million dollar residence on Vista del Monte. The Andrews lived in Placerville and planned on moving down the hill to their multi-million dollar purchase.
After reviewing both files I couldn't fault Mary Lou for approving the loans. The borrowers were strong from both an income and asset standpoint and everything looked in order. The loans funded a month apart. So far the only commonality was that Garrett had prepared both tax returns.
I flipped to the appraisals. Both of the Mediterranean style houses were gorgeous. For two million plus they should be. I drooled over the exterior and interior photos, which revealed one mouth watering custom feature after another. Granite counters, slate floors, Brazilian cherry built-in cabinets throughout the house, shower stalls as big as my bedroom.
I would kill to...
I would love to have a house like that.
After flipping back to page two of the appraisal I finally had an A-HA! moment.
It's standard procedure for an appraiser to use at least three recent sales to determine the value of a property. Each of these appraisals used identical comparable sales. It could be a coincidence. Or merely the fact that there were limited sales in the two million plus range the appraiser could use. The distance between the properties was less than a quarter of a mile. They were probably all from the same subdivision.
My eyes dropped down to the signature line.
Get out of town.
The appraiser was Mike Clark. I pulled open the other loan file and flipped to the back page. Mike Clark again.
The man who prepared the tax returns for the Andrews and Carter loans had been murdered.
The man who appraised both properties was dead. Possibly murdered.
The woman who underwrote both loan files was alive and...
I screamed, dropping one of the files on the floor, as Mary Lou popped her over-permed blonde head over our adjoining wall. She shot me a curious look. “Laurel, are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine, just immersed in some loans.” I bent over and rescued the file before glancing up at my cubicle mate. Could the beautiful blue-eyed blonde be a killer?
We must have been on the same wavelength. “Have you heard anything new about those murders?” she asked.
I dropped the folder again but at least this time it landed on my desk. “No, nothing recent.” Was this the time to mention that two of the loans she underwrote were about to go into foreclosure?
"So do you have any more Love Club dates this weekend? I'm still waiting to see how that works out for you,” she said.
At the rate the bodies were piling up, it would be a very long wait.
"No dates in the near future. Say, have you ever met Mike Clark? One of the bank's approved appraisers."
Her face clouded up and her smile turned into a snarl. “Stay away from him, Laurel. He's bad news.” She grabbed her purse and sailed out of her cube.
What did she mean by that remark? I looked at my watch. Darn. Clues galore but no time to pursue them. The delinquent loans would have to wait until tomorrow. I needed to sneak out a few minutes early so I could say goodbye to the kids before they disappeared for four days.
When I arrived home, Hank's black Ford truck was parked in the driveway. Two battered navy suitcases, two backpacks, and a shopping bag full of boy's toys were scattered on the wood planked entry. The squeak of a faulty piece of plywood resonated as one, two, then three bodies clambered down the stairs.
"Mom,” hollered both kids, making me feel warm and fuzzy, as welcome as Norm when he entered the bar in Cheers.
"Hi, honey,” greeted Hank. The fuzzy feeling vanished when I realized my ex had been wandering through my home. For some reason, maybe because he designed and built the house himself, Hank still felt he had some ownership in it. As far as I was concerned, the only ownership he possessed was providing the child support for me to make the mortgage payments.
I scowled at him. “What were you doing upstairs?"
"It's okay, Mom.” Jenna laid her palm on my arm in an attempt to placate me. “The upstairs sink was dripping and I asked Dad to fix it."
Hank smiled. “If it needs fixing then I'm your man."
Okay. I could be a grown up too. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Are you guys ready to go?"
Ben threw his arms around my waist. “Dad says we can go sledding if it gets cold enough."
I raised my eyebrows at their father.
"Yep. If it drops below freezing, they're going to make snow at Sugar Bowl."
Brrrr. Snow in November wasn't my cup of hot chocolate but I knew they'd have fun whatever they did. I hugged the kids until they complained I was squeezing them to death. Hank was halfway out the door when I had a thought.
"Hank, you probably know a lot of appraisers, don't you?"
"Yeah, I've bumped into quite a few of them when they were making their final inspections on the houses I built. Why?"
"Do you know a guy named Mike Clark?"
That Mike Clark sure didn't have much of a fan base. Hank's face turned darker than snow clouds over the Sierra. He clenched and unclenched his jaw then shook his head. “Nope."
I was stunned by his reaction, and so stupefied by his obvious lie that I stood there while he kissed my cheek and sauntered out to the truck.
I mulled over Hank's surprising response as I waved good-bye to the kids. He backed the truck down the driveway then turned right, passing a car approaching from the opposite direction. A mud speckled white sedan with big brown letters on its side and a bar of red white and blue on its roof. The phone rang and I slammed the front door shut, racing into the kitchen before the caller could hang up.
"Laurel, it's Tom."
"Hi. Hey, do you...” My words were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. “Someone's at the door. Can you wait a minute?"
"Yeah, about that. I'll call you later.” He hung up on me.
He hung up on me?
I was not in the mood to greet whatever maniac was ringing the bell so incessantly. I peered through the narrow window next to the front door. What was Tall, Bald and Homely doing here this time of night, a nervous deputy shifting restlessly by his side? I flung open the door to be greeted by an official looking document covered with the tiniest font I'd ever attempted to read.
"Ms. McKay, I have a warrant to search your house.” Not waiting for a reply, Detective Bradford strode through the entry, followed by the deputy who bore a strong resemblance to a sad eyed spaniel trotting after a St. Bernard.
Make that a Rottweiler. A St. Bernard would at least have brought me a keg of brandy.
"You can't do this,” I stuttered.
Bradford blasted me with his razor-like gaze. The burly detective might be old, crotchety and biased against women, but I had a feeling his mental agility hadn't diminished with the years.
"We most certainly can,” he sneered. ��It will be less painful for you if you cooperate with us."
Who me? Just call me Miss Cooperation. “Fine. May I ask what you're looking for?"
"Let's start with where you keep your tools."
They must be looking for the murder weapon. It certainly wasn't in my house so I didn't have anything to worry about. Except I had no idea where my tools were. I vaguely remembered Jenna using the hammer to hang a picture in her room. And years ago my screwdriver had grown legs, occasionally appearing in the most unlikely places.
Tall and Bald noticed my hesitation. He smiled, but it was the smile of a cat, after he'd feasted on a canary for dinner. “If you can't direct us to your tool drawer or tool chest, we'll have to examine every inch of your house.” He looked around the cluttered room. “Inch by inch."
"Hey,” I protested. “I'm not reluctant to help but I don't know where all my tools are. It's not like I'm a contractor. Or a guy. Just do whatever you need to do, but please make as little of a mess as possible."
Detective Bradford and Deputy Spaniel—I still didn't know his name—conferred for a minute then split up. The younger deputy headed toward the kitchen and Bradford went into the garage. Good luck finding anything in there. In fact, the garage might look even better after he scavenged through it than it did right now.
I settled into the sofa and switched on the television to the early evening news. The camera zeroed in on a reporter from Channel Two reporting live from the side of some road. He pointed down a rocky treed hillside to a spot far below. I hit the volume button on the remote.
"I'm standing at the site on Salmon Falls Road where a deadly accident occurred three nights ago,” announced the reporter. “Or was it murder?"
Uh-oh.
"The sheriff has been unavailable for comment. It's difficult to believe that three murders have occurred in this small county in less than a month. Our sources claim there are distinct similarities in each incident. Can these lovely Sierra foothills be harboring a serial killer?"
The reporter shivered. I shivered along with him.
"This is Chuck Basso, reporting live from..."
Bang. The door into the kitchen slammed shut and I missed the last thing the reporter said. I jumped up from the sofa as Bradford entered the room. He grunted but didn't stop. The sound of his heavy feet clumping up the stairs alerted me to his current mission. I saw no reason to stay behind so I followed him. He crossed the threshold into Ben's room then hesitated. Since I was directly behind him, I plowed right into his back. Ouch. He was solid.
Ben's room already looked like it had been ransacked but that was due to my son's packing technique, which consisted of emptying every drawer on his bed. It was one way of ensuring he didn't forget anything. Bradford shrugged his shoulders and moved on to the next room. My bedroom.
He walked over to my armoire then yanked on the handles of the top drawer.
I screamed and slammed the drawer shut, managing to nick the raised surface of the detective's hairy knuckles. His eyebrows drew together in one furry unattractive line. “So this is where you hide your tools."
No. This is where I hide my white cotton granny panties. I did not want that getting back to Tom Hunter. That was a mental image he might never be able to erase.
We were in the middle of a glaring duel when the squeak of footsteps on the stairs got my attention. The young deputy stepped into the bedroom. He shifted from one foot to the next.