9 Hell on Wheels (15 page)

“Trust me,” I told my husband with a slight snort, “the only men I’d ever leave you for are Ben and Jerry.”

“That’s a comfort.” Now I could clearly see him smiling.

With all the information laid out like cards in a game of solitaire, we rode along with our own thoughts as we tried to see which card went where.

“At least I have that favor for Simon Tobin off my plate,” I finally said, breaking the silence as we got nearer to Altadena.

“Did you call Tobin and tell him about your lunch?”

“No,” I answered. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I don’t want him to think it was that easy.”

Again, Greg shot a look my way that was hard to read. “It was too easy, if you ask me.”

I kept my mouth shut because, frankly, I was thinking the same thing, but until Mother showed me the price tag for her favor, I was keeping my wallet in my purse.

When we reached Altadena, we had a little trouble locating the Tanaka home. It was located at the top of a quiet street nestled against the hills. There were very few streetlights in the neighborhood, and most of the homes were behind hedges or walls. We crawled along, reading each number in the semi dark, until we spotted the one we were searching for on the side of an open stone gate. Greg turned through the gate. The drive was circular, with a short appendage dead-ending next to a three-car garage for additional parking. The house was a sprawling ranch in slate gray with white trim and shutters. All around the perimeter were mature trees and shrubs, with well-tended flower beds edging the driveway and in front of the main entrance. The place had a feeling of peace, serenity, and harmony with nature—not exactly where I expected Peter Tanaka to hang his hat, considering the chaos he seemed to thrive on.

Not surprisingly, the drive, walkway, and entrance to the house were wheelchair friendly. A woman whom I placed around thirty opened the door shortly after we rang the doorbell, as if she’d been waiting on the other side for a finger to press the buzzer.

We introduced ourselves. She was dressed in gray leggings and a turquoise sweater that hugged her slight frame. “I’m Ann Tanaka, Peter’s sister,” she told us, flipping her waterfall of inky black hair off her shoulder. Her face was pretty, round, and grim, her mouth a tight slash without color. “My mother is expecting you.”

Ann showed us down a short entryway that opened into a very large great room and dining area. The interior of the house gleamed with polished hardwood floors, furniture with clean lines and low profiles, and minimal clutter. One wall was a bank of large windows that afforded a spectacular view down the hill and across the valley. Just beyond the windows was a swimming pool and patio. On the patio a small firepit glowed amber and orange against the night. Walls held impressive modern art; shelves held sculpture. In one corner a baby grand piano stood sentry. On it was a carefully arranged grouping of framed photos. It was a cultured and sophisticated home.

Standing at the windows, looking out, was a woman with ramrod posture dressed in black wool slacks and a black sweater. Her hair was also jet black and bobbed short. She turned when we approached.

“Mrs. Tanaka,” Greg said when we got close. “I’m Greg Stevens, and this is my wife, Odelia Grey. Thank you for agreeing to see us tonight.”

I gave her a sad smile and held out the potted orchid we’d picked up before getting on the freeway. “With our condolences.”

The woman gave Ann a nod. Ann stepped forward and took the plant. “Thank you,” she said.

Mrs. Tanaka had a round little face like her daughter’s and sharp dark eyes ringed with exhaustion. She looked to be near sixty years in age and in very good physical condition—an older version of her daughter. Without a word, she walked toward a sofa and several chairs and held out a slender, delicate hand indicating for us to take a seat. I sat on the sofa. Greg positioned his chair near me. Mrs. Tanaka took a seat on the edge of an upholstered chair. Again she nodded to Ann, who disappeared with the plant.

“You were friends of Peter’s?” she asked, her voice soft but in no way timid.

“I’ve known him a long time,” said Greg. “My wife just met him at the tournament. We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Tanaka.”

“But were you friends?” Mrs. Tanaka asked pointedly, her small cherry mouth barely moving.

I looked at Greg. He looked directly at Mrs. Tanaka and said, “No. We were not friends.”

“Honesty is always the best policy, is it not?” she said, not taking her eyes from Greg.

“Yes, it is.” Greg cleared his throat. “Peter and I had our issues over the years, but I am still sorry for what happened.”

“My daughter recognized your name and informed me that you once dated Linda, the girl Peter took to Canada several years back. Was that the problem between you?”

“Mostly, but obviously that’s in the past.” Greg reached over, took my hand, and squeezed it. “To be perfectly honest with you, Odelia and I were at the tournament when Peter died. We’re close friends of the Hendersons, and we’re trying to find out what really happened.”

“You don’t believe that that Miranda person killed my son?” Mrs. Tanaka took her eyes from Greg and looked at me. Not a smidgen of emotion showed on her face.

“We’re not sure, Mrs. Tanaka,” I told her. “But it doesn’t seem like something she’d do.”

“Her husband is in the hospital in a coma,” Greg said. “He may have tried to kill himself after his wife died.”

Mrs. Tanaka moved her eyes to Greg. “And that would be the man who tried to beat my son to death before the poison did its job, correct?”

Greg hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Frankly, Mr. Stevens, I don’t care if your friend lives or dies.” Still no emotion from her, like an alabaster sculpture that could talk. “His wife killed Peter, and he beat him. I know my son was far from perfect, but he did not deserve to die.”

“We agree, Mrs. Tanaka,” I said. “But we also don’t think Miranda Henderson killed him.”

“The police believe she did.”

“She’s a suspect,” I clarified. “It hasn’t been determined yet if she actually killed him.”

“And if she didn’t kill him,” Greg added, looking directly at her, “wouldn’t you want to know who did and bring that person to justice? And Miranda was killed not too long after Peter’s death. It could have been the same person who murdered them both.”

“I don’t care who killed that woman or that her husband tried to kill himself. All that matters is that my only son is dead. Will anything I say or do, or anything you ask me, bring him back to me?”

“No, ma’am,” answered Greg with a slow, sad shake of his head.

Ann appeared toting a tray with a lovely Japanese teapot and matching cups. She placed it on the coffee table. Her mother nodded to her and she began to pour three cups of tea, after which she handed a delicate porcelain cup to each of us and stepped back. Ann didn’t take tea or a seat but remained standing, face blank, head slightly bowed, like an obedient servant awaiting her next command.

“If you feel that way,” I asked, returning my attention to Mrs. Tanaka, “why did you agree to see us?”

“Because I wanted to see what you had to say,” Mrs. Tanaka answered. “None of the quad rugby players from any of the teams have so much as called. Only his coach has taken the time to pay his respects. But you’re not one of the players, are you?” she asked Greg. “You’re not a quadriplegic.”

“No, I’m not,” he answered. “I met Peter playing basketball.”

Her head started to droop, but she corrected it, holding it up and straight ahead. She pursed her lips. “Peter was everything to me. After my husband died, even more so. I have nothing now.”

I shot a glance at Ann in time to see her jaw stiffen at her mother’s words. “You have Ann,” I said, returning my attention to Mrs. Tanaka. “The two of you can be each other’s strength in this tragic time.”

Mrs. Tanaka didn’t look at her daughter but straight at us when she answered. “Yes, I still have Ann.”

“Mrs. Tanaka,” Greg said, “did Peter have any girlfriends that you knew of?” He took a sip of the hot tea while he waited for the answer.

“He was very popular with women,” Mrs. Tanaka answered, a very slight smile appearing momentarily on her lips. “More so before his accident, but still after.”

“There’s speculation,” Greg continued, “that he was dating Miranda Henderson.”

“A married woman? I doubt that. Not when he had so many other women around him.” She took a delicate drink of her tea.

“But,” I added, “we have reason to believe they knew each other beyond just the quad rugby connection.”

At that point, Mrs. Tanaka did glance at Ann. “Tell them,” she said to her daughter. “Tell them what you told the police.”

Ann hesitated, looking ready to bolt instead of answering.

“Tell them,” her mother ordered. “They need to know about their friend—what kind of person she was.”

Ann took a deep breath and looked at us. “They did know each other, but not in the way you think. Miranda Henderson was a…a call girl.”

“What?” came out of Greg with a loud snap, like a tree branch breaking in two. He put his teacup down on the table and leaned forward.

“So Peter was paying Miranda to sleep with him?” I asked, startled myself. I wasn’t naïve; I knew a lot of men in wheelchairs paid escorts. Greg had even confessed to me that he had done it a couple of times when he was younger.

Ann shook her head. “No. But he found out and…” Her words drifted off.

“Tell them everything,” her mother urged with sharpness. She put her tea down and I followed suit, worrying that if the news gave me another shock, I might slosh it.

After a hard swallow, Ann said, without looking at us, “Peter found out about it and was blackmailing her. I heard him talking to her on the phone a few times and asked him about it. He told me he saw her working as a prostitute at a party he attended a few months ago.”

“He admitted to you he was blackmailing Miranda Henderson?” I asked.

Ann said nothing but nodded in response.

Mrs. Tanaka squared her shoulders. “Like I said, my son was no angel, but you can see that the Henderson woman did have a very strong motive to murder him.”

I kept my eyes on Ann. “You told this to the police?”

She nodded again.

Considering the timing of my conversation with Dev, I wondered if Dev had known about Ann Tanaka’s allegations when he and I had spoken.

“Did the police tell you,” I said to Ann, moving the conversation along, “that right before Rocky went after your brother, Peter said something to him to enrage him?”

“Yes,” June Tanaka answered for her daughter. “They told us that, but they also said no one heard what Peter said to the man.”

“I’m wondering,” I continued, keeping to my train of thought, “if that’s what Peter told Rocky that made him go nuts. When Rocky confronted his wife, she took off.”

“And,” added Greg, “a friend of ours overheard Peter and Miranda fighting right before that game.”

Ann’s eyes met Greg’s. “Someone heard them?”

“Yes, he was near Peter’s van, but he couldn’t tell what they were fighting about. He’d also seen them together before, talking at scrimmages.”

“It still doesn’t mean they were involved,” snapped Mrs. Tanaka, finally showing some emotion, even if it was anger. “Or give that horrible woman the right to kill my son.”

“We’re still not saying Miranda killed Peter,” I said with defiance. “We heard that he was selling drugs in Canada—maybe his criminal connections took him out. Miranda might have known something about it and ended up as collateral damage.”

“This is not as open and shut as you might think, ladies,” Greg said to the Tanaka women.

“My son did have some issues in Canada, but he left them there, I can assure you,” Mrs. Tanaka said, her voice clipped and cold.

“That’s not what we heard,” said Greg. “We were told it was well known among the rugby players that he was the man with the drug connection.”

Mrs. Tanaka stood up and signaled to her daughter with her eyes. Ann quickly gathered up the tea things and started to leave with them. Obviously, our cozy little chat was done.

I got to my feet. “May I use your powder room before we leave?”

“Follow Ann,” Mrs. Tanaka said curtly. “She’ll show you where it is.” She turned to Greg. “You can wait for your wife here, then please leave.” Mrs. Tanaka turned and, with head held erect, disappeared through an arched door in the opposite direction. A moment later, we heard a door shut.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” I said to Greg, then followed Ann.

She went through a formal dining room and into a large, well-lit kitchen with gleaming high-end fixtures and appliances. After placing the tea things on a counter, she gestured to a small corridor. “It’s through that door to your right.”

When I came out of the bathroom, I found Greg in the kitchen with Ann, clearly in defiance of his orders from Mrs. Tanaka. I gave them both a smile as I approached. Ann was at the sink, washing out the delicate teapot and cups. Greg had positioned his wheelchair near her but not so close as to appear intimidating. When he saw me, he said, “I just asked Ann what Peter did for work.”

I looked at the young woman, waiting for her answer along with Greg.

“Nothing,” she said quietly, her head bent over the sink. She put the last cup on a rack next to several sports bottles upended to dry.

“Those Peter’s?” I asked, indicating the sports bottles.

“Some of them,” Ann answered. “Some are mine. We liked the same type. I run long distance, marathons mostly.”

“Did you fill them for him before games?” I asked. “Or did he fill them at the games?”

She stared at me with wide-eyed shock. “Are you asking if I poisoned my own brother?”

“No,” I clarified. “I’m asking when did the bottles get filled with his sports drink last weekend, here or at the game?”

Her face relaxed. “Of course. I’m sorry I snapped at you. Everything has been so overwhelming.” She took a deep breath. “As I told the police, generally we filled several bottles here before he left. We’d also fill up a two-and-a-half gallon cooler with water and add a large powder packet to it. He’d keep that jug in his van to refill his individual bottles as he needed it.”