Dead Dreams (23 page)

With giant leaps, I bounded toward the closed bedroom door and turned the knob, half-expecting it to be locked. Hoping it would be locked. But, it opened easily, and even in the darkness I could see Sarah on the bed, a hump bundled under the blanket, which could explain why she hadn’t heard me. She slept with about a dozen pillows each night.

“Sarah!” I rushed toward her, yanked the blanket away, and shook her hard.

It wasn’t Sarah on the bed. It wasn’t anybody at all. It was just her blankets and her ridiculous number of pillows. I turned on the bedside lamp, the one with the frills that went around the bottom of the lamp shade. The blankets and pillows were twisted together in a chaos, and blood splotches stained these. Blood was everywhere: on my lilac headboard, in patches on the carpet, and even on the wall above the headboard in a shape of a partial small handprint. Whose blood was this? The rusty smell of blood hit me.

I backed away from the bed and ran to the bathroom, my stomach twisted and nausea swelled up my throat.

“Sarah!” Still, no reply.

I rushed to Sarah’s old bedroom, but the door was still locked. No one had gone in there, unless he or she had come in through that bedroom’s window. The kitchen knife was still in my grip, and I determined to use its tip to break in. But I noticed something else.

The blade had faint smears; but now that I stared at it in the light, it looked suspicious. I brought it to my nose. Blood. I dropped it by my feet. Was the knife the murder weapon?

Who’d done this? Her uncle? His conspirators? Whoever did this must have gotten into our apartment through the balcony sliding door. Maybe even through Mrs. Mott’s empty apartment. And I’d left that front door open! If I’d been here I might have heard him, them, stopped whoever they were. We must have been watched all this while. But, where was Sarah? Was she hurt, or had something worse happened? The amount of blood I’d witnessed made me shudder.

Then it occurred to me. If I’d been home I, too, could have been hurt, or killed. And I’d slipped her that sleeping pill. She’d been helpless, and I was to blame.

Sarah’s LV still lay on the sofa where I’d dumped it.

I made a dash for it and searched for my cell phone. I would call Jim, ask him what to do. He’d have friends who could help. But, what if the cops thought I was in on this heinous crime? Worse, what if they believed I’d gotten rid of Sarah to get my hands on her money, just had she had joked earlier? I found Sarah’s iPhone, but it was still locked. Useless. My hands groped about the bag, and finally in frustration I dumped the entire contents of her bag onto the sofa. Everything came flying out as I jerked the LV upside-down. Everything but my phone. I’d left it in the Mini Cooper in my fury to confront Sarah!

Then, it hit me. My fingerprints. On the knife. On the balcony. On the window sill. On the sliding door. And in Mrs. Mott’s vacant apartment next door. I’d have to explain everything. Would the cops believe me? What if I couldn’t reach Jim? I’d heard about cops pinning the crime on the most convenient suspect. And I’d have given them motive, the most powerful weapon they could use against me.

I could call Jackson. The real Jackson, the one whose office I’d called using the business card from Sarah’s drawer. He’d know what to do, how to help me. What if he thought I was guilty, too? He wasn’t going to be pleased Sarah and I had tricked the bank. Tricked him. Committed a crime. But, I was no murderer. I’d never even had a traffic ticket.

I couldn’t call Dad. Mom? She was already stressed by my father’s condition, although she and the nurses at Palo Alto Hospital could surely give me an alibi. But, when had this vicious slaying at my apartment taken place? Right after I’d left? Or before? I’d heard it! That crash I’d mistaken for Sarah dropping something—it could have been her struggling? And I hadn’t even helped her.

I’d call Keith. He’d be devastated. He’d want to know. Regardless of the reason for them deceiving me, it couldn’t possibly be anything close to murder. Keith and I had grown up together, swinging on the rubber tubing attached to the old oak tree and playing hide-and-seek in our backyard. My apartment didn’t have a landline, so I’d have to retrieve my cell from the Mini Cooper to contact anyone.

I took out Sarah’s phone, and tried different combinations: her birthday, her favorite pet’s name that she said died two years back, our zip code. No success.

What was her password?

I snatched a rag from a kitchen drawer and started wiping surfaces—the sliding door, the balcony. I ran to old Mrs. Mott’s vacant apartment and used the rag to wipe my prints off places I’d thought I’d touched. But, what if I also wiped off any evidence of the intruder? I took a deep breath and backed away toward Mrs. Mott’s front door, locked it, and rushed to my car. I took Sarah’s LV with me, in addition to my own bag, which I’d found by the foot of my bed. Had the intruder killed Sarah, thinking she was me? He, or they, must have noticed my LV. Maybe even looked inside it.

As I gathered my wits in my car in that empty garage I thought of what I’d say to Keith. A high-powered vehicle revved its engine as it sped down the street. My heart skipped several beats. Every sound seemed magnified. The red truck popped into my head.

I resolved it was perhaps wisest to call Jackson first. He’d known Sarah the longest. He cared for her. He was connected to people in law enforcement. He, of all people, could help me—prove I was innocent, in case the cops insisted on having someone in custody quickly.
I should try his cell.
Not even a workaholic attorney would be at his office at four in the morning, but he might sleep with his phone on, right by his bedside table, as I’d seen in those detective shows. Fingers trembling, I punched the private number Jackson had passed my mom.

His number rang twice, then went dead. I tried it again. I couldn’t get through. On a third try, a female voice answered. “The number you’ve dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”

What?

The alternative was his office number. No decent legal office on the Pacific coast would stay open at this hour, but I keyed in the office contact on Jackson’s card anyway. After two rings, a man’s voice answered. I almost said, “Mr. Anderson!” but the voice was a recording—a strange one, too.

“If you are calling to reach the Jackson Anderson, Attorney Services, please note that due to the recent situation, all clients of the late Mr. Jackson Anderson have been re-routed to his associate and trusted senior partner, Mr. Antonio Ghirardellio. Please leave your name, number, and best time to reach you. Otherwise, all existing clients will be contacted in due process. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time.”

I hung up the phone, hardly believing my ears.

The late Mr. Jackson Anderson? Who was the man I’d seen at the bank? He might not
just
have been a fake Jackson; could he have been involved in the real Jackson’s demise? Sarah surely must not have known. That brown bag, which I presumed must have contained cash, she’d passed him must just have been payment for services at the bank, right? Or was it for something else, too?

My hope of obtaining Jackson’s help to clear my name vanished. Was his death, if indeed that was the “recent situation,” related to Sarah’s disappearance? Had she died? A deal turned sour, double-crossed by the body-double Jackson? It was possible Sarah was kidnapped for ransom, which meant a demand was forthcoming. But what if no ransom note came? And what about all that blood? If the intruders had meant her to be done away, where did that leave me? My fingers gripping the cell phone went numb and I realized I’d grasped it too tightly.

The world around me swirled like a cesspool. I’d hardly grabbed any dinner, and lack of sleep fuzzed my thinking. A sound out on the street jerked me out of my despair, and I sucked in a sharp breath that caught in my throat. Sirens. Police cars, or a fire engine? Someone might have reported Sarah’s tragedy. Someone could be watching the apartment and wanting to place the entire blame on me. They must have noticed I’d returned. But why pin it on me?

Think. Think
.
Think logically, I chided myself.

But my hands kept trembling, and I clasped the steering wheel in a vain attempt to steady my nerves. I couldn’t control my breathing. Stay calm. Focus. Think one step at a time. If the person reported me, that meant he wanted me framed, which meant he must want something I have, something I’d lose if caught with a crime. I thought about what I’d said to Pastor Perry. I did have something enough for me to be a target for evil.

The will! The inheritance was only Sarah’s if she was a law-abiding citizen. Maybe that clause also transferred to the person to whom she passed the inheritance. The people who knew about our scheme were Sarah, myself, the fake Jackson, possibly Keith, and possibly her Uncle Stu. Maybe he found out, somehow. The siren grew loud, but just as I scrambled to start my car and zoom off, the scream of the siren dissipated into the night as if the vehicle had turned a corner.

I needed to think without the noise blaring into my head. Fingers fumbling, I snatched the envelope Jim had passed me from under my seat and stuffed it into my LV. I rushed back up to the apartment, shut the front door, and turned the alarm on.
Breathe slowly
. I waited in the dark—for what I didn’t know. I’m alone.

If I could get into Sarah’s phone, I might find something that could help me. The password must have been something easy for her to remember, obvious to her but to no one else. Her big secret. R-E-D-T-R-U-C-K. Nothing happened. So, I tried my luck once more—not that my luck could be depended upon these days. Keith’s name. Didn’t work either. Then I tried K-E-I-T-H-1-9-8-3—the year Keith had been born. The iPhone burst into life, screen flashing into a brilliant firework, then welcoming me. Or rather, Sarah.

My finger scrolled down the recent calls she’d made. No names were linked to any of the numbers. I saw she’d called Keith that very afternoon. I recognized his number. Must have been right after our Fremont Bank affair. So, he knew. Why else would she have called right after, as if she was updating him? Was he the mastermind? My own brother? If Jackson’s death was not an accident, perhaps my brother was involved, too.

If I could locate that small green book Sarah had with all those name cards, I might also find who her contacts had been. Plus, her brother’s frequent haunts were in it. Todd might be able to help me if I struck a deal with him, especially since he was after Sarah’s share. Help me prove that Sarah was behind this crime and that I had nothing to do with what had happened here earlier, and he could have double portion. But where was Todd?

Those scraps Sarah had stuffed in her LV might hold some clues as to what had happened. I dumped her bag’s contents onto the sofa again and sifted through the mountain of receipts, bills and purchase invoices. The receipts didn’t amount to anything significant except confirmation of what I already knew: she was a heavy shopper. Every name brand was probably represented in the pile. If I sold all her belongings, I could probably make a million bucks.

But, where were these items she’d purchased? To think I was so close to having ninety-nine million to my name and couldn’t get to it unless I wanted to risk spending my life behind bars, or worse, the gas chamber. That was the death penalty of California for first degree murder.

Her closet didn’t hold that much by way of clothes, or shoes, or bags. She might have forwarded them to the London address, the one she’d mentioned briefly. What about the safe in her room? She claimed to have cleaned all the stock certificates out of it, but in any case, I couldn’t open it. I paged through the receipts again. In one of them I saw a name—a warehouse bill from Home Storage, “A place for your treasured belongings” the subtitle read. Address: 375, Portland Lane, Menlo Park. And the unit number, 410.

I vaguely remembered Portland Lane. It wasn’t in the industrial part of town where most of the self-storage buildings were located, and Atherton hardly has a commercial section. Home Storage must be an expensive alternative to the normal storage places. She must have stashed her valuables there. Where had she hidden the key to the warehouse? Was she planning to return to the Bay Area to collect her items? Or was Keith to take care of the nitty-gritty for her? Things didn’t add up yet. If I called Mom she might know Keith’s scheduled move.

The thought of going into Sarah’s bedroom made my stomach churn. The room itself would remind me of her—her expensive Hanae-somebody perfume, the scent of her vanilla shampoo, her smell of betrayal—but if I wanted to save myself, I’d need that storage key, or some other information to clear my name. It was already four thirty. The flight to Mexico City was supposed to be at noon. And, Sarah’s K twin friends were to collect my Mini Cooper and clear out the furniture soon after we were supposed to have left the apartment at ten.