Dead Dreams (5 page)

“I’ll be discrete. But you’d better not stay home alone today.”

“I’ll take my laptop and go to the library. I can research on a good alarm company. One with video and sound capture.”

Growing up rich sure kept her abreast of technology and security systems.

“Call my cell when you want to come back here.” The hair on my arms crawled when I recalled Sarah’s frightened eyes. “Better clean up that blood on your forehead. How’d you get it, anyway?’

She strode to the doorway, ran her finger on the edge of the door, and displayed the blood on her finger. The burglar must have slammed her head on the edge of the door when he’d tried to drag her out. But, what had he been trying to do? Besides robbing her? If he’d wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have bothered to get her out of the room. And he’d only stolen her Rolex. And what was that worth? Ten thousand max? Was it just a warning? Sarah might not have been telling me everything. She always locked her bedroom door, too. So had she forgotten to lock it last night? Maybe the burglar had the key, but how was that possible? Only Mr. Yamamoto, our landlord, kept the spare ones.

“Sarah, which of your friends have you spoken to since you moved in?” It had only been three weeks. Maybe a snake was disguised as a buddy? Todd could have spun a yarn and offered a reward for Sarah’s whereabouts, especially since his upside amounted to quite a treasure.

“Only Ken and Kaleb—the K brothers, I call them. Oh, and Megan. I’ve known her since forever, all the way back in kindergarten in West Virginia. I hooked up with her a few months back. She wouldn’t have told Todd. She hates him. Even threw up on his head once when we were kids.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you, of course.
You
know I’m here.”

I let that slide. “And my parents,” I added.
Let’s see what she’ll still say to that.

“The K brothers have never met Todd. They work at Bank of America, and I got to know them, maybe a few months back. They’re typical banker types. Clean-cut and do everything above board. Hardly burglar material.”

Back in my room, my clock alarm rang so I excused myself after arranging to meet Sarah back at the apartment during my lunch break so the alarm people could install the security system. I didn’t even ask how she was going to get them here on such short notice that very afternoon; cash could buy quite a few favors. I’d have to let my landlord know, convince Mr. Yamamoto an alarm would raise his apartment’s value. He, too, could be swayed by U.S. currency.

I bumped into Peter Salazar as I flung my gym bag behind the front desk counter. I hoped I could exercise a bit before I had to leave for home and then my Starbucks stint.
Might help to pump some adrenaline into my system and keep me awake.

“Hey, Pete. Got a sec?” I motioned for him to get behind the counter so no patron could overhear me.

Pete’s eyes widened when I told him. Of course, I skipped Sarah’s personal details. He stepped forward and petted my shoulder as if I were a puppy.

“Sure you’re going to be okay tonight? I could camp out in your living room.” He barked a short laugh, but his eyes spoke a concern I’d never seen before.
Sarah could be right
. He might have liked me more than I cared to admit. That could be a bummer, since he made such an awesome friend. Why spoil something with a relationship? I often wondered if Drew’s parents might have allowed us to keep in touch if we’d only stayed friends.

“We’re thinking of hiring someone to guard our apartment. At least till we feel comfortable with the alarm system Sarah’s getting.” I broached the subject of his brother, Jim. His half-brother, different moms, same dad, Pete clarified.

Sarah had agreed to a blank check, perhaps even having two persons back-to-back, I told Peter. “Maybe your brother could see if he could get burglar’s prints off the door. I think I know which window the thug came through. But, I’m no Nancy Drew.”

“I’ll call Jim, but he’d want to know what we’re dealing with.” Pete was smarter than he looked. He was tall and brawny, with a permanent tan some of us girls at Stay Fit tended to make fun of, but still, he was pleasant to be around. “What with Jim’s cop background, he can be very suspicious,” he continued.

I’d sworn to Sarah not to mention her fortune. “He’s not going to say anything to his old cop friends, right?”

“Jim didn’t exactly retire on good terms with his department, so he’s not going to tell them much. He’s discreet.”

“I appreciate it, Pete.” I tiptoed and pecked him on the cheek. He went as red as a fire truck.

“If you have to go, go. I’ll cover for you,” Pete said as he handed me Jim’s number. “Jim’s wife left him a decade back, and so he had to raise his only son by himself. He might be busy, but tell him you’re my friend and he’ll make time for you.”

Later, Jim called me back and agreed to meet at the apartment. He’d get there during my lunch break, a few minutes before my scheduled time with Sarah. I would return to Stay Fit later to finish my shift and repay Pete for the hours he’d covered for me.

I told Jim to call me when he got there so I could open the door. Sure wouldn’t want to let the burglar in by mistake. When I neared home, all sorts of scenes played out in my head.

As I inserted the key into the lock at the front door, the thought that someone might be inside waiting with an axe crossed my mind. Too many horror movies in my high school years. However, all seemed calm inside the apartment. Sarah wasn’t home yet. I walked to the kitchen and looked out the window. An idea struck me.

I slipped on my leather gloves and sneaked into Sarah’s bedroom. We’d agreed she should leave her door unlocked (a rarer-than-a-blue-moon occurrence) and her room undisturbed so the P.I. could take pictures. Of course, she hadn’t known I was coming home earlier than our planned noon appointment, as I’d forfeited my exercise routine.

What else was the burglar after, besides Sarah’s Rolex?

I rummaged through her clothes in the stacked drawers. The dark green notebook was gone from the topmost bin—probably still in her LV. But, under her lacy underwear, a card poked through. Probably it had slipped out of the notebook.

It was plain except for the name and telephone number scripted on one side: “Jackson Anderson. 650-500-7456.”

Her sleuth. The missing P.I. Sarah’d mentioned. I didn’t find anything else except for a bunch of old receipts from an assortment of high-fashion stores. I slipped the card into my jeans pocket. It wouldn’t do to use my cell, as it was traceable. I doubted public phones even existed these days, so using that was out of the question. Could a call via Skype be traced back to me? Maybe via an I.P. Address? I would have to figure how to call Jackson and still conceal my identity.

A quick check in the trash in Sarah’s bathroom revealed she had receipts she’d torn into two and three pieces each. Most were bills from Nordstrom and a Patek Philippe boutique. I hadn’t noticed her new purchase. Patek Philippe was more than just a high-end watch. It represented a statement for the rich and snooty.
Who wears watches these days?
Short of cooking dinner, my cell phone, a Samsung Galaxy S5, could do just about everything from telling time to reminding me of appointments, and it cost less than a tenth of a Patek Philippe.

I stuffed the torn receipts into my jeans pocket without being exactly certain why. Maybe Jim would have ideas Sarah wouldn’t think to connect. Maybe the burglar followed her after stalking her at the Patek Philippe store. Hoping to rob her sooner, he never had a chance, so he’d stalked her home instead. Had it been a burglar’s face I’d seen by the window that night Mrs. Mott had suffered the heart attack? I’d dismissed the apparition as a figment of my imagination, but what if it was what had scared Mrs. Mott in the first place? I traced the timeline and felt Mrs. Mott had the scare and subsequent heart attack a week back. I took the watch receipt out and looked for the date of purchase at the bottom but it wasn’t there. It was torn off. Assuming Mrs. Mott had spotted the burglar that evening, had he been checking to see if I were the girl to rob? But, it was dark, and no way could he have identified either of us from the window.

Still, something bugged me, though I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. I went to the kitchen and made myself a PBJ sandwich. My mother would flip if she knew I hadn’t been religious about eating salad as she’d regimented at home.

Jim Salazar arrived five minutes later. He looked about fifty, at least to my eighteen-year-old eyes, and paunchy, as if he’d had too much beer all his life. What with his receding hairline kept hidden under a red Forty-Niners baseball cap, he didn’t look anything like Pete, who must have been about two decades younger. I couldn’t imagine him a cop. How’d he chased down agile criminals? Yet, he seemed meticulous in his work.

He dusted the doorjamb and the windowsill with a thin brush he’d pulled out of a fat silver briefcase with dents in its corners. The burglar must have climbed up to the balcony, Jim said. He pointed to an oak branch that almost touched Mrs. Mott’s former kitchen window.

“Your burglar’s one observant bloke. He must be a pro at this sort of thing.” Jim said.

“Bloke.” What an English word. I nodded. Maybe the bloke wasn’t a random stalker intent on robbing Sarah, after all.

Jim explained that instead of using the sliding door, the perpetrator had climbed onto the ledge and crept in through the window I always kept slightly open to let air circulate. Jim also took pictures of the safe and the crumpled comforter on the bed, when I told him Sarah hadn’t gotten back to sleep after. He scoured the surface with a penknife-looking flashlight. It felt like watching a CSI episode in slow motion.

“So, any clues?” I squinted at the messy bed sheet.

“Don’t touch anything yet,” he said. “We don’t want to contaminate.”

I pressed my thumb into my pocket as I remembered the torn receipts and how I might have already compromised the crime scene. Jim wouldn’t be happy if I told.

“See here?” He tweezered out a thin, dark brown hair, short and straight, and showed it to me. “Sarah’s?”

I shook my head. “She’s dark red, and curly. And, as you can see….” I twirled my straight mousey brown tresses in front of my face. “I’m too light to be its owner, either.”

It was true Peter had seen the subtle similarities in our features and the shape of our faces. (Maybe Pete had been scrutinizing me more than I cared to admit.) But our coloring was dissimilar and at a glance a random stranger meeting us on the street may not have thought we looked alike at all.

Jim asked, “Does she bring boyfriends here?”

I shook my head. “It’s in our contract. Our landlord specifically stated no wild parties, and so I translated that as no guys overnight. She may have a boyfriend, but she’s never mentioned him.”

“We don’t have much to go on. I got a partial print by the sill, but it could have been one of you girls. Hundreds of prints all over the furniture. I’d need to run the partial print. Do you mind if I get some of my contacts to take a look? I’d need your fingerprints, as well as Sarah’s.”

“Yeah, but don’t tell Sarah. She’s paranoid about privacy. Very into conspiracy theory. Thinks the government may be after her.” I looked about the room and noticed an empty drinking glass on the desk. “Bet you can get her prints off that.” I pointed at the Waterford crystal goblet, from her personal collection which she always set next to her bedside table.