E is for Evidence (19 page)

We went up the back stairs. “You know what bothers me?” I asked Darcy as we climbed.

She unlocked the door to the building, glancing back at me. “What's that?”

“Well, suppose we assume Andy's guilty of conspiracy in this. It does look that way even though we don't have proof at this point, right?”

“I'd say so.”

“I can't figure out why he agreed to it. We're talking major insurance fraud. He gets caught, it's his livelihood. So what's in it for him?”

“It has to be a payoff,” Darcy said. “If Janice hosed him, he's probably desperate for cash.”

“Maybe,” I said. “It means somebody knew him well enough to think he'd tumble to a bribe. Andy's always been a jerk, but I never really thought of him as dishonest.”

We'd reached the glass doors of California Fidelity. “What are you saying?” she asked as she unlocked the door and let us in. She flipped the overhead lights on and tossed her handbag on a chair.

“I don't really know. I'm wondering if something
else was going on, I guess. He's in a perfect position to fiddle with the claim forms, but it's still a big risk. And why the panic? What went wrong?”

“He probably didn't count on Olive getting killed. That's gotta fit in somewhere,” she said.

We went into Andy's office. Darcy watched with interest as I went through a systematic search. It looked like his business files were still intact, but all of his personal effects had been removed: the photograph of his kids that had sat on his desk, his leather-bound appointment calendar, address book, Rolodex, even the framed APSCRAP and MDRT awards he'd gotten some years before. He'd left a studio portrait of Janice, a five-by-seven color head shot, showing bouffant blond hair, a heart-shaped face, and a pointed chin. She did have a spiteful look about her, even grinning at the camera. Andy had blackened one front tooth and penned in some handsome hairs growing out of her nose. By widening her nostrils slightly, he'd created a piggy effect. The ever-mature Andy Motycka expressing his opinion of his ex-wife.

I sat in his swivel chair and surveyed the place, wondering how I was going to get a line on him. Where would he go and why take off like that? Had he made the bomb? Darcy was quiet, not wanting to interrupt my thought processes, such as they were.

“You have a number for Janice?” I asked.

“Yeah, at my desk. You want me to call and see if she knows where he is?”

“Let's do that. Make up an excuse if you can, and don't give anything away. If she doesn't know he's skipped out, let's don't tip it at this point.”

“Right,” Darcy said. She moved out to the reception area. I picked up the file I'd brought and pulled out all the papers. It was clear that Andy was in serious financial straits. Between Janice's harangue over the late support check, and the pink- and red-rimmed dunning notices, it was safe to assume that the pressure was on. I reread the various versions of his love letter to his inamorata. That must have been quite a Christmas eve they'd had. Maybe he'd run away with her.

Andy's calendar pad still sat at the uppermost edge of his blotter, two date sheets side by side, connected by arched clips that allowed the pages to lie flat. He'd taken his leather month-by-month appointment book, but he'd left this behind. Apparently he made a habit of noting appointments on both places so his secretary could keep track of his whereabouts. I leafed back through the week, day by day. On Friday, December 24, he'd circled 9:00
P.M.
and penciled in the initial L. Was this his beloved? I worked my way back through the last six months. The initial cropped
up at irregular intervals, with no pattern that I could discern.

I went out to the reception area, taking the calendar pad and the file folder with me.

Darcy was on the phone, in the midst of a chat with Janice, from what I gathered.

“Uh-hun. Well, I wouldn't know anything about that. I don't know him all that well. Uh-hun. What's your attorney telling you? I guess that's true, but I don't know what good it would do you. Look, I'm going to have to run, Janice. I've got somebody standing here waiting to use the phone. Uh-hun, I'd appreciate that and I'll let you know what we hear on this end. I'm sure he just went off for the weekend and forgot to mention it. Thanks much. You, too. Bye-bye. Right.”

Darcy replaced the receiver and let out a deep breath. “Good God, that woman can talk! It's lucky I called when I did because I got an earful. She's p.o.'d. He was supposed to come by last night and pick the kids up and he never showed. She was all set to go out and had to cancel her plans. No call, no apologies, nothing. She's convinced he's skipped town and she's all set to call the cops.”

“Wouldn't do any good unless he's been missing seventy-two hours,” I said. “He's probably shacked up somewhere with this bimbo he's so crazy about.” I showed Darcy the letters I'd picked out of his trash.

It was wonderful watching her expression shift from amusement to distaste. “Oh God, would you let him suckle your hmphm-hmph?”

“Only if I doused it with arsenic first.”

Darcy's brow wrinkled. “Her bazookas must be huge. He couldn't think what to compare 'em to.”

I looked over her shoulder. “Well, ‘footballs,' but he crossed that out. Probably didn't seem romantic.”

Darcy shoved the papers back in the file. “That was titillating stuff. Oh, bad joke. Now what?”

“I don't know. He took his address book with him, but I do have this.” I flipped through the calendar pad and showed her the penciled initials scattered through the months. I could see Darcy's mental wheels start to turn.

“Wonder if she ever called him here,” she said. “She must have, don't you think?”

She opened her top right-hand desk drawer and took out the log for incoming telephone calls. It was a carbonless system with a permanent record in yellow overlaid by white perforated originals. If a call came in for someone out of the office, she made a note of the date and time, the caller, and the return number, checking off one of the responses to the right, “Please call,” “Will call back,” or “Message.” The top slip was then torn out and given to the relevant recipient. Darcy turned back to December 1.

It didn't take us long to find her. By comparing the
log of Andy's calls with the calendar pad, we came up with one repeat caller who left a number, but no name, always a day or two prior to Andy's assignations . . . if indeed that's what they were.

“Do you keep crisscross around here?” I asked.

“I don't think so. We used to have one, but I haven't seen it for months.”

“I've got last year's in my office. Let's see who's listed at this number. We better hope it's not a business.”

I pulled my keys out of my handbag as Darcy followed me.

“You were supposed to turn those keys in,” she said in mild reproof.

“Oh really? I didn't know that.”

I unlocked my office door and moved to the file cabinet, pulling the crisscross from the bottom drawer. The number, at least the year before, belonged to last name, Wilding, first name Lorraine.

“You think it's her?” Darcy asked.

“I know a good way to find out,” I said. The address listed was only two blocks from my apartment, down near the beach.

“Are you sure you're okay? I don't think you should be running around like this.”

“Don't sweat it. I'm fine,” I said. The truth was, I wasn't feeling all that terrific, but I didn't want to lay my little head down until a few questions had been
answered first. I was running on adrenaline—not a bad source of energy. When it ran out, of course, you were up shit creek, but for the time being it seemed better to be on the move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had Darcy drop me off. In an interview situation I prefer to work alone, especially when I'm not quite sure who I'm dealing with. People are easier to manage one on one; there's more room to ad-lib and more room to negotiate.

The apartment building was Spanish style, probably dating from the thirties. The red-tile roof had aged to the color of rust and the stucco had mellowed from stark white to cream. There were clumps of beaky-looking bird of paradise plants in front. A towering, sixty-foot pine tree enveloped the yard in shade. Bougainvillea was massed at the roofline, a tumble of magenta blossoms that spread out along the gutters and trailed like Spanish moss. Wood shutters, painted dark brown, flanked the windows. The loggia was chilly and smelled of damp earth.

I knocked at apartment D. There was no sign of
Andy's car on the street, but there was still a possibility that he was here. I had no idea what I'd say if he appeared at the door. It was nearly six and I could smell someone's supper in the making, something with onions and celery and butter. The door opened and I felt a little lurch of surprise. Andy's ex-wife was staring out at me.

“Janice?” I said, with disbelief.

“I'm Lorraine,” she said. “You must be looking for my sister.”

Once she spoke, the resemblance began to fade. She had to be in her mid-forties, her good looks just beginning to dehydrate. She had Janice's blond hair and the same pointed chin, but her eyes were bigger and her mouth was more generous. So was her body. She was my height, probably ten pounds heavier, and I could see where she carried the excess. Her eyes were brown and she'd lined them with black, adding false lashes as dense as paintbrushes. She wore snug white twill shorts and a halter top. Her legs had been shapely once, but the muscles had taken on that stringy look that connotes no exercise. Her tan looked like the comprehensive sort you acquire at a tanning salon—the electric beach.

Andy must have been in heaven. I've known men who fall in love with the same type of woman over and over again, but the similarities are usually not so obvious. She looked hauntingly like Janice. The difference
was that Lorraine was voluptuous where the former Mrs. Motycka tended toward the small, the dry, and the mean. Judging from Andy's letter, Lorraine was freer with her affections than Janice ever was. She did things to him that made his syntax turn to hiccups. I wondered if his affair with Lorraine came before or after his divorce. Either way, the liaison was dangerous. If Janice found out about it, she would extract a pretty price. It crossed my mind briefly that someone might have used this as leverage to secure his cooperation.

“I'm looking for Andy,” I said.

“Who?”

“Andy Motycka, your brother-in-law. I'm from the insurance company where he works.”

“Why look at me? He and Janice are divorced.”

“He gave me this address in case I ever needed to get in touch.”

“He did?”

“Why else would I be here?”

She looked at me with suspicion. “How well do you know Janice?”

I shrugged. “I don't really. I used to see her at company parties before they split. When you first opened the door, I thought it was her, you look so much alike.”

She took that in and digested it. “What do you want Andy for?”

“He disappeared yesterday and no one seems to know where he went. Did he say anything to you?”

“Not really.”

“Mind if I come in? Maybe we can figure what's happening.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose that's okay. He never told me he gave anyone this address.”

She stepped back and I followed her into the apartment. A small tiled entry dropped down two steps into a large living room. The apartment looked as if it had been furnished from a rental company. Everything was new, handsome, and impersonal. A foot-high live spruce decked with candy canes sat on the glass-and-brass coffee table, but that was the only indication that Christmas had come and gone.

Lorraine flicked the television off and motioned me to a chair. The upholstery had the tough, rubbery feel of Scotchgarding. Neither tears, blood, or spilled booze could penetrate such a finish. She sat down, giving the crotch of her shorts a pull so the inseam wouldn't bury itself in her private parts. “How'd you say you know Andy? Do you work for him?”

“Not really for him, but the same company. When did you see him last?”

“Three days ago. I talked to him on the phone Thursday night. He was taking his kids on New Year's Eve so I wasn't going to see him till late tomorrow
anyway, but he always calls, regardless of what's going on. When I didn't hear by this morning, I drove out to his place, but there's no sign of him. Why would you need him New Year's Day?”

I stuck as close to the truth as I could, filling her in on the fact that he'd departed Friday morning without giving any indication where he meant to go. “We need one of the files. Do you know anything about the claim he was working on? There was a fire out at Wood/Warren about a week ago and I think he was doing some of the paperwork.”

There was a startled silence and the barriers shot up again. “Excuse me?”

“Did he mention that to you?”

“What'd you say your name was?”

“Darcy. I'm the receptionist. I think I've talked to you a couple of times on the phone.”

Her manner became formal, circumspect. “I see. Well, Darcy, he doesn't talk to me about his work. I know he loves the company and he's fine at what he does.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said I. “And he's very well liked, which is why we were concerned when he went off without a word. We thought maybe some kind of family matter came up. He didn't say anything about going out of town for a few days?”

She shook her head.

Judging from her attitude, I was almost certain she knew about the scam. I was equally certain she'd never give a hint of confirmation.

She said, “I wish I could help you, but he never said a word to me. In fact, I'd appreciate a call myself when the man turns up. I don't like to have to sit here and fret.”