“Any reasonably reputable businessperson holds on to records for at least seven years in case of a tax audit, if for no other reason,” I reply. “And he’s telling you he didn’t have backups?”
“Busted,” Marino says, as the porch lights blink on next.
We drive off loudly and conspicuously as the front door opens and a muscular man in pajama bottoms steps out on the porch, staring after us.
“You can understand why this guy Darryl Simons doesn’t want people calling about the Jordans’ alarm system,” Marino says, as the van bucks and roars. “If it had been armed and working, they wouldn’t be dead.”
“So why wasn’t it armed and working?” I ask. “Did he say if it was installed by Dr. Jordan? Or perhaps by the previous owner of the home?”
“He didn’t remember.”
“Right. Hard to remember something like that in a case where four people were murdered.”
“He doesn’t want to remember it,” Marino says. “Kind of like being the one who built the
“We need to find out what happened to his company computers, where they were donated. Maybe they still exist somewhere or he has disks in a safe,” I suggest. “It would be helpful to see his monthly statements. It would be very helpful to see a log. You would think that investigators might have looked into this at the time. What exactly did Investigator Long tell you? Jaime says you talked to him.”
“Did she mention he’s old as dirt and had a stroke since then?” The van backfires. It sounds like a gun going off as we struggle past movie theaters, cafes, and ice cream and sub and bicycle shops near the College of Art and Design.
“Two thousand two wasn’t all that long ago,” I say to Marino. “These aren’t even cold cases by my definition. Cool, lukewarm, but not cold. We’re not talking about unsolved murders that are fifty years old. There should be plenty of documentation and plenty of people with good recall in a case as big and infamous as this one.”
“Investigator Long said whatever happened is in his reports,” Marino says. “I said, ‘Well, that doesn’t seem to include anything about the Jordans’ burglar alarm.’ He claims they’d had trouble with false alarms and quit setting it.”
“If he knew that, he must have talked to the alarm company,” I answer, as we wind around Reynolds Square, dark and wooded with benches and a statue of John Wesley preaching, near an old building once used as a hospital for malaria patients.
“Yeah, he must have, but he doesn’t remember.”
“People forget. They have strokes. And they have no interest in reopening an investigation that might prove them wrong.”
“I agree. We should see the log,” Marino says.
“There must have been quite a number of people around here who’d had alarm systems installed by Southern Cross Security. What happened to those customers?”
“Obviously some other company took over their accounts.”
“And maybe that company has the original records. Maybe even a hard drive or computer backups,” I suggest.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Lucy might be able to help you. She’s pretty good when it comes to electronic records that supposedly have vanished into thin air.”
“Except Jaime won’t want her help.”
“I wasn’t suggesting she help Jaime. I’m suggesting Lucy help us. And Benton might have some interesting insights to offer. I think we could use any informed opinions we can get, because the evidence seems to be pointing in different directions. It’s a good thing we’re not very far away, because this thing sounds as if it will quit any second or seize up or explode,” I add, as the van stutters and shudders north toward the river.
Most of the restaurants and breweries we pass are closed, the sidewalks deserted, and then the Hyatt is just ahead on our right, huge and lit up, illuminating an entire city block.
“It’s feeling like we’re being stonewalled,” Marino says. “People forgetting or records that are gone.”
“What Jaime is doing in Savannah is recent, and the alarm company went out of business and supposedly got rid of its records at least three years ago,” I reply. “So it doesn’t sound like you’re getting stonewalled, at least not on that front, because of what’s happening with the case now.”
“Well, it sure seems like there might be something else certain parties don’t want anybody snooping into.”
“You don’t know that for sure, either,” I reply. “It’s typical that once people have been through the ordeal of a homicide investigation and a trial and all the publicity that goes with it, a lot of them want to be left alone. Especially in cases as gruesome as these.”
“I guess it’s easier if Lola Daggette gets the needle and then it’s all over with,” Marino says.
“For some people, that would be easier and emotionally satisfying.” Then I ask, “Who is Anna Copper?”
“I sure as hell don’t know why Jaime would mention that to you,” Marino replies, as we loudly creep to a halt in front of the hotel.
“I’m wondering who or what Anna Copper or Anna Copper LLC is,” I ask again.
“A limited liability company she’s been using of late when she doesn’t want her name on something.”
“Such as the apartment she’s rented here in Savannah.”
“I’m really surprised she would mention it to you. I would figure she’d assume you’re the last person who’d appreciate hearing about that LLC,” Marino says.
A valet cautiously approaches the driver’s window, as if he’s not sure what to make of the chugging, backfiring van or if he wants to park it.
“It’s better I drive this thing into the garage myself,” Marino tells him.
“I’m sorry, sir, but no one is allowed to drive anything in there. Only authorized personnel can access underground parking.”
“Well, you don’t want to be driving this. How about I park it right over there by that big palm tree and I’ll get it first thing in the morning so I can take it in for repairs.”
“Are you a guest here?”
“A regular VIP. I left the Bugatti at home. Too much luggage.”
“We’re not really supposed to—”
“It’s about to die. You don’t want it dying with you in it.”
The van chugs and moves in fits and starts as Marino parks off to one side of the brick drive. “Anna Copper is an LLC that Lucy created about a year ago, I guess,” he says. “It was her idea, and she didn’t exactly do it for a nice reason. It happened after she and Jaime had a disagreement. Well, by then they’d probably been having a lot of them.”
“Is it Lucy’s LLC or Jaime’s?” I ask, as he turns off the engine and we sit in the silent dark. The air blowing through our open windows is still very warm for almost two a.m.
“Jaime’s. Lucy basically created a smoke screen for Jaime to hide behind. It was supposed to be funny in a mean sort of way. Lucy went on one of these Internet legal sites, and next thing you know, Anna Copper LLC was filed, and when she got the paperwork in the mail, she wrapped it up in a big fancy box with a bow and gave it to Jaime.”
“This is according to Jaime? Or did Lucy tell you?”
“Lucy did. It was a while back when she told me, around the time she moved to Boston. So I was surprised when I realized Jaime is actually using that LLC.”
“And the reason you found out?”
“Paperwork, a billing address. When I was helping set up her security system I had to know certain information,” Marino says, as we get out of his van. “That’s the name she’s using on everything down here, and I admit it’s a little unusual — at least, I think it is. She’s a damn lawyer. It wouldn’t take her five minutes to create a new LLC. Why would she use one that has certain memories associated with it? Why not forget the past and move on?”
“Because she can’t.”
Jaime can’t give up Lucy, or at least the idea of Lucy, and I wonder if Benton is thinking the same thing.
