him and, no disrespect intended, he was much too handsome for the likes of her. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s the truth.”
“Did he come in looking for her yesterday?”
Earldeen shook her head. “He was meeting someone else. This was a woman who didn’t have any business in a place like the Hatch. She was more the country-club type, if you know what I mean.”
“Close enough,” I said. “What happened?”
“Nothing much. They chatted for a minute or two and then he ushered her out the side door and that was the last I saw of them.”
“Why tell me?”
“Well, that’s just it. Back when this was going on, I asked Ollie who he was and he told me his name is Lorenzo Dante. Have you heard of him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He goes by the name Dante so nobody gets him mixed up with his dad, Lorenzo Dante Senior. Ollie says he’s a gangster.”
“The father or the son?”
“Both. I guess the father’s retired. Of course, I don’t travel in those circles, but I hear this fellow has a hand in a number of shady dealings.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, he’s a loan shark for one thing. He also owns an import-export warehouse out in Colgate called Allied Distributors. I have a hunch Audrey worked for him.”
My heart had started to thump because I’d seen that same warehouse the day before. “Why didn’t you tell me this a week ago? I’ve been busting my butt trying to figure out what she was up to. This would have been a big help.”
“I got sidetracked, I guess. I was so upset thinking she killed herself, it didn’t occur to me her death might be connected to her boss. It wasn’t until I saw him yesterday, the penny dropped.”
“Does Marvin know?”
“Let’s put it this way. I told him straight out, but that doesn’t mean he got the message. He doesn’t want to hear Audrey was working for a crook. He thinks she’s a saint and he won’t listen to anything else.”
“That’s the same charge he leveled at me.”
“Oh, I know. It’s called projection. I see it all the time at the Hatch. You accuse someone else of having traits you refuse to acknowledge in yourself,” she said. “Don’t look so shocked. I got a college education back in the day. I majored in psychology with a minor in fine arts.”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to take this in. You’d think Marvin would be thrilled. He’s convinced she was murdered and this supports the claim, don’t you think?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Earldeen said. “Audrey and this Dante fellow were thick as thieves, if you’ll pardon the pun. She worked hard. She was always on the road and she made a ton of money. To me, that’s the mark of success. Why would he kill her when she was so good at what she did?”
“Maybe she got too big for her britches and threatened to take over.”
“I guess it’s possible. You heard what Marvin said. Somebody talked him into the notion she was tossed off the bridge because she knew too much. The question is what?”
“Beats me,” I said. I considered the implications. Based on the sketchy facts I had in my possession, I had no clue what she might have discovered.
Earldeen fidgeted. “What do you think I should do?”
“Well, if I were you, I’d go to the police.”
“I tried that. Before I came here, I went down to the police department and asked to speak to someone about Audrey’s death. The fellow at the desk made a call and said Sergeant Priddy would be right out. I said never mind and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I don’t like how his name keeps coming up. Anyway, I just hope Marvin doesn’t find out I was here or he’ll chew me a new one.”
24
After Earldeen left, I went over my notes again. I’d never felt quite so enamored of my index cards. They were like the pieces of a puzzle that would fall into place once I understood what I was looking at. I shuffled the cards and laid them out on my desk. I could arrange the facts in any order I liked, but the bits and pieces would come together only when I perceived their true relationships. The process kept my thinking loose, so I didn’t get too invested in having the narrative line up the way I thought it should. For the moment, I was without direction, but instead of being discouraged, I saw this as an opportunity to stop and take note. It was like standing in a slow- moving stream with information flowing over and around me. I could turn in any direction and survey my surroundings while I debated where to cast my line.
I turned up the card on which I’d noted the name of the real estate office offering the ramshackle cottages for sale, a company called Providential Properties. It would be interesting, thought I, to find out who the tenant had been and for what period of time. I pulled out the phone book and looked up the real estate office in the yellow pages. There was only one address listed, that being in Colgate, California, which suggested this wasn’t a multinational company with branches in London, Paris, and Hong Kong. A chat with the realtor would be nice, and better in person than by phone.
I stopped for gas and a trip to the ladies’ room before I got on the 101, which gave me time to think about a cover story. Why would I be inquiring about run-down real estate? In my jeans and turtleneck, I looked shabby enough. I’d never bought property, even in pretense, and I had no idea how one went about it. What if I were asked for my home address, occupation, and my place of employment? I decided to make that part up if and when it came to it. For all I knew, Providential Properties, like Helping Hearts, Healing Hands, was a figment of someone’s imagination.
I found the office in a line of businesses on the main street that ran through Colgate. I passed the place, did a quick scan, and then parked down the block. Outside the office, I paused to look at the window display showing photographs of the properties available. Most appeared to be commercial, and I noticed then that the small print on the company sign said OFFICE, INDUSTRIAL, RETAIL, AND INVESTMENT PROPERTIES. It wasn’t until I’d put my hand on the knob that I spotted a paper clock and a note dangling from a suction cup affixed to the inside of the glass. BACK IN TEN MINUTES. The clock hands had been set to 11:00. My watch said 11:45. I turned and checked for pedestrians up and down the sidewalk, thinking the returning agent might be in sight. While there were any number of people out and about, none was heading in my direction. I wasn’t sure whether to wait or give it up altogether.
I went into the shoe-repair shop next door, which smelled divinely of leather, glue, paste shoe polish, and machinery. The fellow working behind the counter was restitching the strap on a knapsack. He was in his seventies and looked up at me over the half rims of his bifocals, his curly white hair brushing his shoulders.
I said, “Do you have any idea when the realtor next door might return? The sign on the door says ten minutes, but that was forty-five minutes ago.”
“She went home. She does that sometimes when business is slow.”
“Really. I wonder why she didn’t just close up shop and be done with it?”
“She hates to turn away a client. Lot of people come in here looking for her. I’ll give you her business card. If you leave a message on her answering machine, she’ll call you back.”
This would mean a second trip out, which annoyed me no end, but I couldn’t see an alternative. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
He got up and crossed to the counter where he opened a drawer and fumbled among the contents before handing me a card decorated with smudged fingerprints.
As I thanked him, my gaze dropped to the agent’s name. Felicia Stringfield. I said, “Felicia?”
“Do you know her?”
“I believe I’ve heard the name,” I said. “Does she handle residential properties?”
“If she’s given the opportunity. She’s not one to refuse a request.”
