“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s an electrician at NASA, near their home.”
Byrdswain made a note while Sanchez continued. “Do you know where he comes from? His home town, I mean?”
“The Midwest I think, but he never talked about that very much.”
“Have you met any of his friends or family?”
She shook her head. “He said he lost touch with them years ago.”
Sanchez took a deep breath. “You’re doing fine, Granny. I just have a few more questions. I understand that Rachel just received a large trust?”
“My husband set it up for her.”
“When did she first learn about the trust?”
“Just a couple weeks ago, when she and Mac got back from Las Vegas, after they got married.”
“What about Mr. Evans? When did he find out about it?”
“The same night Rachel did. I told them both myself.” A weak smile visited Granny wrinkled lips. “We danced and danced. It was a wonderful evening, just like Pappy planned.”
“Are you certain that neither of them knew about it earlier than that?”
“No, definitely not. None of my friends. Nobody. My husband wanted to keep it a secret until Rachel got married, so I was real careful to honor his wishes.”
“We understand it was eleven million dollars?”
“Before interest. It’s twelve million now.”
Byrdswain made a brief note on his pad, then joined the interview. “Just to be clear, you don’t have any problem with this fellow, who you only knew for less than a year, getting a lot of your money?”
“No, of course not. The trust money was set aside just for Rachel and whoever she married. It just turned out to be Mac, and he’s always been nice to both of us, even before he knew of the trust.”
Byrdswain hesitated, nodded. “Okay, thank you, Mrs. Ellerbe. I think that’ll be all for now.”
Sanchez patted Granny’s hand, then rose. “Thank you, Granny. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll get back to you as soon as we know anything.”
Back in the car, Byrdswain asked his young partner, “What do you think, detective? Did Evans do it?”
“I don’t see how. He was pretty shook up this morning and his alibi is solid. We’ve seen the victim’s suicide note on her computer, and learned from her own grandmother that she wasn’t particularly stable, so suicide makes sense. Plus we verified that he just learned of the trust a short time ago. Everything checks out. He seems clean.”
“I’m not so sure. It’s awfully convenient.”
“Convenient? He lived with the victim for the better part of a year before they got married. That doesn’t sound very convenient to me.”
Byrdswain nodded. “Alright. Convenient may not be the correct word, but what if he suddenly decided that a rich guy has a lot of new options in life, and his wife was holding him back?”
“But he couldn’t have killed her. We already verified that there was only forty minutes between the time Rachel was seen at school and when he bought a beer at the bowling alley. He’d have to drive thirty-five miles to the scene, then kill her, then drive all the way back in that time, plus stop at an ATM. Not even remotely possible.”
Byrdswain pursed his lips. “He could have done it right after Rachel got out of work; then he could have stashed her body somewhere while he went to the bowling alley to set up his alibi. Maybe he took her body up there and dumped it after that dishwasher took him home.”
“Possible,” Sanchez said, “But how? We would have seen evidence somewhere, like strangle marks on her neck, or blood at their home or in her car. And how would he get home? We know he didn’t have his motorcycle because the security guard said it was at the bowling alley all night.”
“He could have drugged her, or gotten her drunk, then thrown her over. Could have had some other bike or car up there or even an accomplice.”
Sanchez tilted her head. “The M.E. might find something, but I doubt it. I looked in the medicine cabinet, and their drawers, and the kitchen, even in his motorcycle. No heavy-duty drugs anywhere.”
“Well then, maybe they went up there together, after the dishwasher took Evans home, then had a fight and Evans threw her over the edge.”
“That would be after nine o’clock,” Sanchez said. “The M.E. ought to be able to tell us if that was near the time of death; but even if it is, we’d have to figure out how he got home.”
“He could have walked or hitchhiked.”
Sanchez shook her head. “Don’t think so. Way too far to walk, and people don’t pick up hitchhikers much, especially in the middle of the night. Even if he did hitchhike, how would we find whoever picked him up?”
“I dunno. I’m just thinking out loud. What about an accomplice?”
“I thought about that too,” Sanchez replied. “But that doesn’t make much sense either. Evans just learned of the trust a couple weeks ago. He’d have to have a big change of heart about his brand-new marriage and then know somebody heartless at his fingertips who he could count on to help him pull off the murder—all on extremely short notice—and do all of that for money that was half his already. Then there’s the timing issue.”
“Timing?”
“If he did have such an accomplice, what’s the rush? They could have taken their time and done it when it was less suspicious.”
“Could be,” Byrdswain said. “We might learn more about his acquaintances in the morning after we get some background information. But just in case, I want to ask his neighbors if they’ve seen him hanging around with any new people lately.”
Sanchez nodded. “So, what do we do next?”
“First off, I want to compliment you for the way you handled yourself back there. You’re coming along nicely.”
“Why do I think there’s a qualifier coming?”
He cracked his window. “Just don’t get too soft-hearted. It can cloud your thinking. There’s not much more we can do tonight. Let’s get some sleep and get back at it in the morning.
“I’ll check their email and phone records, and find out if there’s anything interesting on the computer.”
“Good. I’m going to put a tail on him for a few days, just in case there’s an accomplice lurking in the shadows. I want to see if this guy really did fall into a pot of gold.”
“It happens,” Sanchez said. “One guy just hit the Powerball for seventy million.”
“But nobody died.”
They arrived at the station and pulled into their parking spot. Sanchez turned to her partner. “What about the law firm that set up the trust? There had to be a couple people over there who knew about it. At least the attorney who drew up the documents.”
Byrdswain nodded. “Now, that’s another good point, detective. We’ll visit them tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
“We’ll be brief, Mr. Fritz,” Sergeant Byrdswain said after they were all seated. “We know your time is valuable.”
“Call me Fritz,” said the dark-haired late fifties attorney. He pushed a button on his phone. “Sharolyn. Would you mind joining us in here for a minute?”
Detective Sanchez glanced around. Save for a legal pad and a picture of Fritz’s family on the corner of his desk, the room was devoid of clutter. Everything was organized and “ship-shape,” as the sergeant liked to call it.
Almost instantly, Sharolyn joined the room. Roughly the same age as Fritz, she wore a light-blue button-down blouse and a black skirt that covered enough of her thighs to remain tasteful but not so much as to hide her slender knees. Her short brown hair was beauty parlor perfect. “Yes?” she said in an all-business tone.
“Have a seat,” said Fritz. “Sergeant Byrdswain and Detective Sanchez want to ask us a few questions.”
“Thank you both.” Byrdswain said. He turned to Sharolyn. “We’re trying to get some information regarding the Ellerbe trust. Do you remember them?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Mr. Ellerbe was an
interesting gentleman, and we met with his granddaughter just a couple weeks ago.”
“That’s another reason we’re here. The granddaughter, Rachel, died recently.”
“Oh no,” Sharolyn said. She turned toward Sanchez. “What happened?”
Sanchez shrugged. “Looks like suicide. But that’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Sharolyn sighed. “How can I help?”
Byrdswain began. “I’d like you to think back to the very first time that you helped prepare the original trust.”
She paused a moment. “That would have been over 20 years ago—so long I don’t really recall the first meeting.”
“Understandable, but let’s see if we can reconstruct what would have happened to that file. Were you and Fritz the only ones who worked here then?”
“I’d say we had about six different attorneys and I did the clerical work for all of them.”
“Anybody else work for the company?”
“Just a receptionist at the front desk. I think her name was Debbie. She answered phones too. But that’s about it.”
“I see. So how did a typical file get set up? Did you sit in on the meetings with a legal pad and take notes, or was there some other technique?”
“The attorneys usually met with the clients in private. Then, they made copies of their notes and put instructions in my in-basket.”
“From there, what did you do?”
“We were doing a few things on the computer by then, but we still made hard copies of everything, so I got a file folder from the supply closet and labeled it. Then I made a first draft on the computer, printed it out and gave the file to the attorney for review.”
“So if you had to guess you’d say this is how you and Fritz handled the Ellerbe trust?”
“That was our normal policy up ‘til about fifteen years ago, when we were all linked together on the same network, and we could send copies back and forth a lot easier.”
“Okay. What did you typically do with a file like the Ellerbe’s after that?”
“The lawyers made any revisions and we passed the file back and forth until we got the final version. From there, they’d meet with the clients again—to sign the papers.”
“And each time you revised the document, you made hard copies for the file?”
“It seems inefficient now, but we didn’t have our networks set up or flash drives or anything like that.”
“What did you do with the earlier drafts as you created newer, modified ones?”
“I kept them until I knew I was done with the file; then I returned all of the attorney’s papers to him and threw my working copies away.”
Byrdswain scrunched his brow. “You threw your copies away?”
“We still had the attorney’s original notes and computer copies of all the drafts, so I got rid of the superfluous papers.”
“Could any of the hard copies have gotten out of this office or gotten in somebody else’s hands—like maybe another attorney or the janitors at night?”
“Don’t know why they’d do that,” Sharolyn said. “But it’s definitely possible.”
Byrdswain raised his eyebrows. “Possible? How?”
Sharolyn looked at Fritz, then back to Byrdswain. “Once in a while one of the attorneys would visit my in-basket to add something to their project or modify a comment or even take their files home. They might have gotten a few papers mixed up when they did stuff like that.”
“Did anybody else have access to your computer?”
“Only if I wasn’t here, like maybe after hours or on weekends.” She grinned. ”But they usually had to call me first—to figure out my system.”
Byrdswain faced Fritz. “What about a master file? Are there any other copies of the finished documents in some other place where different people could get to them?”
Fitz nodded. “We keep a set of original documents in the file room, and each of the attorneys keeps another set of originals in our personal files.”
“So it’s possible that somebody else, like another attorney within the firm, could review a file without you knowing it?”
“I’ve never seen anybody doing anything like that—unless one attorney is covering for another one who is in court or on vacation, but it’s pretty rare.”
Byrdswain turned back to Sharolyn. “Do you know if anybody else ever reviewed the Ellerbe file?”
“Trusts like that can sit around for years or decades before they’re needed or even touched. Just not much reason for anybody to look at it.”
Byrdswain returned his attention to Fritz. “Has anybody ever gone through or breached any of those files?”
“Not that I know of,” said Fritz.
“Can either one of you think of any reason why somebody would sneak into the Ellerbe file in particular, or what might make it special or different from the rest?”
Fritz shook his head. “Not really. It’s a little more money than most of the trusts that we’ve set up, but not the biggest one. Mostly it’s just like the others.”
Byrdswain paused. “So, let me be certain I understand this. You set up the Ellerbe trust around twenty years ago and it’s possible that other attorneys or janitors or maybe even other clients could have seen some of your computer-work or secret papers somewhere along the way, but there’s no particular incentive to do so?”
Fritz nodded. “It’s possible,” Sergeant. “But, we’re very careful to protect the privacy of our clients—just like a police station.”
Byrdswain took another glance around the private office; then he looked at Sanchez, then back to Fritz. He smiled. “To tell you the truth, Fritz, it sounds like you do a better job of guarding private information than I do.” He stood. “I think that’ll be all for now. Again, I want to thank both of you for your time.”
* * *
Later that afternoon and across town a shadow moved on the sidewalk. A closer look indicated that Detective Sanchez had just visited one of Mac’s neighbors. He hurried off to the kitchen, dabbed his fingers on his onion and waited. The knock came minutes later.
Red eyes awash, Mac greeted the detectives and let them in. Byrdswain went right to the living room while Sanchez delayed just a moment. Mac caught a whiff of her body lotion and gestured toward the sofa. “Actually,” she said, “I’d like to have a look around again.”
“Go ahead,” said Mac softly.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I want to examine your shoes.”
“My shoes? What for?”
“There were some shoe prints on the viewing platform. We just want to be certain you weren’t out there.”
Visions of the path and platform swished through Mac’s head. He couldn’t remember any mud or loose dirt that he might have stepped in. Either they were bluffing or it was old dirt from somebody else. “It’s okay with me, but I already told you where I was the night it happened. Didn’t you check it out?”
Sanchez smiled. “We like to be thorough.”
“I thought we were talking about a suicide, but if it will make you feel any better, go ahead.”
“Thank you,” she said, “I’m going to check the garage first.” He wiped his eye and waved his approval.
Byrdswain interrupted. “You told us you’re unemployed, but Mrs. Ellerbe said you work at NASA. Where would she get an idea like that?”
Mac tilted his head and pursed his lips. “It was Rachel’s idea. She wanted everybody to think I was an electrician until I got a job. She even liked me to dress up most mornings and act like I was driving to work. I just went along with her.”
“Didn’t you find that strange?”
“Sure, but it was important to her. And it got me moving, so it was okay.”
“Something else has come up. Did you hear about the gynecologist who was strangled last week?”
“No. Why would I?”
“We did a little checking. It seems he’s the same one your wife used to go to. Did she say anything about his dea
th?”
“Rachel’s gynecologist? That’s horrible.”
“Don’t you find it interesting that two deaths in such a short time were people who knew each other?”
Play if cool, Dude. “Well, I wouldn’t know about things like that, Sergeant, but Palmdale’s a small town. There are probably lots of locals who go to that doctor.”
“Where were you a week ago Wednesday?”
Mac’s mind raced to the newscast he and Miranda saw the day they visited Mickey. They got back late that afternoon and the reporter said the doctor died just a little earlier. That would mean around three-thirty. “Not sure but that might have been the afternoon Rachel and I drove to Santa Barbara to watch the sunset.”
“Anybody who can vouch for you?”
Mac would have liked to say something like, “I’m not the one who has to prove anything, you are,” but Miranda had warned him about being belligerent. “Not really. I can’t even remember what we did.”
“I want you to know we’re going to check it out,” Byrdswain warned while looking him in the eye.
Stay calm. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”
“On another matter, you said you came here about a year ago. Is that right?”
Mac sniffed. “A little less than that, but yes.”
“Had you ever been in the area before that?”
“No. Why?”
“What about your parents and family? Did any of them have relatives back here?”
“Not that I know of. My mom’s family came from Missouri, and my dad’s roots were in North Dakota.”
“How’d you meet your wife, Mr. Evans?”
“I was driving my motorcycle past the high school and pulled over to watch some guys on the football field. Her car was there, she had a flat and I helped her fix it.”
Byrdswain nodded, reached inside his jacket, laid out the copy of the Gazette that Mac left at Rachel’s computer. “Did you see this newspaper?”
Mac reached out to take a closer look. Then, “Yeah, we subscribe to it. I glanced through it a couple days ago. What of it?”
“Did your wife see it?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
Byrdswain pointed to the article on page three. “Do you know Kevin Lapport?”
“Who?” Mac looked closer, wiped his eyes. “Oh. The dead guy. Never heard of him. Why?”
“It appears your wife knew him pretty well.”
“Really? That’s strange.” He looked back at the newspaper. “She never mentioned him, but I’ve only known her for a year. She hasn’t told me about everybody she’s met in her life. Did he work at the school too?”