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They drove to the police station and found a private room. Over cups of black coffee, Davis said, “We’ve already done some preliminary work, just since the car was discovered, strictly by chance, by the construction firm. Wellsley Construction is totally legit, good company, building a subdivision on the property for R&D Homes, a company that also checks out. R&D stands for Richard and Diana Duvall. They’re divorced but still run the company together. It’s a strong business, no money problems. They’ve done several large projects in the city. R&D bought the property about three years ago and started working to develop it, but because of their other projects, and the time it takes to draw up plans, take care of all the environmental impact stuff, get approval and the permits to build, they didn’t get started on the site until about three months ago.”
“Who’d they buy the property from?”
“A company by the name of Morgan Investments, which is under the umbrella of a larger company, OH Industries, a California-based business located near L.A. OH had done some work on the site back in the day. They’d planned to develop it as well, years ago, but all that happened after the permits were received was that a ravine was filled.”
Settler asked, “The ravine where they found the car?”
“Bingo.”
“So why did Morgan Investments and OH Industries abandon their project?”
“Still looking for answers. Should know something soon. We’d better,” she admitted, glancing toward a window with a view of the parking lot. “The press is already all over this. All the interest in the book, then the suicide, and now the murder of the author of I’m Not Me. Reporters have been calling me day and night.”
Martinez said, “We’re getting them, too. The Public Information Officer is inundated, and the last I checked, the book is already hitting some of the best-seller lists.”
Davis nodded. “The publisher admitted they’re going into more printings.”
“Wait until the public finds out that Didi’s been found,” Settler thought aloud.
“They’ll want all the gruesome details,” said Davis. “Just watch, there will be a film or made-for-TV movie in the works.”
Settler was already way ahead of her. If the scenario they were discussing played out, whoever owned the rights to the book stood to make a small fortune. She thought of Karen Upgarde and the increased buzz that began after her suicide leap dressed as Didi Storm.
They ended the meeting with each department promising to keep the other infor
med. Then Settler and Martinez drove to the airport to meet Stinson and fly back to San Francisco.
On the way to the airport, Martinez was on his iPad looking for information on OH Industries, while Settler thought over what they’d learned. First, she wondered about Didi Storm’s infant son and daughter. The baby carrier discovered in the Cadillac convinced her that Remmi Storm had been telling the truth, at least in part—that Didi Storm had given birth to at least one child and had been trying to barter it off to its father, trying to scam him.
And because of it, Didi had paid the ultimate price—with her life.
Assuming Remmi was credible and there were two children, where were they? Had they survived? Were they together, or had they been separated, perhaps raised by different families? Did either of them, assuming they were alive, have any inkling about their biological mother, their own history? Unlikely, since neither of them had ever come forward, and especially now, with all the publicity about the book.
The questions churned in her mind, and she expelled a breath of air in frustration.
“What?” Martinez asked, looking up, just as she saw a sign for the airport.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” She turned on her blinker and changed lanes.
During the investigation, they’d discussed the money trail, and once again, she ran through it.
Who would profit most from Karen Upgarde’s death?
The obvious answer was Trudie Crenshaw, now dead.
Next in line? Her husband, Ned. But he was hanging onto life by a thread and might not recover. Who would benefit from his demise?
One answer: Vera Hutchinson Gibbs, sister of the deceased Edwina, “Edie,” aka Didi Storm. Vera was a known contributor to the book. Legally, the succession of rights and money wasn’t clear to Settler, not yet, but she sensed she was on the right track with Vera.
She thought about the photographs of the hotel window and elevator car, of the blond man in the Mariners baseball cap. Could “he” have been a “she?” It didn’t seem so, by all accounts from Al Benson, the janitor, and Robb Quade, the frightened bellhop. Or had Vera hired someone else? A proven assassin who’d then knocked off Trudie Crenshaw and tried to kill Ned, the only people Settler knew of who stood between Vera Hutchinson Gibbs and a fortune? Or had Vera set her husband or brother or one of her kids up for the job? Who had been in that room with Karen Upgarde in her final moments? Did Vera know what had happened to her sister and the babies?
Was there someone else in the wings?
The airport tower loomed closer, and Settler drove to the rental car lot where they were meeting Stinson. His promised dinner would have to wait as she had to get back to the city.
First, she’d give Remmi Storm the bad news in person.
Then Settler planned to drive to Walnut Creek for a tête-à-tête with Mrs. Vera Gibbs.
