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“Or it’s just as you say . . . Who does that number belong to?”
“Jensen Gibbs.”
“Jensen?” she repeated, feeling a distinct shock. Her cousin’s surly image swam to view in her mind. “But what would he have to do with Trudie and the book? He wouldn’t know anything about Didi.”
“Maybe not, but he still lives with your aunt and uncle. I checked. Works for a towing company. A driver. He could have been calling Trudie, I suppose, but what if he was, say, charging his phone, left it on the kitchen counter or somewhere easily accessible, and then someone—your aunt, maybe, as
she’s the one with background information on your mother—what if she picked up the wrong phone by accident and, realizing her mistake, cut the call short to talk on the untraceable phone?” He scrolled through the numbers once more as Remmi’s mind raced through scenarios. “And here’s the kicker,” he added. “There’s not a single call listed between Trudie and Vera. I double-checked. And Emma has Vera’s phone number. Don’t you think that, in researching the book, Trudie would want information from Didi’s sister, the one person who knew her growing up?”
Remmi put down her coffee cup. “Absolutely, she would. And Vera would be more than interested in talking to her. She hated Didi.”
“So, maybe she’d enjoy making a buck off her? There are a few calls on Trudie’s phone to Anderstown, Missouri, but they were short, to different people. Nothing that stands out. It’s possible also Trudie got her information from Billy, Didi’s brother.”
“I don’t even know where he is. I don’t remember ever meeting him.”
Noah looked at her directly. “One more piece of information. The Gibbses’ house is pretty full. Not only do your aunt and uncle live there, but also their oldest son, Jensen, and good old Uncle Billy.”
“Uncle Billy? Truly?” She was stunned. “Are they all in it up to their necks?”
“There’s something there. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Then, let’s go,” she said, shooting to her feet, her mind spinning ahead.
“Wait a minute.” He grabbed her wrist, and she spun back to face him. His fingers tight around her forearm, he said, “Slow down. Trudie was murdered last night, remember? And Crenshaw might not make it. Someone involved is a killer.”
“And you think it’s Vera?” She thought about her aunt, with her intense Christian beliefs. “She raised me, Noah. At least for a few years after Didi took off. If she’d wanted me dead, she had ample opportunity to knock me off. I’m not afraid of her, but I sure as hell want to hear what she has to say for herself.”
“What about the others?”
Jensen and the uncle she’d never met.
She gazed down pointedly at his hand, which still held her tight. “I want answers, don’t you?”
He loosened his grip and said succinctly, “I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 27
The publisher caved.
Or at least the lawyer for the Stumptown Press in Portland called, talked to Settler, and promised to send, via e-mail, a copy of the publishing contract for I’m Not Me. He’d been reticent and full of bluster, but in the end, facing a subpoena and with the publisher’s consent, the lawyer was mailing the contract to Settler’s account at the station.
“It’s a start,” she said to Martinez as they climbed into the department-issued Crown Vic. Settler got behind the wheel as Martinez flashed his hallmark smile and said, “We may catch the fucker yet.”
Actually, they had more than a start.
Though it would take weeks for blood analysis to determine what kind of psychotropic drugs may have been in Karen Upgarde’s system, the trace evidence had been examined, and a partial tablet containing Rohypnol had been discovered in the fibers and dirt vacuumed from Upgarde’s hotel room. No one who knew her thought Karen would ever willingly take a roofie, the common name for the date-rape drug, but it could have been slipped into anything she drank. Time would tell when the blood analysis was complete.
And then there were the pictures of the shadows in the room. With increased enhancement, the second picture they’d received showed that there had definitely been a person in the room with Karen when she “jumped.” It was only a matter of time before they found the son of a bitch.
Better yet, they’d discovered a glitch in the phone records: Jensen Gibbs had stupidly or maybe by error called Karen Upgarde over a year ago, then hung up. A prepaid phone, a burner, called her seconds later. The department was trying to ID it or the person who had bought it at the store from which it had been purchased.
And Jennifer Reliant, the agent on the Didi Storm tell-all book, had contacted the police and was due to meet them at the station just as soon as they were finished with Robb Quade, the lying bellhop, whose story had changed quite a bit since his original interview.
But Ned Crenshaw still hadn’t roused to consciousness, and according to the doctor she’d spoken with earlier, there was no indication that he would awaken soon. Detective Ladlow in Sacramento had echoed the doctor’s words but had promised to call her the second he heard of any change in Ned Crenshaw’s condition.
Once Martinez was inside the Crown Vic, the door slammed shut, and all buckled in, Settler drove them out of the lot into the gray San Francisco morning. The sky was silvery, and though it wasn’t quite raining, there was enough moisture in the air that she had to use her interval wipers. They were heading back to the Montmort to interview Quade, as apparently the bellboy’s conscience had gotten to him, and he now had more information on the person whom he’d let inside the room next to Karen Upgarde’s, the room with the connecting door.
She was caught by a red light and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as pedestrians—some with umbrellas, others with shopping bags, others on cell phones—flowed in both directions within the crosswalk. The skyscrapers surrounding the street knifed upward into the overcast sky, and Settler fought her impatience.
