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“We’re trying to eliminate people, get a feel for the beach crowd back then,” Brogan explained, getting to her feet. She handed Tazzie one of her business cards. “Call me if you think of anyone else who hung out at the beach that summer. Will you do that?”
“You do realize the person who murdered that girl was probably from out of town, right? I don’t think any of my friends could’ve done something like that.”
“Maybe. But no one in town thought Vera Lockhart could keep a dead body in her house for four decades.”
Tazzie swallowed hard. “You’re right. I’ll do some more thinking about who I knew back then. Maybe someone was keeping an awful secret.”
“Could be. By the way, that Saturday night before Jane Doe was strangled and left on the boardwalk, where were you and the rest of your tribe? How did you spend your evening?”
The question caught Tazzie off guard. “I’m…not sure…exactly. I was probably out on a date.”
“With whom?”
“Let’s see, my boyfriend at the time would’ve been Richie Plunkett.”
Brogan thought it odd that this was the first time she’d mentioned dating Richie. And Tazzie seemed suddenly nervous. “Are you sure? Because maybe your memory is a little foggy. Like you said, forty-five years is a long time.”
“Jeez, now I’m not one-hundred percent sure. Come to think of it, maybe Richie and I had broken up by August. I think we had. I might’ve been dating Dennis.”
“That’s okay. Try to remember for sure and get back to me. There’s no hurry. Listen, I can’t thank you enough for your time today. It’s been great getting to know you. Let’s do this again soon.”
She left it there with Tazzie swimming in a puddle of doubt. Brogan couldn’t help wondering why it was so difficult to remember that specific Saturday night before a young girl lost her life on a public boardwalk, out in the open for anyone passing by to see. Why was it that no one seemed eager to discuss the murder or the girl?
After returning to her Range Rover and settling behind the wheel, Brogan fussed with her radio buttons to stall for time. All the while, though, she kept her eye on Tazzie. The woman had already pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. By the time she pulled away from the curb, Tazzie was deep in conversation with someone.
9
While Brogan plied Tazzie for information, Lucien did the same with Richie Plunkett at his house on Timberland Circle. It was an older Craftsman-style home painted white with an orangey-red door and a huge bay window. A welcome sign on the porch wasn’t something a guy might think to display. That told Lucien that Richie had likely gotten himself hitched. Another indicator was the two home-style rocking chairs that sat a few feet from the front door. But the real giveaway was the recently mowed lawn and the tidy flowerbeds. Both said Boomer had gone all-in on the domestic home front.
When Lucien knocked, it was Boomer who opened the screen door. The sixty-ish former quarterback had gray hair and a golf tan. His blue eyes narrowed at the sight of a stranger. “Yes?”
“My name’s Lucien Sutter. I’m working with Chief of Police Brent Cody on the Gidget Jane Doe case. If you’ve lived here all your life, you must have heard of it, right? And since you were a teenager when it happened, you probably remember the murder.” Lucien saw a flash of panic come into the man’s eyes that warred with the sudden shock of hearing about it again.
It took Richie Plunkett several long, awkward seconds to spit out, “Sure. I suppose I do. Who doesn’t?”
“Great. You were about the same age as the victim back then, right?”
“Yeah. I guess I was.” Richie ran a hand through his hair. “It was a long time ago. I don’t know anything about what happened?”
“Brent wanted me to get in touch with everyone who lived here back then, maybe try to understand the surfing crowd better, get a better feel for what life was like at the beach. He said I should talk to you, that you might be a witness and not even remember you saw anything of significance. Wally pointed me in your direction, too. From the jock’s perspective, you know, the one who got all the girls.”
A smile started to form at the corners of Richie’s mouth, but at the last moment, he seemed to have second thoughts. Instead, he looked bewildered. “I wouldn’t say that. You want a beer or something?”
“It’s a little early for a beer. But I’d take a glass of water.”
“Sure. Come on in. The wife left early to visit her mother in San Sebastian. She’s gone for the day.”
Lucien stepped inside a well-kept living room with a vacuum cleaner off to the side. “Newlywed? It looks like somebody started their ‘honey-do’ chores early.”
Richie let out a laugh and handed off a bottle of water. “You’re obviously married. Sometimes I miss those days of single bliss. Now I wake up with the wife handing me a mile-long to-do list that needs doing before she returns home. It’s what I get for marrying a much younger woman.”
“How much younger?”
“Fifteen years. We met at the golf course in San Sebastian. Now I rarely have time to play nine holes.”
Lucien nodded in the way of male bonding and twisted off the cap to the water. “I take it you haven’t been married long.”
“This time around, less than four years. After my second divorce, I spent a dozen enjoyable years living the bachelor’s life. Some days I don’t know what I was thinking marrying number three. Petra’s never happy, on my back about something every damn minute of the damn day. She’s not happy unless I’m doing something. I can’t get a minute’s peace. Take today, for instance. By the time she gets back from San Sebastian, she expects me to have the garage cleaned out. It’s Sunday. I wanted to watch the Raiders game. Yesterday it was cutting the grass. I feel like I’m her lackey instead of her husband. I won’t lie. It’s been a rocky year for us.” He gestured toward the sofa while he dropped into a Lazy Boy recliner. “I’m starting to think about getting out of this marriage.”
