Perfect Crime
Jack Erickson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Jack Erickson
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Blood and Money in the Hunt Country
He lives in northern California with his wife.
Perfect Crime
Jack Erickson
I glanced over my left shoulder at the lights of San Francisco twinkling like a fairy-tale kingdom across the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I gripped the steering wheel and turned sharply, brushing against the rocky outcrops of the Marin Headlands. One mistake and I would plunge into the treacherous Pacific currents that have claimed sailing ships since Sir Francis Drake sailed past in 1585.
The night fog was moving across the headlands like a jungle cat stalking prey. Nothing escapes the fog’s relentless prowl across the barren landscape, dark and moody as a Scottish moor. Strange things happen on nights when the moon shines on barren settings and predators lurk in dark places. Heathcliff would have been at home here; so would have Baskerville’s hound.
The milky beacon of the Point Bonita Lighthouse swept across the dark Pacific, its foghorn moaning like a sorrowful plea from the grave. A few miles west, great white sharks, gray whales, tuna, seals, and salmon swam in deep Pacific currents.
The headlands’ tortuous turns resembled a Le Mans rally route. A mile to the east, Sausalito’s bars and restaurants were packed with Marin County liberals dipping focaccia bread in olive oil and vinaigrette, nibbling radicchio salads, chewing on grilled tilapia, and sipping Napa Valley’s fruity pinot grigios.
I was straddling two worlds: the western edge of North America and the hedonism of the California good life.
#
A month ago, my husband and I had driven the headlands’ winding roads to attend a summer barbecue at an isolated hideaway owned by his college roommate, Alex. The sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean and the San Francisco Bay had been dazzling in the afternoon sunshine.
After reaching the heights, we had driven into a shallow valley past a nature center and a mammal research center, along with anachronistic World War II Army barracks and a Nike missile site from the Cold War. The historic buildings form the northern boundary of the National Recreational Area that stretches across the Golden Gate to Alcatraz, the Presidio, Golden Gate Park, and the San Mateo coastline to the south. Beyond the weathered buildings was a secluded area where a few isolated homes remained from old dairy farms before they were absorbed into the national park.
I slowed as I passed the darkened buildings and drove up a ridge leading to the secluded homes. I parked on the shoulder and turned off my headlights to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I rolled down the window and inhaled salty air into my lungs. I listened to waves crashing against the cliffs and the wind sweeping through the chaparral, oak trees, and tall grass.
A full moon cast an eerie sheen over the desolate landscape. I braced for what lay ahead; my life could change profoundly in the next few moments. I was about to confirm—or deny—my suspicion that my husband was shacking up with his lover in one of the secluded homes.
I eased the car in gear and crept over the ridge. Through a gap in the fog, I spotted the gauzy lights from Alex’s home. My heart leapt. My five-hour evening drive from Los Angeles had been partially vindicated. Someone—or ones—was in the house; my gut told me they were my faithless husband and his illicit lover. A ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney. My plan was going to work!
I navigated by moonlight and turned onto a dirt road a hundred yards from the house. I parked beneath windswept branches of oak trees buffeted by the winds that slash the headlands in all seasons.
I turned off my engine and reached into the backseat for my black canvas bag. I slipped out of the car, easing the door shut. Clutching the bag, I moved silently to peek over the ridge. Two lights shone through the fog; one from the front of the house, the other off the rear patio.
I hurried to the driveway, where two cars were parked. One was my husband’s Acura; the second was a new Mercedes 280 SL. I crept around to the back patio deck, where a barbecue grill was against the railing next to a stack of chopped logs for the fireplace. A light shone through the sliding glass door leading to the patio. Two dark windows faced the west, one the guest bedroom, the other a laundry room. I knelt beneath the bedroom window and peeked through the blinds. Two overnight bags were tossed on a king-size bed. The larger one was my husband’s designer bag.
I moved to the deck, where vertical blinds were open. I peeked into the living room. It was unchanged from my visit last month: bookshelves against the wall, a dining table, an entertainment console, a coffee table, and a sofa facing the fireplace, where logs blazed. The backs of two heads were visible on the sofa. Bottles of wine and plates of food rested on the coffee table.
Voices and muffled laughter from the living room. One voice was familiar; the female voice sounded off-key, rather like an out-of-tune piano. The pattern repeated: my husband’s voice, an off-key response, and laughter. The heads dipped down until I couldn’t see them. Blazing logs crackled in the fireplace.
I crept to the darkened laundry room window. Through open blinds, I could see the closed door leading to the hallway. I ran my fingers along the window until I found a crack between the window and the frame. Alex had mentioned the crack when we visited last month.
“These things happen with this old house; we have minor quakes all the time and heavy winds in winter. We’re directly above the San Andreas Fault, which goes out in the ocean a few miles from here off Point Reyes. I’m getting it fixed before the winter rains.”
Alex was handsome, rich, and conceited. “This house belonged to my grandparents, who had a dairy farm when I was growing up in Marin,” he had told us that afternoon. “The old place is showing its age. The wind howls, the windows rattle, and it feels like the whole place is falling apart. Last year, part of the roof tore off. The smoke detector hasn’t worked in years. Last year, bricks fell from the chimney into the fireplace, which I had to replace. The upkeep costs a fortune, but for a weekend hideaway, it’s great if you don’t mind the wind howling and the creaking noises. I love to bring women here; they can’t wait to dive into bed and pull the covers over their heads. The furnace doesn’t work anymore, so I heat it with the fireplace.” He had cackled like a naughty boy, thinking he was so cool. He had looked cocky in his pink Hawaiian shirt, Italian sandals, wraparound shades, and $100 haircut.
I ran my finger along the quarter-inch crack. I reached into my bag and pulled out a cardboard tube from a washing machine that had been delivered to our house. I had wrapped and taped butcher paper around the tube, extending it and fashioning a sleeve on one end. I slipped the sleeve into the crack. A degree in engineering from Cal had taught me a few practical tricks.
I crept back to the patio and disconnected the line from the propane tank to the grill with a pocket wrench. I slipped the round end of the paper tube onto the nozzle of the propane tank and repositioned the line just above the nozzle so it would look like it had been dislodged by an explosion. In a fire, the paper tube would burn.
Dry logs sparked and popped in the fireplace. I heard low moaning and muffled voices from the sofa. Muffled laughter. A slap. A thump. Moans and muffled laughter. Two naked figures rose from the sofa and made their way to the bedroom. I recognized my husband’s naked buttocks. His hand was over hers, the creep.
I crept beneath the bedroom window and heard the door open and close. Two thumps as overnight bags dropped on the floor. Rustling of bedcovers tossed off. Laughter. Muffled voices. A gasp. Soft moaning. Minutes later, the rattling of the headboard against the wall. More gasps and moans.
I turned the knob on the propane tank, hearing a low hiss as gas moved along the tube into the laundry room. The Fire Administration’s FEMA Web site had described how gas ignited in a closed space. Being heavier than air, gas would fill the laundry room and work up into the open space, filling the attic. It would creep under the door into the hallway and flow all over the house, laying a carpet of combustible fuel. The gas would seep under the bedroom door, but after a couple of bottles of wine, hanky-panky on the sofa, and lovemaking, the two of them would likely fall asleep before the odor became strong. Fireplace embers would ignite the gas, and flames would race toward the source, into the laundry room and up into the attic, and burn the weathered wood of the old house. Once the hot air reached a certain temperature in a closed space, the house would explode, breaking the glass windows and drawing in more oxygen to create an inferno.
I crept away from the darkened house and ran to my car. I backed onto the road and drove away in darkness, following the road until it crested the hill. I parked and got out to look back over the valley.
The luminous dial on my watch said it was midnight. Ribbons of fire from the attic licked dry shingles on the roof and crept down the walls, lighting the night like a harvest bonfire. Ten minutes later, a flash was followed by a thunderous boom, blowing out the windows.
It was time to leave. I had committed the perfect crime. Now I had to drive three hundred and eighty miles to my perfect alibi in a Burbank hotel.
#
By 2:30 a.m., I was driving south on Interstate 5 in my rental car, heading to the Hyatt hotel in Burbank. I had to be there by 7:00 a.m. for my perfect alibi. I checked the clock on my console, calculating the time and distance ahead. I had four hours to race down I-5, which slices through the dry Central Valley, where towns are scarce, the road is as straight as a ruler, and the seventy miles per hour speed limit is a joke: eighty miles per hour is standard for eighteen-wheelers, SUVs, cars, buses, and produce trucks carrying tomatoes, onions, artichokes, and spinach from the irrigated industrial farms. Speeding down I-5 was critical for carrying out my time-sensitive plan; if I was five minutes late, my alibi could blow up like Lyle’s love nest.
First-degree double murder charges in California meant I’d rot on death row at San Quentin for a couple of decades. Sometime in my sixties, I’d get the needle when I should have been playing golf, bridge, and going to the spa in Palm Springs. Needless to say, that retirement scenario was a strong motivator to get to Burbank by 7:00 a.m. I couldn’t fathom sharing a death row cell with losers like Scott Peterson and Richard Allen Davis. Was Charles Manson at San Quentin? Wait a minute—did convicted women murderers even go to San Quentin? I didn’t know. It would be irrelevant as long as I made it to Burbank by 7:00 a.m.
I had plotted my round trip with my engineer’s precision: Leave Burbank at 7:00, drive north on I-5 until 11:30, take I-580 to the Bay Area, cross the San Rafael Bridge into Marin County, and drive south on Highway 101 to the Marin Headlands turnoff, a mile north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I had calculated the trip like a general plans a beach landing. An hour at the hideaway and back-tracking to Burbank. Total distance: seven hundred and fifty miles. Time of travel: twelve hours if I drove fast.
My dastardly deed plan had been brewing since I had confirmed my suspicion that Lyle had a new bimbo on the side. For three months, he and his cookie were enjoying trysts when I was on business trips in San Diego, Phoenix, Denver, and Los Angeles as my company prepared a major software release for the fall. Most business trips were for three days, two nights, Tuesday through Thursday.
My first suspicions of Lyle’s infidelity came by accident through his cell phone patterns. When I’d call his cell phone from business trips, I’d reach him at home the first night, Tuesday, after I’d returned from the normal business dinner. On Wednesday nights, I’d call, reach his voice mail, and leave a rambling message about my busy day. He’d return my call Thursday morning when I was getting dressed in my hotel room. After this happened twice, my gut told me something was going on. He had something going on Wednesday nights. I was going to catch him and make him pay.
I changed my calling pattern. I would call the creep on Wednesday nights but not leave a message. I’d let him sweat, wondering if I had called or not. Thursday morning, he’d call with elaborate alibis for not talking the previous night.
“I was at the gym and left my cell phone at home,” was his first lie. What a phony. He went to the gym at lunchtime. He never worked out at night.
“My battery was dead,” was his next lie. I saw though that; the guy was so tech-addicted that he was always hooked up to his pager, PDA, cell phone, and iPod.
“I was having beers with the guys.” How lame; he hardly drank during the week, and most of his friends were married and at home with the wife and kids.
But I didn’t question his alibis; I didn’t want him to suspect I was on to his games.
After I was convinced he was fooling around, I fantasized about hauling his sorry ass into divorce court. But I made more money than Lyle—a lot more. The last thing I wanted was to pay alimony for his recreational boinking. Courtesy of California’s community property laws, he’d get half of the expensive San Francisco home that we’d bought largely with a down payment I’d been stashing away since I was twenty and working my way through the university. He had put down ten grand; my contribution had been $150,000.
The more I thought about it, the only fair way to deal with Lyle’s carousing was to murder him. But doing it without getting caught could be tricky. I’m a decent engineer with an analytical mind. Using my problem-solving skills to whack my husband became a challenge. A fun challenge, in fact. I wanted to put him away so I wouldn’t have to pay the price for murdering him. What an exciting challenge for an engineer! Spousal murder as a work project. My juices started flowing.
I had identified his love slave at the weekend barbecue. In that happy little group was a sexy blonde—the type that Lyle normally couldn’t have taken his eyes off. He always had a thing for Madonna-like sexpots. His wandering eye never stopped roaming at dinner parties, the theater, or shopping. A sex grenade would come into view, and he’d stop mid-sentence until she had passed. A stunning redhead would stroll by our table, and his wolf eyes would follow her rear end like a puppy chasing a ball. It was embarrassing and shameless, and it really pissed me off.
But at Alex’s party, Lyle had avoided sexy blonde like she was HIV-positive. A wife notices these things. Guys are open books; wives can read them without breaking a sweat. They’re just little boys who love being bad. All that afternoon at Alex’s—over cocktails, on the patio, at dinner—Lyle had avoided talking to sexy blonde but stole furtive glances at her and turned away, thinking I wouldn’t notice. She was the only woman at the gathering that we didn’t talk to, other than saying hello when our paths crossed on the patio.
“Honey, this is Louise, a friend of Alex’s.” And then he had taken my arm and rushed me inside so fast I thought I would snap my neck.
The clincher had come at dusk as steaks and salmon were grilling on the deck. I was passing by the kitchen on the way to the bathroom when I overheard Alex tell Lyle, “Thanks for that bottle of Chateau Margaux. It was delicious. Anytime you need this place, just let me know.” They cackled like hyenas, and Alex slapped Lyle on the shoulder. As I passed by the kitchen, they changed the subject abruptly to inane comments about getting tickets to the Giants series with the Mets the next weekend.
Two and two equal four. Lyle had left the expensive wine as a thank-you gift after his latest tryst with Louise. You didn’t need to be Sherlock to draw that conclusion.
My plan had hatched on the drive back to our Twin Peaks home in San Francisco that night. Lyle had been quiet, either feeling guilty about having Louise and me at the same party or fantasizing about their next shack job. The following Monday, I let Lyle know that my next business trip would be to Burbank at the end of July, giving him time to set up his tryst.
My plan was simple in design but complicated in execution. I would fly down to Burbank on Tuesday morning and return Thursday afternoon. Two nights away. Wednesdays were the days Lyle had his trysts. Louise must have something scheduled on Tuesday nights. Maybe her shrink appointment, or a date with her other boyfriend.
I knew my way around Burbank from past business trips. I always rented a car at the airport and drove to the hotel, passing strip malls, used car dealerships, retail shops, and odd little businesses. I had spotted an independent car rental a mile from the hotel, not one of the national chains you see at airports.
After I checked into my hotel Tuesday morning, I walked to the independent dealership and rented a second car. I used a fake name, paid in cash, left a $1,000 deposit, and drove to the shopping center next to my hotel, where a metroplex was featuring a dozen popular movies.
I kicked off my plan at the end of drinks after Wednesday’s trade show.
“I’m going to catch this new movie at the metroplex,” I told my colleagues in the bar while they debated which restaurant they would head to for dinner.
“Have fun. I read the reviews,” my boss said. “See you at breakfast tomorrow.”
I did a finger wave, grabbed my purse, and headed upstairs to my room. I slipped out of my pantsuit; changed into jeans, sweatshirt, and baseball hat; and grabbed a black traveling bag packed with tricks for my evening adventure.
I bought a ticket at the metroplex and greeted the ticket seller, who looked about nineteen and more interested in his iPod than in talking with customers. At the concession stand, I bought popcorn and a Coke from a fifty-year-old woman who looked uncomfortable in her brown and tan uniform.
“Hi, Helen,” I said, reading her name tag. “You like the feature movie?”
She looked at me as if I were from the IRS. “What movie? All they play is silly teen comedies and slasher movies. They’re gross.”
I told her the movie I was going to see, a winner at the Sundance Festival that I’d seen the previous week in San Francisco.
“Wasitabout?” she asked, screwing up her eyes and letting my Coke spill out over the tall cup.
“Oh, shit,” she said, “Damn, I did it again. They’re going to fire me if I keep screwing up.”
She took my money, and I moved a dollar tip across the glass counter. Helen looked as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket.
“Thanks for your service, Helen. Have a nice evening.”
I got in line as the bored ticket taker tore tickets and told patrons which theater to go to. When I got to him, I put down my popcorn and soda and reached into pockets before pulling out my ticket and handing it to him.
“Sorry,” I said, smiling at the overweight attendant. I had put a chink in his routine, just enough that he would remember the dizzy broad who couldn’t find her ticket. I wanted him to remember me. And the ticket seller. And Helen. They would be questioned one day.
In the darkened theater I watched previews and the first ten minutes of the movie, munching popcorn and sneaking glances at the patrons whose eyes were glued to the screen. At 6:50, I put down my popcorn and slipped out to the restroom. I hurried through the crowds and left via a darkened exit. I hurried across the parking lot to my second rental car and drove to I-5, ten minutes away.
I had my canvas bag with my wig on the seat next to me. When I stopped for gas later that night, I’d don the wig and put on the baseball cap.
In my bag were bottled water, fruit, snack bars, a sandwich, and amphetamines to keep me alert for the next twelve hours. I had popped pills with work projects and thought I could make it with two or three; one on my return from Marin and the other around 3:00 a.m., when the boredom of speeding down I-5 could make me drowsy. Mother’s little helpers would keep me alert.
In twenty minutes I was speeding at seventy-five miles per hour on I-5, heading north to my rendezvous at the Marin Headlands. On the seat was my project book with schedule, mileage, gas station stops, and time calculations. I checked off the first notation for departure time; I was five minutes ahead of schedule.
#
Returning south on I-5, I battled fatigue by popping pills, singing to the radio, and opening the window to let the cold desert air keep me awake. I was low on gas after Bakersfield as I headed into the most desolate stretch of my drive. I stopped at a Mobil station in Castaic, a pitiful place that had looked like a bombing range when I had passed by the previous evening. After getting gas and munching on a sandwich, I saw the first glow of sunrise at 5:45 a.m. coming over the San Bernardino Mountains. At 6:30, I rolled into Burbank, ten minutes ahead of schedule.
I parked in the theater parking lot at 6:47 a.m., walked to the hotel in my jogging outfit and baseball cap, and entered via the side entrance. As I headed up the steps, a colleague spotted me on her way to breakfast.
“Hi, Cheryl. Out for a run?”
I waved on my way upstairs. “Every morning. See you at breakfast,” I chirped.
In my room, I stripped, turned on the shower, and relaxed under the hot needles with my eyes closed and my head against the wall to drain fatigue from my weary body.
I lurched and grabbed the railing. I had dozed off for a few seconds. The hot shower was making me too relaxed. I needed to wake up and face my day. Time to pop another pill. I had a busy day ahead of me, but one that would not require me to do much except stay awake in the media room and coordinate the presentation. No meetings where I had to speak; I could yawn and stretch whenever I wanted.
I got out of the shower and looked in the mirror, wet hair plastered against my forehead, a grin on my face.
My plan had worked! I had my perfect alibi for a perfect crime.
#
Three months later, I was playing the role of grieving widow. Lyle had been caught in flagrante with his paramour when they were incinerated in their love nest. I earned bushels of sympathy from friends and acquaintances, who, after a suitable time, hinted that I must have known something was up; everyone else did. I played the shocked and unsuspecting wife role to a level I thought deserved a Tony or even an Oscar.
I fantasized about my teary acceptance speech, where I’d heap praise on everyone who helped me win the award: “To my dear, departed, philandering husband, Lyle, whose insatiable lust for other women earned him the privilege of getting his sorry ass blown sky-high in a fiery postcoital Roman candle.”
An arson investigation had determined that the explosion was due to a gas leak that had been caused by a series of small quakes along the San Andreas Fault, which had put cracks in the gas lines going into the house. Pacific Gas and Electric had had an appointment to check the lines the week after the house blew up. My lawyer filed a negligence suit against PG&E as well as against Alex for letting Lyle use the hideaway as an illicit love nest when it was unsafe. Both suits will probably settle out of court, and I’ll get handsome penalties for my pain and suffering.
I received life insurance checks for $300,000 from Lyle’s group policy at work and another $500,000 on a term policy we had taken out when we bought our house. Our financial planner had recommended we both carry “mortgage relief” insurance; in case one spouse died, the other would get insurance money to keep paying the mortgage and stay in the house. Originally it had been our planner’s idea, and I had gone along. It turned out to be a brilliant recommendation. I paid down $250,000 from the term policy on the mortgage, bought a new Audi, upgraded the kitchen with Italian tiles and marble tops, and invested the rest with my planner. He says I’ll get about 10 percent each year in a diversified portfolio invested in commodities, natural resources, foreign currencies, and REITs.
The $300,000 death benefit from Lyle’s work policy is in laddered CDs for a down payment on a cute little bungalow I found in Napa that will make a lovely B&B one day. I’m so excited about the bungalow that I’m considering retiring early and starting a new career as a B&B hostess. Next weekend I’m going back to Napa to see my real estate agent and make an offer. If I get the bungalow, I can spend the winter and spring getting it in shape for the summer tourist season. I love this idea and dream about it at work, which, I have to admit, is getting more boring day by day. I’m ready for a big change in my life. I have Lyle and his girlfriend to thank for giving me this wonderful new life.
After Lyle tragically “passed away,” I took a month off from work to put my life together. I worked on my painting, enrolled in a yoga class, and went wine tasting all over California: Napa and Sonoma, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, and Solvang. At Christmas I’m going to fly to London to catch a couple of plays and shop at Marks & Spencer. I want to buy nice presents for my family and friends, something I haven’t done in a while.
I’ve kept a low profile socially, going to quiet dinner parties hosted by my and Lyle’s friends. But no dating or hints that I was ready to start meeting new men. Why bother? Why in the world would I need a new man in my life at this time? Such foolishness. I might get a dog, though, one of those cute Shih Tzus or a Pomeranian. Their messes are easier to dispose of than those of men, who are sloppier. I would have my dog neutered, though, so I wouldn’t have to deal with those foolish impulses when another dog strolls by and they do that silly tail sniffing. How gross.
I have been interviewed by the Marin County police several times. They delivered the news of Lyle’s tragic death. Through tears and a good bit of well-rehearsed acting, I told them I had been in Burbank when the “unfortunate accident” happened.
A week or so later they returned, and I volunteered details about my trip to Burbank. Our last meeting was at the police station in Mill Valley for a taped interview to verify what they found out from interviews with hotel and restaurant personnel, people at the metroplex, work colleagues, and the mileage on my airport rental car. They made me go over the times repeatedly, even down to the minute, for heaven’s sake.
The detectives who questioned me were Sgt. Alvarez and Lt. Prendergast. I had the feeling that Sgt. Alvarez believed every word I said, but Prendergast was a bit of a pill, furrowing his brow, pursing his lips, and scowling as if he didn’t believe a word I said. Alvarez was kind of cute, in a boy-toy sort of way. Prendergast reminded me of that tall guy on “Law and Order” who’s always sarcastic when interrogating perps in those dreadful gray, windowless rooms where they browbeat people into admitting they did the dirty deed. Jerry Orbach was his name, I think. Did I read that he died recently?
I still wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares about the interview at the police station when Prendergast grilled me about my schedule from Wednesday afternoon around 3:00 p.m. until 7:00 a.m. the next morning.
“One thing keeps bothering me, Mrs. Harding. We don’t have anyone who can identify you leaving the theater or returning to your hotel that night,” Prendergast persisted. “Could we go over those times once again?”
I was frustrated that he kept going back to this time. I kept my composure and tried to show my sincerity. “It must have been around 9:45,” I said, always using the exact time. “Have you checked the movie show times?”
“The theater manager confirmed the movie was over at 9:40 p.m.”
I nodded. “After leaving the theater, I window shopped in the shopping center on the way back to my hotel. The stores were locking up so I didn’t go in.” I mentioned Banana Republic, Gap, Pottery Barn, Ann Taylor, and Lucy.
“So you got back to your hotel at . . .?
“Like I said, about 10:30. I took a shower, read for half an hour, and turned out the lights about midnight. I had a busy day Thursday with my CEO’s presentation. I was running his PowerPoint presentation that morning from the projection booth at the convention center.”
“Anybody see you go back into your hotel room that night?”
I strained to think. “No, I don’t think so. Someone was in the elevator when I went up, but I can’t even recall if it was a man or a woman. Sorry.”
“Did you watch television back in your room?”
“No, as I said, I read and went over some work.”
“What time did you wake up?”
“I’m an early riser; about 5:45. I went for a morning run and came back at 7:00 or so. Showered, dressed, and went down for breakfast.”
“We have a witness who saw you in the hallway about that time. In fact, we have witnesses from about 6:20 p.m. on Wednesday until 7:00 Thursday morning.”
Prendergast was frustrated that he couldn’t find any holes in my story for that critical twelve hours that I had driven to Marin to kill Lyle and return. I had the perfect alibi. NO one could find a hole in it.
#
Five months after Lyle’s untimely death, I had returned from a Hawaiian vacation with my new boyfriend. When I checked my messages, there was one from Sgt. Alvarez.
“I wonder if we could stop by tomorrow to see you, Mrs. Harding. Please call.” He left his number, and I called the next morning. We agreed on 6:00 that night. I had a date for the theater at 8:00 p.m., a new play by David Mamet I wanted to see. My date was my boyfriend, a neat guy I met at yoga class. His name is Arturo, and he’s a finance professor at USF, an amateur winemaker, a backpacker, and a great dancer. We hit it off on our first date and always have a great time. Soon we are going to Carmel for a weekend of wine tasting, the spa, and tennis. I can’t wait!
I had a new outfit to wear that evening, a lavender pantsuit with a matching floral scarf I had bought in Maui. I was picking out my jewelry, deciding among a triple strand of pearls, a diamond brooch, and a new necklace with an opal setting, when the doorbell rang. I postponed my jewelry decision until I had gotten rid of Alvarez and Prendergast. I left the jewelry spread on my dresser and went to the door.
Three suits. Alvarez, Prendergast, and a woman wearing a tan pantsuit from Mervyn’s. She stood between the two men but back a step. Diminutive, with blonde hair cut short, attractive in a TV trial lawyer sort of way. She had a stone-serious look, as if she were trying to drill through me with her intense gray eyes. Her stare made me a tad uncomfortable.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harding,” Alvarez said. “Thanks for letting us stop by tonight. We have a new detective assisting on your husband’s case. This is Lt. Wilson. She was on medical leave when we interviewed you before.”
“Hello, Lt. Wilson,” I said, noticing a slight quiver in my voice. She nodded and her thin lips flashed a half smile that was gone in an instant.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harding,” Wilson said, her voice stiff as rebar.
Alvarez said, “We have a few routine questions about a follow-up arson investigation. Could we come in for a few minutes?”
Arson investigation? I thought that was all behind me.
“Of course.” I led them through my house to a studio I had created out of Lyle’s home office. I had gotten rid of Lyle’s computer, fax, copier, and telephones and replaced them with palettes, a drafting board, and paintings I had done since he died. I had repainted the room and put in recessed lighting. It had become my sanctuary, with spectacular morning light.
I showed the three of them to a settee overlooking San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. “Would you like tea or coffee?” I offered, hoping they wouldn’t accept.
They shook their heads. I was relieved. I wanted them out of the house before Arturo showed up for our play date. I certainly didn’t want to explain why they were here when he arrived.
Alvarez started the questioning. “Ms. Harding, the arson investigation has uncovered that the tragic accident that killed your husband was not from a gas main. It apparently was caused by the barbecue propane tank found a few yards from the patio, where it was thrown in the explosion.”
“How could that be?”
Prendergast jumped in. “Someone rigged a connection between the propane tank and the house. We don’t know how, but the investigators are still going through evidence they found.”
“Who would do that? And why? Someone murdered my husband and . . . ‘her’? It was a terrible accident from negligence, not foul play. Just ask my lawyer.”
The detectives looked at each other with blank expressions on their faces. What were they thinking? I couldn’t tell; it made me nervous.
Prendergast broke the awkwardness. “That’s what we’re trying to determine. After Lt. Wilson joined us, she encouraged us to expand our investigation. She said it might be possible to drive from Burbank to Marin and return in twelve hours. Lt. Wilson had taken a similar route from Berkeley to Los Angeles many times when she was a student at USC.”
Without saying a word, Wilson took out a binder from her briefcase and opened it on the coffee table. She flipped through pages until she came to one with writing and figures in columns.
Prendergast continued. “Sergeant Alvarez and I wanted to check out her theory, so the three of us flew to Burbank and rented a car at the airport like you did. We waited until 7:00 p.m. and drove on I-5 to San Francisco, turning off on I-580, crossing the San Rafael Bridge, and driving to Marin where your husband was killed. We spent an hour, turned around, and drove back to Burbank. It was a brutal drive, and we were exhausted. But we made it in thirteen hours.”
I was annoyed and more than a little nervous. I faked a smile and tried not to give off any signs of nervousness. “But I told you many times, I was in Burbank, at the movie, the shopping center, and my hotel.” I bit the inside of my lip. I didn’t like where this was going.
Prendergast picked up Wilson’s notebook and put a finger on the top column of figures. “We verified with the car rental company that your car had a fourteen-gallon tank and averages twenty-seven miles per gallon. That computes to three hundred and seventy-eight miles per tank of gas.”
Prendergast looked at Alvarez and Wilson, and they both nodded. His finger moved to the next column, which I couldn’t read.
“It’s slightly less than four hundred miles from Marin to Burbank: three hundred and eighty-four miles, to be exact.”
My heart started pounding, and I felt my palms getting damp. God, where was he going with this?
“That means a person would have to stop for gas twice on a round trip, first after arriving in San Francisco and again before returning to Burbank. As you know, you have to turn in a car with a full gas tank. Your rental car had thirty-four miles on the odometer, which clears you on that point.”
I let out the breath I had been holding while he was going through the calculations. What a relief!
The room was deathly still. Why were they going through this with me? Prendergast looked down at the notebook and moved his finger to the next column of figures. “That’s when Lt. Wilson showed us something important.”
“What was that?” I asked, probably a little too eagerly.
“As Lt. Wilson knew from numerous trips, returning to L.A. on I-5 forces a driver to watch the gas gauge the last hundred miles. After leaving the Bakersfield area, there are only a few gas stations over the next one hundred miles. If a driver is low on gas after Bakersfield, they could be in trouble.”
Where was Prendergast going with this?
Prendergast’s finger moved down the middle of the page with rows of figures. “Here’s what we found, Mrs. Harding. After Bakersfield, there is a stretch of sixty-three miles heading south, where there are only a dozen stations between Arvin and Castaic. If a person is low on gas in this stretch, they have to stop at TravelCenters in Arvin; Mobil, 76, or Shell in Grapevine; Flying J, Chevron, 76, or Mobil in Lebec; or 76, Mobil or Shell in Castaic.”
I was puzzled. What did gas gauges and mileage have to do with me? I had used another rental car, not the one from the airport. All this information was fruitless.
Prendergast leaned back in the sofa. “After the three of us got back to Burbank, we checked into a hotel and slept a few hours. Then Lt. Wilson recommended we return to the gas stations between Arvin and Castaic. We had a photo of you and your husband that you had given us, and we stopped at the gas stations. We asked if they could identify you. No one could. But gas stations on I-5 have security cameras to prevent theft or identify drivers who drive off without paying.”
Wilson reached into her briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope. She took out black and white photos and handed them to Prendergast.
My face flushed. I started breathing heavily and felt beads of sweat forming high on my forehead. I didn’t dare wipe them away.
“We have one photo we want to ask you about, Mrs. Harding.” He handed it across to me.
I froze. It was my profile, wearing my baseball hat over my brown wig. It was dark, but the lights over the gas pumps were bright. I was walking in to pay for gas in cash.
“The woman in the photo has dark hair and is wearing a baseball cap. But the profile resembles yours.”
I was enraged. “This is ridiculous. I have blonde hair. That’s not me!”
He pointed behind my profile. “If you look over the woman’s shoulder in the background, you can see a car and a front license plate.” He handed me an enlargement of the front of my rental car.
“From this photo, we got a license plate. It came up as a rental from a private outfit in Burbank. We took your photo to the dealer, who identified you as having rented the car the day you arrived. You paid in cash and left a deposit. You returned the car Thursday and received your deposit back. Here’s a copy of the receipt.”
He handed me a photocopy with my faked signature, Brenda Cosmos, a former sorority sister I hated.
“We checked the mileage from the time you rented the car on Tuesday until you returned it Thursday. It had seven hundred and eighty miles on it. A lot of driving in thirty-eight hours. Enough to get to Marin and back.”
It was so quiet you could hear planes landing at the San Francisco Airport.
Bing Bong!
“It’s Arturo -- he’s at the door!” I blurted out.
The detectives stood, and Lt. Wilson said, “Mrs. Harding, we are arresting you for the murder of your husband and Louise Wilson. If you’ll come with us, we’re going to the station to take a statement.”
She read me Miranda, but I was so stunned the words were mumbles to me. I stood up, shaking so much I thought I was going to fall over. Lt. Wilson pulled out handcuffs and motioned for me to extend my hands.
I looked into her eyes and felt like I had been struck by lightning. “Lt. Wilson?” I said weakly. “Are you . . .?”
“Yes. Louise was my twin sister.”
Bing Bong!
T H E E N D
I hope you enjoyed PERFECT CRIME and would like to read my other short mysteries, TEAMMATES, MISSING PERSONS, and THE STALKER, my suspense novels, A STREAK ACROSS THE SKY, MORNINGS WITHOUT ZOE, and my latest mystery, REX ROYALE. They all end with a plot twist.
All titles are available on your ereader.
I would appreciate your reviews. Your comments are a value to me and other readers.
Here are previews of MISSING PERSONS and REX ROYALE.
MISSING PERSONS is a tale about a retired professor who digs up old love letters buried in the garden of his retirement home. He learns that former residents of the old house were a World War II war hero and his younger wife. Fifty years ago, the wife and her former college lover mysteriously disappeared. The professor uses his academic research skills to investigate the disappearances and makes a startling discovery. But he struggles with his conscience about revealing the truth.
Missing Persons
Jack Erickson
My spade sliced into the damp dirt like a knife through a peach. I scooped dirt out of the hole to plant fruit trees in my backyard. Instructions stapled to the wrapped root-ball said the trees had to be planted eighteen inches below the surface in a two-foot-wide hole.
I widened the hole, piling dirt in a mound next to my bare-limbed fruit trees. I was a foot deep when my spade clanked on a solid object. I pulled out the spade and sliced down six inches to the side. Clank again. I tried six inches on the other side and my spade slid deeper into the dirt. When I pulled the dirt out, I uncovered the edge of the inch-deep metal object my spade had stuck.
I scraped dirt away from the top to expose the surface. It was about eight inches long and six inches wide. I jabbed my spade underneath and popped it out of its earthy hold.
I lifted the metal box out of the hole and sat down on the pile of dirt. The box had a pale green patina, two metal hinges on the back, and a clasp in the front. The lid was frozen shut. I reached into my toolbox for my pruning shears and ran the tip under the lid. I forced the clasp open and lifted the top.
Inside was a bundle of letters tied with a string. Beneath the letters were three black-and-white photos. The top letter was addressed to Harriet Summers at 873 Windsor Lane. That was my address—the home I had bought last fall after moving from the Midwest. I flicked through the letters, admiring the colorful canceled stamps of fifty years ago. All the letters were addressed to Harriet Summers except one. The exception was the earliest letter addressed to Harriet Gaithers at 1019 Waverly, a tree-lined street down the hill that ran through the historic district of town: classic old Victorian homes from the 19th century that had been included in the National Register of Historic Districts.
I carried the box to the gazebo and sat down on a bench, feeling the soothing warmth of the spring sun on my face. The air was fragrant with apple and cherry blossoms. Spring flowers were in bloom: orange, purple, and yellow lantana; scarlet and orange African violets; rosebushes in red, pink, white, and peppermint; and clusters of tulips. Robins flitted from tree to tree, hopping across my lawn, chirping cheerful notes of spring. One landed on the dirt I had dug and stabbed its beak into my dirt mound. It pulled out a juicy worm and tipped back its head to swallow it before flying to a nest in a tall oak tree. A hungry chick was about to have a meal.
I set the metal box on my lap and picked up the first picture. It showed a happy gathering of college students dressed in identical sweaters and gray slacks. They stood in a semicircle around a St. Bernard dog that had a banner with a white letter “H” draped over its back. The students’ arms were raised in a college cheer.
The second picture was of a handsome young man, his blond hair parted off center in the fashion popular in the 1930s. He was holding the St. Bernard’s leash in the first picture. In the third picture, he was standing by a seaside cliff with his arm draped around the shoulders of a pretty young woman who was in the first picture. Her right arm was wrapped around his thin waist, her left hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. She was dressed stylishly in a 1940s way, a strand of pearls around her neck, hair in a permanent wave swept to the side, tight skirt below her knees. In the background was a rustic inn with a sign: Manleigh Inn.
I untied the string and opened the letter with the earliest postmark. In the upper-left corner was the sender’s name and address: Arthur Parker, 65 Folsom Avenue, New Dublin, California. In the right corner was a canceled, faded red three-cent stamp of the 50th anniversary of statehood for North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, and Washington. Inside was a one-page letter:
June 18, 1939
Dear Harriet,
My sadness is profound. We have said our last good-byes; I leave in the morning, and you will not be with me. The last three years with you have been the happiest of my life. But I support your decision that we must move on with our lives. I have three years of law school at Yale ahead of me, and you will begin a teaching position in September that you have desired since you were a little girl. You will be a wonderful teacher. Your students will love your wit, energy, and wisdom.
I know we will write even though we cannot see each other for years. I won’t be able to return, since my scholarship requires I work summers at the New Haven legal aid office.
Your love has been the most important part of my life. I will never forget you, Harriet. I wish you well and will always remember the special times we spent together at Hampton. I hope you will wait for me, even though I know you desire marriage and a family. My heart is sad because we will have to live apart for so long.
Love always and forever,
Arthur
# # # # #
REX ROYALE is a murder mystery that takes place in a northern California. Shasta County Sheriff divers recover two decomposed bodies from Lake Britton, near Mt. Shasta. The first body is that of Rex Royale, a charismatic Las Vegas casino mogul who is building a controversial Indian casino on Lake Britton. The second body is that of an itinerant woman with no apparent connection to Royale.
A San Francisco Chronicle reporter, Tyler Bonnard, who discovered Royale’s body, links up with freelance writer Hannah Bergren to report on the crimes. Hannah is a young widow raising preteen daughters. She wrote high-profile business stories about Royale and had an affair with him that ended days before he disappeared. Hannah kept their affair secret and fears that, if it is exposed, it will damage her reputation in the community and severely impact her daughters’ social standing with friends at their middle school.
As Tyler and Hannah investigate the double murder, they uncover mysterious arsons, other missing women, and infiltrate a shady clan of rogue backwoodsmen living in a remote hunting lodge. In a violent climax, Hannah and Tyler discover that the crimes are connected to a decades-old murder covered up by one of Burney’s most respected citizens.
Rex Royale
CHAPTER ONE
I was standing on the boat dock at my lake cabin, admiring the view of the morning sun shining on Mt. Shasta, when I was startled by a staccato burst that sounded like a firing squad. I looked back and saw a flock of noisy ravens explode from ponderosa pines after being spooked by a red-tailed hawk.
The cawing ravens rose above the treetops, circled, and flew toward the solitary hawk. The hawk had gray and white feathers on its chest, pinkish tail feathers spread in a fan, and yellow legs ending in sharp talons. It was probably an immature male hunting for chicks abandoned in nests or rodents scurrying across the forest floor.
I’d seen ravens and hawks duel in the skies above Lake Britton before, and I’d always been fascinated by the aerial drama. Ravens are menacing-looking with shiny black feathers like armor plates, bullet-shaped bodies, nose-cone heads, and sharp, obsidian beaks. Their powerful wings allow them to fly aggressively against foes. Other birds don’t mess with ravens; they’re the gritty street fighters of the skies.
Red-tailed hawks have battering-ram bodies and broad wingspans designed for soaring long distances. They don’t so much fly as soar, and they can’t make defensive midair maneuvers—a disadvantage against the faster, more aggressive ravens.
I stood enthralled on the dock as the cawing ravens, sunlight shining on their iridescent feathers, reached the hawk’s altitude and began diving at its wings and fanned tail. The first raven assault came from above and the second from below, as if they were vectored in by a ground control station.
The birds’ shrieking and cawing had disturbed the early morning serenity of Lake Britton. Two fishermen in a bass boat lowered their fishing rods and craned their necks to look up at the swirling birds.
A flock of seagulls bobbing on the lake rose in a chorus of shrieks and flew down the lake, keeping low to escape the aerial combat above them.
The hawk took defensive moves, dipping toward the lake, veering left and right to elude the mob. Two ravens flanked the hawk while a third dove from above and collided with it, sending both birds tumbling in the sky. It was like watching a World War II dogfight of nimble Spitfires attacking a slower Messerschmitt.
After several swoops, dips, and feigns, the hawk knew it was no match for the ravens. It found a thermal, rose, and turned west, pursued by the noisy ravens until they flew into a low cloud covering a pine-topped hill.
“Communing with Mother Nature this morning, Tyler?”
I was startled by the voice of my friend Sanjay, who had stepped onto the dock while I was absorbed in the aerial warfare.
“Hey, you scared me. Did you see that?” I said, pointing across the lake toward the birds. “A flock of ravens chased a young hawk away. I’ll bet he doesn’t fly this way again until he’s learned better hunting skills.”
“Those damned birds are noisy. I heard them up at the cabin,” Sanjay said, lowering the cooler into our fishing boat. “Wake the dead with all the cawing. It sounded like a war.”
I picked up our fishing gear, tackle box, and net from the dock and set them in the bottom of the bass boat we’d put in the water the previous afternoon. “Amazing to see how aggressive ravens are,” I said. “They spotted the hawk coming across the lake, and the whole flock took after him. I counted a dozen ravens; he didn’t have a chance against those numbers.”
“You sure love your birds. Pretty soon you’ll be cawing like one of them.”
“Ravens are smart,” I said, checking the throttle and choke to fire up my 40-horsepower motor. “They communicate with gestures, use tools to get food, and alert hunters to wild game. They get a meal if hunters bag the animal.”
Sanjay laughed. “I always thought you should have become a game warden instead of a reporter,” he said. “I don’t know anybody who knows more about birds and fish than you do.”
“I almost grew up on this lake. Dad and I fixed up our cabin when I was a teenager so we could fish in the summer and hunt deer in the fall.”
“A real nature boy. You were lucky.”
“Sure was, and I want my son to have the same experiences. Who wouldn’t want to spend the summer here?” I said, motioning at the pine forests along the shoreline. “I wait for this weekend all winter . . . the scent of pine resin in the morning air, a mist over the lake, and Mt. Shasta just a few miles away. It’s like heaven here.”
“We’re not in heaven yet,” Sanjay said, untying the mooring line and tossing it into the boat. “We’ll be in heaven when we’re grilling bass filets and a mound of potatoes tonight and washing them down with cold beers. Let’s get this tub going and catch some fish.”
I laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Sanjay. I come here to be close to nature, and you’re more interested in your stomach.”
“What can I say? I’m a simple guy. I come here because we keep our cooler stocked with brews and have a whole week without alarm clocks or jobs to go to. Which is another definition of heaven.”
Sanjay cracked wise like he was from Brooklyn, even though he was raised in Mumbai, which he once confessed was like growing up in a colony of fire ants.
I knew from past experience that Sanjay would be just as enthralled after a week of fishing at the cabin. By the time our teenage sons arrived on Friday for Memorial weekend, he’d be musing about buying a cabin, planting a garden, and hunting and fishing for his food.
Sanjay was a software engineer who’d made it big in Silicon Valley. He was using the freedom it brought him to indulge in American leisure pastimes he hadn’t had growing up in India. We took our boys to Giants game, coached their soccer team, took them fishing in the summer, and went skiing with them at Tahoe in the winter.
Sanjay and I had driven north from San Francisco on Friday afternoon to get the cabin ready for summer: turn on the electricity, take bedding and towels from the closets, get the boat and motor out of the shed, and clean our fishing gear. After doing our chores, we had watched the sun set over the lake, drunk beers, and eaten burgers cooked on the grill before turning in early to get on the lake just after sunrise.
Sanjay pushed us away from the dock and stepped into the boat. I paddled out of the cove in front of our cabin and fired up the motor.
The 40-horsepower motor coughed after six months in winter storage and then settled into a steady rumbling. When I reached the main channel of the lake, I made a few turns, stopped, and put the boat into reverse. I killed the motor, waited a minute, and then pulled the lanyard. It fired up with no problem.
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