

Death of the Eviction Man: An Erika Mudrose Mystery Novella

Gayle Tiller

Copyright © 2018 by Gayle Tiller

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this novella may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please email gayletiller@yahoo.com.

## Chapter One

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

My business phone rang. I stared at the digital clock next to my bed. It flashed 1:34 a.m. with way too much brightness for that time of night.

My boyfriend Darryl turned over with a groan and asked groggily, "Babe, do you want me to get that?"

The call was probably from my former client Suzanne. A few months ago, she had hired me to find her long-lost daughter Catalina who had vanished more than twenty years ago. I had looked everywhere: online, newspapers, death indexes, and the courts. To my chagrin, I couldn't find one clue on what had happened to her.

Suzanne wanted her money back. I had refused because I had done my job. In the beginning, she would call during regular business hours and make her demands. Now, she was calling at all times of the night, and she'd even posted a few mean online reviews. If her harassment didn't stop soon, I might be forced to get a restraining order against her.

"Check the caller ID," I ordered.

"It's blocked," Darryl replied as he leaned over to see the screen.

"Then let it go to voicemail."

"Okay, babe."

The phone rang two more times. My answering machine clicked on. The caller hung up.

Good. It must've been a wrong number.

The phone rang again. Goddamn it. Why couldn't Suzanne leave me alone?

"Babe, I think they really want to talk," Darryl said.

"Go answer it then," I replied. "Tell Suzanne that I don't take calls outside of normal business hour. No, better yet, tell her I'm not here, that I'm out of town or something."

Darryl nodded. He picked up the phone and mumbled "hello." He spoke with the caller for a few seconds and turned to me. "This lady isn't Suzanne. It's somebody else. She wants help on a case. What should I tell her?"

How could he ask me such an asinine question? A case meant money. "Hand me the phone."

Darryl nodded and gave me the phone.

I cleared my voice as I switched on a small lamp next to my bed. "This is Erika Mudrose speaking. How can I help you?"

"Ma'am, my name is Liz – Liz Pullroy. I'm so sorry for waking you in the middle of the night. . . I was just going to leave a message for you to call me in the morning. I really need your help."

I rubbed my forehead. The name Pullroy didn't sound familiar at all. "No problem. What do you need help with?" I asked.

Liz sighed. "My husband was found last Thursday with a bullet in his head."

"Ma'am, I'm really sorry about your husband," I said in a somber voice. I wondered about the lack of emotion in her voice. I then realized that she could still be in shock. "Where was he found?"

"At the Criteway Hotel. You know the one near the Chatlyn County airport."

Criteway hosted lavish events and business conferences. It was built two years after Chatlyn had been become California's newest county. Back in the seventies, a coalition of social justice groups decided they wanted to honor the memory of the late civil rights leader Sonia Chatlyn who had been gunned down by her ex-husband during a domestic violence fight. Ms. Chatlyn was known for her activism in San Joaquin, Santa Clara, and Alameda Counties in Northern California. As a result, the coalition placed an initiative on the ballot to take unincorporated portions of these counties so that Chatlyn County could be formed.

A bitter election ensued. The land developers and traditionalists opposed the initiative. They outspent the coalition by more than a million dollars. Nonetheless, voters were not persuaded. The initiative overwhelmingly passed by a two-to-one margin.

"Was your husband there on business?" I asked.

"Hell no," Liz answered. "That's where he and his slut girlfriend normally met for their Thursday night dalliance."

Dalliance? That was so classic – a man cheating on his wife. Maybe this was why the woman wasn't too sorry he was dead. "Did his girlfriend find him?"

"Nah, it was someone from the hotel's staff."

"His girlfriend wasn't at the hotel when they found your husband?" I asked.

The phone was silent for a few seconds. "I really don't know," Liz finally answered. "The police are looking into it."

"All right. Who do you think killed him?"

"Could be the slut. But it might be someone he evicted."

"Do you and your husband own rental property?" I asked.

"No, we don't have any tenants at all. My husband's a lawyer and he evicts tenants."

"What's your husband's name?"

"Calvin."

"Calvin Pullroy?" I asked.

"No, it's Calvin Norwich."

I sighed. Calvin Norwich was known as Chatlyn County's "Eviction Man." Calvin worked for the banks and property owners. He ran a law practice that evicted hundreds of tenants each year. Calvin specialized in evicting former owners of foreclosed properties.

"I see. Can we meet in the morning?" I asked.

"No, I don't want to wait that long," Liz protested. "The police have asked me some really strange questions. I think they may try to blame my husband's murder on me. I need help with clearing my name."

I ran my hand over my unruly hair with another sigh. So much for being sorry that she had woken me up. "For the police, the spouse is always the first suspect in a murder investigation."

"There's no way I'd ever kill my husband. He might be a bastard but killing him just isn't my style."

"I believe you," I lied. I pulled the receiver away from my mouth as I unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. Recovered, I admonished the woman firmly, "But you really should talk to a lawyer about your legal rights."

"I went to law school. So, I know my rights," Liz hissed.

"You're a lawyer like your husband?" I asked.

"No, never passed the bar. I'm in public relations. Work for a nonprofit that helps midlife women in crisis."

I reflected. Big murder case. Jealous wife, girlfriend, and evicted tenants. Lots of players. On top of this, the wife works for a nonprofit. Maybe I could make some money and do some good. "Where do you want to meet?" I asked.

"At your office," she replied. "You're downtown, right?"

My office? I had shut it down a couple of months ago because business had been slow. Right now, I was operating out of my living room.

"How about if we meet at your house?" I asked.

"That'll work," Liz replied. She dictated her address and gave me directions.

"I'll see you in a bit."

After we said our goodbyes, I hung up the phone. I stared at the phone for a couple of seconds, then got up from bed and switched on a larger lamp so I could see the clothes in my closet.

Darryl looked up at me. "Leaving babe?"

I nodded. I could tell he was trying to decide whether to ask me if he could come along for protection. It was a long-standing quarrel between us. He hated the possible dangers that came with me being a private investigator.

Finally, he said, "Okay, be safe. I'm going back to sleep."

"Thanks," I said, truly thankful that I didn't have to leave yet another potential client waiting while my boyfriend and I went through the same tired argument.

I walked to my closet and grabbed a sweater, skirt, tights, and a pair of boots. I quickly got dressed.

To my dismay, I could barely zip my skirt. Since moving my office into my condo, I have gained almost 15 pounds. You'd think at 5'10" that I could easily hide the extra weight. Instead, I was starting to get a small belly. My thighs and ass used to be muscular and firm. Now, they were becoming soft and spongy.

Darryl didn't mind that I had gained weight. At a little over six feet and 230 pounds, Darryl was a big man. Darryl liked big women and he was always telling me that I was too skinny.

I shook my head. I walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, and pulled out a wide-tooth comb from the cabinet. I combed my thick shoulder-length dark brown, curly hair, put on a dab of make-up, and lip-gloss. I checked myself in the mirror. There were times I felt like a chameleon. I could easily pass for Italian, Latina, Persian, or Greek. But the truth was I none of these. My lineage was African-American, Eastern European Jewish, Irish, English, and a bit of Native American.

Darryl's fair skin contrasted with his thick dark wavy hair that was peppered with gray streaks. On top of this, Darryl had the cutest dimples and cleft chin. He was so handsome. I smiled.

Enough about looks, I needed to focus on my case and make some money. I was behind in most of my bills except for my mortgage and credit cards. It didn't help that Darryl hadn't worked in the last five months. He'd been laid off from his job from a high-tech company. He claimed that no one would hire him because he was too old. They wanted young kids fresh out of college.

Since when was 46 too old to work? Darryl had at least 20 years before Social Security would kick in. Besides, it wasn't as if he had tried that hard to look for work. He'd only apply for three or four jobs a week. And he wouldn't do things that could make him more attractive as a candidate. Told Darryl to dye his hair so he'd look younger. He refused to do this. Darryl claimed it wouldn't make a difference because they would know his age from his job application.

Darryl spent most of his days playing video games and doing nothing else. Even though he occasionally tried to play the role of protector, much of the time it was as if he had reverted to being a child. And although I was three years younger than he was, I felt like his mother at times. Most days I wanted to throw him out, but he had nowhere to go. Plus, Darryl was still hurting from the recent loss from of his father. So, I needed to give him time to heal.

I switched my attention back to my reflection in the mirror. I brushed my teeth, did a final check of my face, and then shut off the bathroom light. I walked into the living room and grabbed my coat, laptop, bag, and notepad.

Now, I was ready to see my new client. Hopefully, with a little luck, I'd be able to find her husband's killer.

## Chapter Two

As I drove down the tree-lined street to the address Liz had given me, I felt out of place with my battered nine-year-old car. It didn't feel like the Chatlyn I was accustomed to. My East Chatlyn neighborhood was filled with a hodgepodge of old homes, government-subsidized apartments, and below market condos.

In contrast, Liz lived in Chatlyn Valley – an area with sprawling million-dollar homes and extravagant cars. Most folks in my neighborhood were struggling to survive the recession, while people in Chatlyn Valley appeared to be unscathed.

Within a couple minutes, I was in front of Liz's home. I parked, grabbed my belongings, and got out of the car. I walked up to Liz's porch and knocked on the door. A light came on. The door cracked slightly open. "Is that you, Erika?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes," I answered.

A rotund woman who was about 5'7" or 5'8" opened the door. Her turquoise sweater accented her green eyes and her boot-cut jeans gently skimmed her full thighs. The woman's short, dishwater blond hair was expertly cut into layers that gracefully framed her round face. In the night light, it was a little hard to guess her age. She might be in her early forties or maybe a little bit older.

The woman smiled. "I'm Liz. Come on in."

I entered the house and followed Liz into the living room. I had to stop myself from gasping. The living room was bigger than my entire condo. The room was decorated with eclectic pieces of art from Asia, Africa, and South America. The hardwood floor was covered with a large flaming yellow rug with a red stripe down its middle.

Liz and I sat down on the expansive red couch. I pulled out my notepad from my bag.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Liz asked. "I can get you water, coffee, tea, or hot chocolate."

"No, I'm good," I answered. "Liz, I want to express my condolences again over your husband's death."

Liz gave me an appreciative look. "Thanks, I'm still in shock. I never expected to lose him this young."

"How old was he?"

"Calvin was turning 48 this year."

I shook my head. "You just never know how much time you have."

"You're right. I still can't believe he's gone."

"You mentioned his girlfriend might have killed him."

Liz winced. "The slut? Yeah, she could have done it." She nodded firmly as if trying to convince herself.

"What's her name?"

"Veronica Quanewood."

"Do you know how long they've been seeing each other?"

"About six months. Maybe a little longer."

"Did your husband have any other affairs?"

Liz groaned. "On and off during our marriage. I'd find out and threaten to leave him. He'd be good for a while and then he'd find someone new."

"So why do you think Veronica might be the culprit?"

"Because a few days ago, she came by the house. Claimed Calvin was hers and I needed to let him go."

My eyebrows arched. "So, what did you tell her?"

"I told her to go to hell and there was no way I'd ever divorce Calvin."

I tapped my pen lightly on my notepad. "I'm not an expert on divorce. But my understanding is that in California, spouses don't need permission to divorce. If one wants out, then it's over."

"You're correct on the law, but Calvin had a lot to lose if he left me."

"What do you mean?"

Liz rolled her eyes. "Calvin doesn't own a goddamn thing. This house is mine. I own the cars we drive and the building where Calvin has his law office."

I look at Liz with a puzzled expression. "On the phone you told me you worked for a nonprofit. I just assumed that. . ."

Liz interrupted me before I could finish my sentence. "That's a bad assumption. I inherited money from my aunt years ago. Because I invested it well, I really don't have to work. The nonprofit is something I like to do."

I sighed. "It's great you have your own money. But Calvin has his own law practice. He's doing evictions. Isn't he doing well?"

"With the recession, Calvin has made a helluva lot of money. But he's also made a lot of bad investments."

"Like losing money in the stock market?" I asked.

Liz narrowed her eyes. "Calvin's too stupid to play the market. Instead, he likes to gamble his money away. He's always broke."

I looked at Liz directly in the eyes. "Liz, I don't mean to offend you. But I don't understand why you're with him. He's broke and he's a cheater and a gambler. It's seems to me that you'd be better off if you'd had divorced him."

Liz looked down at the floor and then back up at me. "Well, the thing is that I couldn't leave Calvin, because. . ."

"Because why?"

"Because I'm. . . addicted to him."

"Addicted how?"

Liz's face turned a bright red. "The sex. It's so good. I mean Calvin knew how to please me. I mean really please me. He'd could make me climax. You know not just once, but over and over. And I'm not just talking about multiple orgasms, but double digits."

Double-digit orgasms. I couldn't even phantom that. Darryl was good, but he wasn't that good. "So, you stayed him because of sex? But he's a cheater."

"Erika, I have an incredibility high sex drive and I need someone who can meet my desires and needs. Before I met Calvin, no one else could satisfy me. And I mean no one. After Calvin I started dating, I knew that he was the one. I just had to have him. And the more I had him, the more I wanted him."

"And what about the cheating?" I asked.

"That didn't happen until we were married. I wanted to leave Calvin, but I couldn't. I was just too addicted him. I needed him like a crackhead needs cocaine. Calvin was my drug of choice."

"And you never thought that there could be someone better than Calvin. You know someone who'd respect you and give you want you needed."

"Erika, I'm not a kid. I'm 48 years old. It took me years to find Calvin and I didn't want to start over for some whimsical fantasy man."

My head began spin. Incredible sex with a lousy jerk. Sounded like a really bad deal. "And what if Calvin decided that he didn't want your money anymore and left you?" I asked.

Liz shook her head. "That's not even a possibility. My Calvin had his pride. He knew me that without me, he'd have nothing. And I mean nothing. He'd have nowhere to live and nowhere to practice. Could you imagine what the media say if Chatlyn County's eviction man became homeless? My God, it'd be so embarrassing."

"But if Calvin got help for his gambling problem, he could turn his life around, right?" I argued.

Liz smirked. "Are you kidding me? Calvin didn't have that kind of willpower."

"What if he got money from Veronica, his girlfriend?"

"The slut. She's broke and her house is underwater."

"So, you're saying because Veronica has nothing, Calvin would stay with you."

"Absolutely."

"So, besides Veronica, is there anyone else who might have killed him?"

"Like I told you on the phone, it could have been one of the tenants he'd evicted."

"Any recent threats?"

Liz shrugged her shoulders. "None, I can recall. But our number is unlisted. Calvin could have gotten calls at his office or on his cell phone."

"So, Calvin never mentioned anything to you?" I asked.

Liz shook her head. "No, he didn't."

I took a deep breath and exhaled. "Can you tell me where you were when Calvin died?"

"I was at home watching TV."

"Was anyone here with you?"

"No, it was just me."

"How long were you at the house by yourself?"

"Got off work around six. Got home around six-thirty or so."

"Did anyone come by the house?"

"Except for the cops and you, no one else."

I sighed. This case was getting worse by the minute. No witnesses to verify Liz's alibi. Plus, she was sex-crazed and possessive. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Liz looked at me. "I know that my case doesn't sound good. But I'm innocent. I never would do anything to hurt my Calvin. Erika, I really your help. Will you take my case?"

I couldn't tell if Liz's look was sincere. But even if it weren't, I needed the money. "Yes, I'll do it." I then quoted Liz my retainer fee of three grand and an hourly rate of $150 an hour.

To my surprise, Liz didn't quibble with me on my fees. Instead, she smiled. "That's fine. Let me get my checkbook." Liz got up from the couch and went into another room. After a couple minutes, she came back with her checkbook.

I pulled out my client service agreement from my bag and showed it to her. Liz read the contract and signed it. She then handed me check.

"So how did you find about me?" I asked. "Did someone refer you?"

"No, I found you online," Liz answered. "I saw you had a law degree. I liked that."

"Well, I never passed the bar."

"Neither did I. Taken it eighteen times. Came close a few times. But I think this time I am going to pass. Taking the bar again at the end of February."

"Hope you pass. You deserve it."

"Thanks." Liz smiled. "What about you? Are you still trying?"

"No, gave up after my fourth time."

Liz frowned. "It's too late to sign up for the February bar, but maybe you can sit for the July bar."

"Maybe I will," I lied. The truth was I had given up dreams of being a lawyer long ago. I was bad at taking tests. I freaked out and I couldn't manage my time. There was no way I'd ever pass the bar.

"Hope you take the bar again because we big girls need to stick together," Liz said in an almost bubbly voice.

I wanted to wince. Yes, I had a gained some weight, but I didn't think of myself as "big." Then again, if my newly gained size endeared me to my new client, I needed to use it for my advantage. I feigned a smile and said, "Indeed, we do."

"So, what's next?" Liz asked.

"I'll do some checking around. I have a friend at the police department. I'll talk to her. I'll also need to go court and check out your husband's recent eviction cases."

"What about the slut?"

"She's on the list." I answered.

"Good," Liz said.

"Just one other thing. You need to get a lawyer."

"But if we clear my name . . ."

"Liz, it'll take some time," I said with soothing voice. "Find someone you trust."

"Is there anyone you can recommend?"

I shook my head. The good lawyers I knew were with the Public Defender's office. Because Liz wasn't poor, she wouldn't qualify for their services. "But I'm sure if you do some research, you'll find someone good."

"All right. I'll think about it.

"Great, I'll give you a status report later on today."

I got up from the couch and picked up my bag. We shook hands and said our goodbyes.

## Chapter Three

I looked at my watch. It was 8:45 a.m. I was sitting at a small round table at my favorite café in Chatlyn. Lenita's Nibbles was known for its eclectic mix of hot chocolate, teas, and juices. Unlike other cafes, Lenita's didn't serve coffee. Some people avoided Lenita's because of this fact. Others like me enjoyed being surrounded by non-coffee drinkers.

When I was seventeen, I had my first sip of coffee and I couldn't stand the taste. Plus, it made me woozy. I tried coffee again two or three more times in college and in law school. My reaction was the same. As a result, I absolutely abhor coffee.

I took a sip of my mint soy hot chocolate and a bite of my dark chocolate chip muffin. I smiled. I loved chocolate and the combination was utterly delicious.

I pulled out my laptop from my bag and propped it on the table. I turned it on and logged into Lenita's wireless network. It took about minute before I was connected to the Internet. I did a search and found the County's housing court's website. The housing court exclusively handled unlawful detainers, which was the legal name for evictions. I looked for Calvin's recent cases. Over the past month, Calvin had evicted more than hundred people.

Most of the unlawful detainer judgments had been defaults, or uncontested evictions. In most cases, the tenants had been served with court papers, but they didn't file a response with the court. As a result, a default was taken.

In 19 cases, the tenants had challenged their unlawful detainers. Sixteen of the cases had settled with a stipulation for a move out date. Three other cases had gone to trial. In one lawsuit, the tenant won. In the other two, the trial judge had issued a judgment in favor of the landlord.

I pulled out my notepad from my bag and wrote down the name of the cases.

Tradlite Apartments v. Brandon and Beverly Gilin

Swytching Housing Management v. Manuel Bridton

I did a search for Brandon and Beverly Gilin. The only thing I could find was the couple's ages. Brandon was 73 years old and Beverly was 70. They weren't connected to any social media. Given the couple's ages, that wasn't odd.

I then did a search for Manuel Bridton. A ton of sites came up. Manuel was a longtime community activist and housing advocate. He worked for the notorious TenantLiberties League. TenantLiberties was known for its unorthodox practices.

Over the past two years, members of TenantLiberties had tried to prevent the sheriff from carrying out a number of evictions. On the morning of a scheduled eviction, they would set up a human blockade in front of the tenant's residence. The sheriff would order the protestors to move. In most cases, the protestors would refuse to leave. Last year, over 200 arrests had been made and since the beginning of this year, another 50 people had been arrested.

Manuel's eviction was scheduled for Thursday. There were several news stories that TenantLiberties was preparing for its largest protest in Chatlyn. Over five hundred members had vowed to build a human chain around Manuel's building.

TenantLiberties had called the eviction retaliatory for Manuel's housing advocacy efforts. For the past fourteen years, Manuel had paid in his rent time and abided by the complex's rules. Last year, Swytching Housing had bought the apartment building in a foreclosure proceeding.

Manuel was later issued with a notice to vacate. In his eviction trial, the court found that Swytching Housing had the right to evict Manuel. Chatlyn didn't have a "just cause" eviction ordinance and tenants could be evicted for any reason.

The court scoffed at Manuel's retaliation claim. Swytching Housing argued it was evicting Manuel because it wanted to renovate his apartment. If he were inside the apartment, the renovations couldn't be done. As a result, Swytching Housing had no choice but to evict Manuel.

Manuel and his group TenantLiberties loved publicity. But would Manuel be so bold to kill Calvin a few days before his scheduled eviction? At first glance, it sounded like a stupid move. But then again, perhaps Manuel thought it would bring his case to a higher level.

I pulled out of my cell phone from my purse and called my best friend Jayne Pinlope. I had known Jayne since we were in middle school. For the past 12 years, Jayne had worked in the Chatlyn Police Department. She was currently a lieutenant in the homicide division.

Within a few seconds, she picked up. "Hi Jayne, it's Ericka. How are you?"

"I'm good," Jayne replied. "What's up?"

"Have you heard about the murder of Calvin Norwich?"

"The eviction lawyer? Yeah, my team is working on it. Can't tell you anything because it's confidential."

"Any list of suspects?" I asked.

"Come on Erika, you know better than that. The last time I told you something they nearly traced it back to me. Can't do that anymore because of it's too risky."

I reflected. About a year ago, I had worked on the murder of a teenage girl. Jayne had given me the name of the prime suspect before it became public. The prime suspect was the girl's father and the CEO of a high-tech company.

After I confronted the likely perp, he went ballistic. He claimed he was innocent and he had been wrongly maligned. When the evidence later showed that the culprit was someone else, he tried to sue the police department for defamation of character. The court tossed the case because it would open a Pandora's box. The court held that the police have a duty to investigate and in cases involving the deaths of children, the prime suspects are typically the parents, siblings, and other family members. As a result, the police had not committed defamation.

"How about a hint?" I asked.

"Sorry, that's not possible," Jayne replied. "So, who are you working for?"

"Jayne, if you won't tell me anything, I won't tell you either," I snapped.

"Erika, if you want to keep your stuff confidential, that's fine with me."

I sighed. "If you won't tell me anything off the record, can you tell me when a status update will be done?"

"You mean a press conference?" Jayne asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Could be today. Could be tomorrow. I really don't know. You can check with our public information officer."

"All right. I will do that."

"Erika, I really need to get to work. I'll talk to you later."

I hit the end button on my phone. The call to Jayne had been waste of time. However, at least because of my research, I now had at least one suspect.

I did a search for TenantLiberties' address. It was a few blocks away. I finished my hot chocolate and muffin. I rubbed my stomach. Now, I was ready to take on Manuel and his tenants' rights organization.

## Chapter Four

TenantLiberties was in an old dilapidated building that had peeling walls and a frayed, stained beige carpet. The doors of its office were wide-open. I walked inside. A couple dozen or so folks were milling about. Some were making signs with cardboard and paintbrushes dipped in blue and red paint.

The signs read:

Stop Unfair Evictions Now!

Housing Should Be a Right for Everyone – Not Just for the Privileged!

You Know What's Immoral? Evicting an Innocent Tenant!

A tall man wearing jeans and a black t-shirt greeted me. He looked like he was in his early forties. "Can I help you?" he asked.

I glanced at the man's muscular arms. They were covered with a slew of tattoos. I then looked back at his face. He had tussled dark brown hair, a matching goatee, and full lips. My heart skipped a beat. There was something about a man and a goatee. It gave him character. On top of this, goatees were downright sexy.

"I'm here to see Manuel Bridton," I replied.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Erika Mudrose."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I don't," I answered.

"What do you want to talk to Manuel about?"

"It's confidential," I replied.

"Why?"

"I'm looking into something and I need his help."

The man peered at me suspiciously. "Are you a cop?"

I winced. "No, I'm a private investigator."

"What are you investigating?" he asked.

"Look, I really don't want to waste your time," I said while glancing at the sign makers. "I just need to talk to Manuel. Can you get him for me?"

The man shook his head. "Manuel isn't here."

"When do you expect him in?" I asked.

The man stroked his goatee. "I really don't know. Manuel may come in later."

A chill ran down my spine. Why was I so attracted to this man? I needed to control myself and focus on the investigation. "Do you know where Manuel is now?"

"I have no idea."

"Can you give me his cell phone number?"

"Sorry, I'm not authorized to do that."

"What's your name?"

"Paul," he answered.

"What's your last name?" I asked.

Paul glared at me. "Erika, I don't think that's any of your business since you won't tell me why you need to talk to Manuel."

I frowned. How could this good-looking man be such a jerk? "Can you tell Manuel I dropped by?" I asked as I pulled out my business card from my purse. "Manuel can call, text, or email me anytime."

Paul took my card and stuffed it in his left jeans' pocket. "I'll tell Manuel when he comes in."

"Thanks," I said

"No problem," he replied. "I need to get back to work now."

I watched Paul walk away until he reached a wastebasket that was next to one of the sign makers. He pulled out my card, crumbled it, and threw it into the wastebasket.

I wanted to scream. It was obvious that he was hiding something because he didn't want Manuel to talk to me. Did he know that Manuel might be a suspect in Calvin's murder? Or was he just a complete ass?

I left TenantLiberties, walked to the street, and pulled my phone from my purse. I tapped the Internet icon and did a search for Manuel's home address. He lived about a mile away from TenantLiberties. I stuffed my phone back into my purse and proceeded to walk to Manuel's apartment building.

Manuel lived at a Victorian-style 10-unit apartment building. To my surprise, several police cars were parked in front. I walked inside. The hallway was painted bright yellow with white accents. The hardwood floors looked brand-new.

A spinning staircase led to the second floor. I trudged up the stairs. After I reached the top of stairwell, I turned to walk down a narrow hallway until I was in front of Manuel's apartment.

A yellow tape saying, "Do not cross" blocked the entrance. A middle-aged cop was guarding the door. I glanced at his name tag and flashed him a smile. "Officer Garcia, can you tell me what happened?"

"Ma'am, I'm not at liberty to discuss anything," replied Garcia.

"Does this have to with the eviction of Manuel Bridton?"

Garcia raised his eyebrows. "Eviction?"

"Aren't you here because Manuel is being evicted?"

"Ma'am, I don't know anything about an eviction."

"Then why is his apartment being blocked off?"

"Who are you?" Garcia asked.

"I'm Erika Mudrose and I'm a private investigator."

"If you're not from another police agency, I can't help you," Garcia replied with a salty tone to his voice.

"Who's your superior?" I asked.

"Jayne Pinlope," he replied.

"So, you're in the homicide department, right?" I asked.

Garcia nodded. I looked at him directly in the eyes. "You're here because Manuel Bridton has been murdered, right?"

"Ma'am, I can't discuss this with you."

"Why not?" I asked. "In a few minutes, the media will be here. They'll put it together that Manuel was murdered."

Garcia looked down at the floor and then back up. "Look lady, I don't care about the media. We have protocols and I can't tell you anything."

"But it's true, Manuel was killed, right?"

"Lady, I've got nothing to say to you."

"Are you denying that the investigation involves Manuel?"

Officer Garcia glared at me. "Lady, it's not my place to talk about it. So, stop harassing me."

I frowned. "Fine, I'll get my information from someone else."

I turned and pulled out my cell phone from my purse. I could call Jayne, but she wouldn't tell me anything either. However, it was obvious from the cop's reactions that Manuel had been murdered.

The real question was who was the perp? Was it Calvin's mistress? Or did his wife do it? Or was it that sexy asshole that I had met at TenantLiberties? Or was it someone else?

But why would the perp kill both Calvin and Manuel? They were on opposite ends. Calvin evicted folks whereas Manuel fought for tenants' rights. It didn't make sense.

Or maybe the murders weren't connected at all. It was just happenstance that Calvin and Manuel were both killed. However, my gut told me that there was a connection and that I needed to find it.

## Chapter Five

I called Liz from my cell phone. After a few rings, she picked up. "Liz, this is Erika," I said. "I think that Manuel Bridton may have been murdered."

The phone was silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry about his death, but I don't know who he is," Liz said with a puzzled voice.

"Manuel is a tenants' rights advocate. Your husband had represented his landlord and the landlord won his case against Manuel. Manuel was scheduled to be evicted later this week."

"I don't know anything about that," Liz said. "My husband and I don't discuss his cases."

"Do you have any idea why someone would kill both your husband and Manuel?"

"No, I don't," Liz answered.

"It doesn't make sense. Your husband represented landlords, while Manuel fought for tenants. I really don't understand the connection."

"Neither do I," Liz replied. "But maybe it's coincidental."

I stroked my chin. "It could be. But you know there's one other thing that's bothering me."

"What?" Liz asked.

"If your husband is dead, how come folks are still being evicted?"

"Once the court issues an eviction order, no one can stop it. It's an automated process," Liz answered.

"That makes sense," I reflected.

"So, have you talked to the slut yet?" Liz asked.

"No, I haven't. She's next on the list."

"Great. Let me know what she says. I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, so I need to go."

After we said our goodbyes, I clicked the end button. I wiped my brow. For Liz not know anything about Manuel was very odd. There were press releases plastered all over the Internet about the big protest against Manuel's eviction. On top of this, the eviction was a top news story in Chatlyn. You'd think with Liz being in the PR field, she would have read the story. Then again, maybe Liz didn't follow tenants' issues because her husband did evictions.

At any rate, I still needed to talk to Calvin's girlfriend Veronica. Maybe she would yield some real answers.

***

A compact gray American car with dents on its roof was parked in the driveway of Veronica's faded-yellow two-story house. I knocked on the door. I waited for a minute and no one answered. I knocked a few more times. "Who is it?" a female with a raspy voice yelled.

"I'm here to see Veronica Quanewood," I replied. "Are you her?"

A thick woman with a severely wrinkled face and shoulder length frizzy salt and pepper hair slowly opened the door. Her belly protruded from jeans that were at least two sizes too small. She looked at me up and down. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Ericka Mudrose and I'm a private investigator. Are you Veronica?"

"Hell no," the woman hissed. "She's my landlord."

"Landlord?" I asked. "So, do you know where Veronica lives?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Veronica lives here. I'm just renting a room from her."

"What's your name?"

"That's none of your business," the roomer hissed.

"Is Veronica home now?"

"No, she isn't," she replied. "What do you need to see her about?"

"It's personal," I replied.

"Personal my ass," she sneered. "You're here because the murder of that landlord lawyer."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the cops were here earlier looking for her."

"Do you know where Veronica is now?"

The woman smirked. "Like I told the cops, I ain't her keeper. I have no idea."

"Where does Veronica work?"

"She ain't got a job. Got laid off last year."

"What does she normally do during the week?"

"Don't know."

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and held in front of her. "Would this help your memory?"

"Twenty bucks ain't nothing. Make it fifty and maybe I can help you."

I glared at her. "I don't have that kind of cash." I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and put it on top of the twenty dollars. "How about thirty bucks?"

She grabbed the money from my hand and smiled with a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. "So, what do you want to know?"

"What's your name?"

"Told ya before, it ain't none of your business."

"Why not? Are you wanted for a warrant?"

"No, nothing like that. Just don't want my crazy ex-boyfriend to find out."

"I don't know who your ex is, so your information is safe with me."

"Lady, sorry that's not in our deal. Just ask me about Veronica only."

"So, did Veronica have a relationship with the lawyer Calvin Norwich?"

"Don't know."

"What you mean you don't know?"

"Lady, I don't know. Veronica was a private person and she never talked about her personal life."

"Did Calvin ever visit her at the house?"

"No, Veronica never has any visitors."

"How long you've living here?"

"For a while," the roomer answered.

"How long is a while? I asked.

"Look lady, that ain't none of your business. Told ya I don't know nothing about Veronica and that lawyer."

I shook my head in disgust. "All right. Where's Veronica?"

"She went on a trip," the roomer answered.

"A trip where? I asked.

"To Seattle," the roomer responded. "She'll be there for the next couple of weeks. Went there to celebrate her fortieth birthday. Wanted to do something special."

"When did her plane leave?" I asked.

The roomer gave me a strange look and then sighed. "Veronica is afraid of flying. She decided to drive up. Left on Thursday night."

"What's kind of car does Veronica have?" I asked.

The roomer pointed to the car in the driveway. I groaned. "How is Veronica driving to Seattle then?"

"She rented a car," the roomer answered.

"Do you know from where?" I asked.

"Veronica didn't tell me," the roomer responded.

"Where is she staying?" I asked.

"I have no idea," the roomer responded.

"Got her cell phone number?" I asked.

"Nope," the roomer replied.

I eyed her suspiciously. "Come on, you can give me her number."

"That will cost you another five bucks."

I put my left hand in my purse. I found three wrinkled dollar bills and 43 cents in change. "How about if I give you this?"

The roomer huffed. "Is that all you've got?"

"Yeah, it's yours if you give me Veronica's phone number."

After she grabbed the money, she spouted off Veronica's phone number.

"Thanks," I said while I scribbled the number down. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Lady, I've got nothing else," she said while looking at her plastic watch. "My soap is coming on so I gotta bounce."

"Thanks for your help," I said.

"No problem," the roomer said as she shut the door.

I walked to my car and punched in Veronica's cell phone number. It rang a few times and then went to straight to voicemail. I shook my head. Was Veronica on the run from the murder of Calvin? Or was it happenstance that he had been killed on the night she left for Seattle? And what about Manuel's murder? If she had been in Seattle since Thursday, then there was no way she could have killed him. Then again, the roomer could be lying.

At any rate, I needed to find Veronica. The problem was Seattle was more than 800 miles away and I had no idea where she was staying.

## Chapter Six

I punched in Liz's phone number. After a couple rings, Liz picked up. I told her that Veronica had left on Thursday night for Seattle.

"Do you think the slut is on the run?" Liz asked.

"She might be," I answered. "If you want, I could fly out to Seattle and look for her."

"Do you know where's she staying?"

"I have no idea."

"Then going to Seattle might be waste of time."

"Do you want me to go or not?" I asked.

"Sure, go find the slut."

"Great. I'll need another check for expenses."

"For how much?" Liz asked.

"Another grand," I replied.

Liz heaved a heavy sigh. "Forget it then. Just stay here. Maybe she'll come back."

"I thought you said that money wasn't an issue," I said.

"Things have changed," Liz mumbled.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"They froze my bank accounts a few minutes ago," Liz replied.

"Who's they?" I asked.

"The goddamn IRS," Liz hissed. "They're claiming Calvin owed a shitload of back taxes."

"Why would the IRS freeze your accounts? I thought you didn't have anything do with his business."

"That's what I told those assholes, but they didn't give a shit. They told me because Calvin and I file joint tax returns that makes us both liable."

"That's horrible," I said.

"Tell me about," Liz said with a sarcastic voice.

"Do you have any cash?" I asked.

"About forty bucks and some change," Liz responded.

I groaned. "Is the check you gave me last night any good?"

"Have you deposited it?" Liz asked.

"Not yet," I replied.

"Good. Just hold on to it. In a couple days, you can cash it."

My stomach churned. I doubted that a government freeze would be fixed any time soon. "How about if I return your check and bill your credit card, instead?"

"That won't work because I don't have any credit cards," Liz responded.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm not," Liz answered.

"How come you don't have a credit card?" I asked.

There were a few seconds of silence on the phone before Liz spoke. "When we had credit, Calvin could blow ten grand or more during one of his gambling sprees. I cancelled all of our cards, so I could keep Calvin's gambling in check."

I couldn't believe how foolish Liz was. If Darryl had blown even a hundred dollars on one of my credit cards, I would have thrown his ass to the curb. "Well, that's too bad," I said.

"Yeah, it is."

"But I need to tell you something," I said.

"What?" Liz asked.

"Because the check isn't good, I need to stop working on your case."

"Erika, I need your help," Liz pleaded. "Just give me some time."

"I'm sorry Liz. I can't work for free."

"How about if I give you something for collateral?" Liz asked.

"Like what?"

"My wedding ring. It's worth at least five grand."

I rubbed my brow. Five grand was more than the check she had written. "That will work," I replied. "Can I come by now and pick up the ring?"

"Sure," Liz said.

"Great, I'll see you in a bit," I said as I hit the end button on my phone.

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at Liz's house. To my surprise, there were several police cars parked on the street. I got out of my car and noticed that Liz's front door was wide open.

Two cops came out with Liz in handcuffs. Liz looked like shit. Her hair was in disarray and her makeup was smeared. Liz gave me a twisted smile. "Meet me in jail," she said.

I glanced at Liz's left hand. She was wearing her wedding ring. After she was booked in jail, the ring would be confiscated. There would be no way I could get it. I shook my head and walked back to my car. Liz yelled a bunch of expletives. I pretended not to hear them. With no money or collateral, I was off the case.

## Chapter Seven

When I walked into the living room, Darryl was sitting at the table. He was stuffing his face with spaghetti and meatballs. "Would you like some?" he offered.

I sat down at the table. "No, I'm good," I answered.

Darryl moved his plate of food to the side. "I got a call from the Census," he said.

"Wow, what did they want?" I asked.

"Remember last year, you made me take the test for the Census."

"Yeah and you got a 100 percent."

Darryl looked down at the floor and then back up at me. "I got offered a job."

I smiled. "That's fantastic news. When do you start?"

"I'm not sure if I want it. It's to be an enumerator. I'd be helping people complete the census. But the problem is that it only pays twenty-two dollars an hour. That's less than half of what I used to make."

I felt my blood pressure rising. "Darryl, it's a job and you need to work."

"But it has nothing to do with engineering." Darryl protested.

"You know what? I don't care. You'd be earning money."

"I get money from unemployment."

I flinched. "And the Census pays more than unemployment. What's the problem?"

"I'm getting unemployment to look for a job in engineering," Darryl argued.

"And all you do is sit on your ass all day and play video games."

"That's not true. I look for work. I've had job interviews, but I just hadn't gotten a job offer. You know that because I'm older, it's a lot harder."

"Then consider it a blessing that the Census doesn't give a shit about your age," I yelled.

"Erika, but. . ."

"No more freaking buts. No more excuses. You're taking the job. Period. And if you don't, I'm kicking your ass out of my house. I'm sick of you leaching off me."

"That's not true. I buy the food and cook for us every day. I clean, and I fix things around here."

I glared at Darryl. "And who pays the mortgage? I do. Who pays the water, trash, and electricity? It's all me. You haven't given me one freaking cent for rent."

"When I moved in, I offered to help. You told me that you didn't want anything."

I groaned. "That was three years ago. That was a different time. I make a lot less now and I need help."

"I thought you just picked up a good case," Darryl said.

"The case is over," I said.

"What do you mean?" Darryl asked.

"The lady got arrested and her bank accounts are frozen," I answered. "So, she has no money to pay me."

"Sorry about that," Darryl said.

"Darryl, I need you to call the Census now and accept the job," I ordered.

Darryl looked at his watch. "It's twelve-fifteen. I'm sure they're closed for lunch."

I shook my head. "Dammit Darryl. Call them now or I'm changing the locks."

"Fine," Darryl huffed. He picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. He was silent until someone answered. He spoke with the person for about a minute. He then hung up the phone.

Darryl turned to me and said, "The HR lady is out for lunch. She'll be back in later."

I gritted teeth. "Then call her in an hour. After you speak with her, I want a progress report."

Darryl stared at me and didn't say anything. I shook my head and went into the bedroom. I pulled out my laptop from my bag and turned it on. I went online and checked out my bank balance. It was $1,482.00. I needed $181 more to cover my mortgage. I only had a few days to raise the money.

I went back into the living room and turned to Darryl. "Do you have two hundred dollars? I need it for the mortgage."

"Sorry babe, I don't have that kind of money."

"Didn't you just get a check from unemployment?"

"Yeah, but I spent it on my student loans."

"How could you be 46 years old and have student loans?" I screeched.

"Because you know I went back to school a few years ago and got my masters."

"That damn masters is useless."

"Erika, you need to stop being so mean."

I glared at Darryl. "So how much money do you have?"

"About thirty dollars," Darryl answered.

"Then give me that," I demanded.

"Sorry I can't do that. I need it," Darryl answered.

"Need it for what?" I asked.

"For transportation," Darryl responded.

My eyes bulged. "What the hell you are talking about? You don't have a car."

"If I take the Census job, I'm going to need money for the bus."

"Keep your damn money then," I shouted.

"Why don't you ask your parents for money?" Darryl asked.

I grumbled. "You know that they don't have anything but their Social Security checks and Dad's small pension. Plus, my brother Patrick and his wife moved in with my folks after they both lost their jobs. And now, they're expecting a baby. So, nobody in my family has money."

"You'd think they would have heard of birth control," Darryl mumbled.

I glared at Darryl. "You know what? You need to mind your own business."

Darryl huffed, "You're the one who brought up."

I felt the heat the rising in my face. "My family is a closed subject. And if you want to talk about families, let's talk about yours. When your father died, he left you with not one cent. In fact, you had to borrow money to pay for the funeral. Being financially irresponsible must be a family trait."

Darryl's face turned a bright red. "Don't you ever talk bad about my father," he shouted. "You know that the insurance company refused to cover my mother's medical bills when she died three years ago from melanoma. Said that she had a pre-existing condition that she didn't disclose in her insurance application. So, Dad lost the house and everything else."

"He should have fought the decision," I argued.

Darryl looked at me with disbelief. "You know damn well that my father filed several appeals and lost."

"He should have taken it to court," I responded.

Darryl's nostrils flared. "You know that he didn't have the ten grand the lawyer wanted to take the case to court. So, leave my father alone."

"Fine, your father is off limits," I said as I walked toward the front door.

"Where are you going?" Darryl asked.

"I need to do some errands," I answered.

"What kind of errands?" Darry asked.

I sighed. "Just errands. Can I go now?"

"Leave then and do your stupid errands," Darryl said angrily.

I wanted to shout back, but instead I said nothing. I was tired of Darryl's antics. I needed to get out of the house before I exploded. I left the condo and walked to my neighborhood ATM that was in a liquor store. Over the past few months, the ATM and I had become good friends. I stopped counting how many times I had used it for cash advances. Could have been 10 or 20 times. Maybe even more. Each time I took out the money, it helped me keep afloat. Paid for the mortgage. Paid for the electric bill and paid for a whole lot of other things as well.

I inserted my credit card and hit the button for a cash advance of $200. The machine churned. Nothing came out. I looked at the screen. It read, "Insufficient funds."

What the hell? That credit card still had a line of credit of about four grand left. It couldn't have been used up.

I pulled out my cell phone from my purse and called the card credit company. After a couple minutes, a customer rep came on the line.

"There's something wrong with my credit card," I said. "I tried getting a cash advance and the ATM said, 'insufficient funds.' That can't be right because I still have credit."

"Let me check," the customer rep replied. "Ma'am, your credit limit was reduced. You're twelve dollars over the limit."

"What do mean it's been reduced?" I asked. "I'm current on my payments."

"Ma'am, that doesn't matter. It's been reduced based on economic conditions," the customer rep responded.

"Economic conditions, that's ridiculous. I've never been late on this credit card," I said.

"Ma'am, there's nothing I can do for you. Because your card is over the limit, you'll be charged a penalty."

"How can I be charged a penalty?" I asked. "No one told me it was reduced."

"Ma'am, we mailed you a letter yesterday," the rep replied.

I frowned. "How much is the penalty?"

"Thirty-dollars plus we will be raising your interest to twenty-nine percent per our agreement."

"Are you kidding me? I've been a loyal customer for eighteen years and you're raising my interest. How ridiculous."

"Ma'am, your only other option is to close the card. That'll keep your interest rate at six percent."

I gritted my teeth. "Close the card then."

"Ma'am, I will do that now. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No," I replied.

"Have a good day."

Dammit with no cash advance, I couldn't pay my mortgage. I could lose my place. I needed money and I wasn't sure how I would get it.

## Chapter Eight

When I got home, Darryl was gone. Good. I didn't want to deal with his crap.

I sat down at my living room table and turned on my laptop. I perused the online jobs ads. I needed something that would start immediately and pay right away so I wouldn't be late on my mortgage. I typed in "ASAP" in the search box. Several ads came up for dog walker. The jobs paid ten bucks an hour. I wasn't an animal person, but maybe I could fake it. Then again, the dog probably would sense my pretense. So, it probably wouldn't work.

I checked out some other ads. An egg donation ad promised to pay seven grand. I clicked on the ad. The medical clinic wanted donors to be under the age of 30. Since I was in my 40s, my eggs were way too old.

There was a slew of other ads. Most of them required specialized degrees like accounting or engineering. Others wanted experience.

I keyed in some other search terms. I found ads to participate in different studies. I skipped over the ones that involved treatment for health conditions. Since I was in good health, there was no point in wasting my time viewing them.

There were several ads to watch and rate video games. Since the last time I had played a video game was over 20 years ago, I probably wouldn't qualify.

I found an ad to be mock juror. The gig was scheduled for tomorrow and it offered to pay $90 for an eight-hour day. Not a lot of money, but it was better than nothing. The good thing was that I had met the ad's requirements. I was a U.S. citizen, an adult, and lived in Chatlyn County.

The ad had an online questionnaire. I completed the form and submitted it. If I were lucky, I'd be picked for the gig.

I tried a few more job searches and nothing looked interesting. I got up from my chair and walked into the kitchen.

I opened the refrigerator. There was leftover grilled lemon chicken, collard greens, and macaroni and cheese. Those were Darryl's specialties and he knew had to make them just right.

I grabbed a plate and utensils from my cupboard. I piled the food on my plate and put it in the microwave. After a few minutes, the food was ready.

I took the plate from my microwave and grabbed a bottle of water from my refrigerator. I sat down at my living room table. The food was utterly scrumptious. Maybe I'd keep Darryl after all. The man definitely knew how to cook.

I looked at my emails. No new clients. I did a search for the news. The top story in Chatlyn was the arrest of Liz. She had been charged with the murders of her husband and Manuel.

Why would Liz kill them both? Maybe to cover up her husband's murder. Or it could be some other reason. It didn't really matter because I wasn't working on her case anymore.

I looked at my watch. It was 1:54 pm. So far, I hadn't made one cent. What a wasted day.

I checked my emails again. There was one from the jury service. I opened it. The email read:

We appreciate your interest in the mock juror position. Since yesterday, we have received more than 200 applications. We have selected the applicants who were best qualified. Regrettably, you were not selected.

We wish the best in your job search.

Two hundred applications for a crappy one-day job? Goddamn it. This job search thing was a lot harder than I thought

I looked at my belongings in the living room. Except from my laptop, everything was old. Who'd want to buy a 15-year old couch with stains on it? Probably no one.

I could try selling my car, but I wasn't ready to it give up. I needed my car for my business.

My 401k, stocks, and bonds were all gone. Used to them to pay mortgage when business was slow. And now, I had nothing.

I prided myself on my mortgage on time. But if I were late on my mortgage, the worst thing would happen is that I would hit with a late penalty. If things got really bad, I could lose my condo. But a foreclosure took a long time. So maybe I should stop panicking.

Then again, the prospect of having a foreclosure on my credit record didn't bode well with me. Plus, if I lost my condo, what if I couldn't find a landlord who'd rent to me?

Goddamn it. I needed to stop thinking about the what ifs and focus on something positive. Like finding new clients or getting a job.

I yawned. Why was I suddenly tired? Maybe I just needed a nap and then I could focus.

I walked into the bedroom and changed into one of Darryl's t-shirts. I loved that they were big and roomy.

I crawled into bed and shut my eyes. After a bit, I fell asleep.

***

I looked at my clock on my nightstand. It was 7:07 p.m. I have been asleep for over five hours. I stretched and then got out of bed.

I grabbed my favorite jeans and a sweater from my closet. To my chagrin, my jeans were too tight in the waist. I took them off. I went into my closet and pulled out my sewing kit. After I cut some strips of fabric from the waist, I sewed in elastic. I sighed after I put my pants back on. Now, I could breathe. I then brushed my teeth and combed my hair.

I took a whiff of the air. Something smelled good. I walked into the kitchen. Darryl was next to the stove. He was stirring a pan of chicken, vegetables, and noodles. I smiled.

Darryl turned and looked at me. "Babe, did you have a nice nap?"

"Yeah, I feel rested."

"Good. Dinner will ready in a few minutes."

"What did you today?" I asked.

"I got a haircut because I'm starting the Census job on Thursday. I figured I should look nice for the first day."

I glanced at Darryl's hair and grinned. "Your hair looks great. I'm glad you took the job."

"Me, too. I'm getting a little bored around here."

"A new job is always a good thing." I walked next to Darryl and began rubbing his shoulders and neck.

"Babe, that feels good," he murmured.

"Does it?"

"Yeah, real good," Darryl said as he turned. He then kissed me hard on the lips.

I kissed him back and began tugging at his clothes.

The doorbell rang. "Ignore it," I whispered.

Darryl nodded as he ran his hands up and down my body. The doorbell rang two more times.

"Babe, they must really want to talk to us."

"Fine, get the door, then." I said.

Darryl walked to the front door and opened it. After few seconds, he called out. "There's a man who wants to see you."

"About what?" I asked.

"His cousin's case," Darryl answered.

"Tell him to come in." I said.

Darryl and a forty-something man with a laptop bag walked into the living room. The man was tall with salt and pepper hair. He was dressed in a black wool sweater and jeans. A bandage was peeking from the top of his sweater.

"How can I help you?" I asked.

"My name is Warren Ryewood and I'm here about my cousin's case."

"Who's your cousin?" I asked.

"Liz Pullroy. You know she got arrested this morning," Warren answered as he tugged at the top of his sweater.

"Yeah, I was there when it happened," I said.

"I know you were helping my cousin," Warren said.

"Yeah, I was, but not anymore," I responded.

"I understand that you were concerned about the money."

"Yeah, I am."

"Well, I can cover Liz's expenses," he said as he opened his laptop bag. He pulled out five stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "Here's five grand. Is that enough?"

My eyes widened when I saw the money. "That will cover my expenses for now," I said. "Let me get you get a receipt."

I walked to my laptop on the table and turned it on. I wrote up an invoice, printed it, and handed it to Warren.

"So how did you find my home address?" I asked.

"Went by your old office and found it was closed. Did a little bit online research and found your home address. It wasn't that hard."

"And what do you for a living?"

Warren scratched his chest. "Repossess cars. You know when folks miss a payment; we track down their cars and repossess them."

"How's business?" I asked.

"With the recession, it's totally thriving," Warren grinned. "So, what's the plan on my cousin's case?"

"What do you know about it?" I asked.

Warren told me things that Liz had already told me. "She said that you wanted to go to Seattle and find Calvin's girlfriend because she could be the killer. When are you going to do that?"

I looked at my watch. "I could try to catch a plane tonight."

Warren smiled. "That would be good. The sooner we find her, the better it will be for Liz."

"Warren, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Warren asked.

"Do you think that Liz is innocent?"

"Absolutely," he responded. "Calvin and Liz had their problems, but she'd never kill him."

"Not over a mistress?"

Warren shook his head. "Liz accepted Calvin's affairs as part of their marriage."

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Did she know Manuel Bridton?"

Warren shook his head. "I don't know why the police are blaming her for his murder. She had nothing to with it."

"All right. Can I ask you another question?"

"What?" Warren asked.

"Liz didn't take Calvin's last name when they married, right?"

"That's right. But I don't understand why that'd make a difference."

"Pullroy is an interesting name. I've never met anyone with that name."

Warren smiled. "Pullroy is Liz's first husband's name. She kept it."

"Kept it after the divorce?"

"No, after his death. He died in a motorcycle accident."

"Motorcycle accident?" I asked.

"A big rig hit his motorcycle. The trucker fell asleep while driving. Liz sued the trucking company and got a huge settlement."

"Sorry for her loss. Was that before or after her aunt died?"

"Aunt? The only aunt Liz has is my mother and she's very much alive."

I wanted to tell him that Liz had lied about inheriting money from her aunt, but I knew better. Instead, I said, "I must have confused Liz with someone else."

"Sounds like it," Warren replied.

"Anyway, have you found a lawyer for Liz?" I asked.

"I'm working on it. Should have one soon," he responded as he scratched his bandage.

I glanced at Warren. I wanted to ask him why he was scratching so much. Instead, I asked him for his contact information. Warren spouted off his phone number and email address. I then got up from my chair. "It was nice meeting you."

"Same here," he said as he got up from the sofa. Darryl got up also. We escorted Warren to the door.

Warren extended his right hand. I took Warren's hand and shook it.

"I'll let you know what I find in Seattle."

"Great," Warren said as he turned to exit.

Darryl and I said our good-byes to Warren and shut the door.

I turned to Darryl and said. "What do you think?"

"Didn't get a good a vibe. Don't like the fact he repossesses cars. Kind of slimy. Plus, what's up with all of his scratching?"

"Maybe he has a nervous tic or something," I responded. "Or maybe it has to something with the bandage. Didn't want to ask him because it might have offended him."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Darryl said.

"But at least, I got paid. So now, I can work." I said.

"When are you leaving for Seattle?" Darryl asked.

"In a bit," I answered. "I just need to go the bank and deposit the money. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

Darryl looked directly into my eyes. "The bank can wait."

I looked back at him and whispered, "You really think so."

"Babe, yeah it can," Darryl whispered back.

I smiled as Darryl gently grabbed my hand and pointed to our bedroom's door.

## Chapter Nine

Wednesday, February 10, 2010 10:24 a.m.

The rain was pounding outside my hotel room window in downtown Seattle. I turned on the light and grabbed my phone from the night table. I turned on the TV and watched the news. There was nothing, which would help me find Veronica. Just a couple of local fires and a gang-related shooting.

I booted up my laptop and did a search for "Veronica Quanewood" on various social media sites. She wasn't on anything. Dammit, finding out where Veronica celebrated her fortieth birthday was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

I then did a general search for her and a handful websites came up. A couple confirmed that she was 40 years old and another said she graduated from a local high school. One said she was related to Sarita Quanewood.

After doing a few searches on Sarita, I found out that she was Veronica's mother. She was 69 years old and lived in a senior citizens complex in Tacoma, which was about 30 miles from Seattle.

I shut down my laptop and put in its bag. I then went into the bathroom and took a quick shower. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair.

I went back into my bedroom and pulled out a pair of dark brown wool slacks and a matching sweater from my suitcase. I pulled on my slacks. To my dismay, the top button wouldn't clasp. Dammit, I needed to stop eating Darryl's calorie laden home-cooked meals.

Then again, last night, Darryl had shown me how he appreciated my newly gained weight. On a one to ten scale, the sex had been an eleven. It was utterly outstanding.

What was wrong with outgrowing my clothes? If it kept Darryl happy, it was worth it.

I smiled as I pulled off my slacks. I rummaged through my suitcase and found a pair of double knit black leggings, a long dark gray sweater, and socks. I put them on along with a pair of black boots. Not exactly professional, but at least I felt comfortable.

I topped off my outfit with my long dark eggplant purple wool coat. I then grabbed my laptop, purse, and umbrella. I shut off the light and unlocked the door. Outside, the rain was pouring hard.

I opened my umbrella and walked quickly to my rental car in the motel's parking lot.

Forty-five minutes later, I was in front of Sarita's apartment complex. I circled a couple of times until I found a parking spot on the street.

The sky was gray, but it was no longer raining. Instead, there was a light drizzle. I pulled my phone from my purse and checked my messages. Darryl had sent me an "I love you" text message. I smiled. I then texted him "Last night was wonderful."

There were a couple messages that were on unrelated to the case. I put back my phone back inside my purse. I grabbed my laptop. I wanted to leave my umbrella inside the car. However, I took it because the rain could start up again.

I got out of my car and locked it. I looked at the complex. There had to be at least 300 apartments. I walked around for a few minutes until I reached Sarita's place. I knocked on the door. No one answered.

I knocked again. A woman's voice shouted, "Hold on for a minute. I'm coming."

After a couple of minutes, an older woman opened the door. She was about 5'7" and slightly plump. Her long waist length hair was mostly gray with a few brownish-black strands. Except for two barely visible frown lines across on her forehead, the woman's face was practically unlined.

I introduced myself. "I'm Erika Mudrose and I'm a private investigator. Are you Sarita Quanewood?"

The woman nodded.

"I wanted to talk to you about your daughter Veronica Quanewood."

The woman smiled. "Please come in, I've been expecting you."

I walked inside. The living room's walls were painted a deep orange and the hardwood floor was decorated with several throw rugs.

Sarita turned to me. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, I'm good."

Sarita motioned for me to sit down on her deep rust colored couch. I sat down. She sat down next to me.

"What do you know about the case?" I asked.

"Veronica gave up the baby back when she was in college."

I looked at Sarita with a puzzled expression. "What baby?"

Sarita scrunched her face. "Aren't you from the adoption agency?"

"No, I'm here about something else."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought you were. I thought. . . I thought I would finally meet her."

"Who?"

"My grandbaby. She'll be turning 22 this year."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm actually investigating the murder of Calvin Norwich."

"Who's that?" Sarita asked.

"He was an attorney in Chatlyn," I answered.

"I've never heard of him."

"Well, he was a friend of your daughter's."

"Really?" Sarita exclaimed. "She never mentioned him to me."

"All right," I replied. "Do you know where I can find your daughter?"

Sarita lowered her eyes. "She's dead."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. It must be hard because she just died so recently."

"It was four years ago, but it feels like yesterday," Sarita replied in a quiet voice.

I must have misheard her. Four years couldn't be right. "Ma'am are you sure that it's been that long."

Sarita glared at me. "I know when my daughter died."

"All right. Sorry about that. How did she die?"

"Veronica died in a car crash in Chatlyn. She was coming home from a party. She had too much to drink. She ran into a tree."

"Sorry again about your loss."

"So, I am. But after she died, I went through her belongings. Found out she had a daughter in college. Contacted the adoption agency. They said couldn't release any information to me. However, they would write to my granddaughter to see if she would meet with me. If she wanted to, they'd let me know. When you came to my door, I was hoping that you were with the agency. But I guess I was wrong."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry I'm not with them, but I need to tell you something else. I think someone is using your daughter's identity."

Sarita shook her head. "Why would someone do that?"

"To get start over. To do bad things."

"Like what?" Sarita asked.

I explained the alleged affair between Calvin and Veronica, his murder and the murder of the Manuel. "Now, I'm not saying the person who stole your daughter's identity did these things, but until I talk to her I won't know."

Sarita put her hands over her face. "Oh my God, I can't believe this is happening."

"Ma'am, do you know anyone who would pretend to be your daughter?"

"No, I don't," Sarita answered.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Absolutely," Sarita said with conviction.

"Again, I'm sorry about your daughter," I said as my pulled my business card my wallet and handed to her. "Ma'am, if you think of anything else, please let me know."

Sarita nodded as she took my card. We then said our good-byes.

I walked back to my car. I sighed. Why would someone impersonate Veronica? Did Calvin know her real name? And what about Veronica's renter? Did she know the truth? If she had, why did she tell me that Veronica was in Seattle? Was it some sort of trick?

After I checked out of my hotel, I would be flying back to Chatlyn. When I got there, my next stop would be to see Veronica's renter. Hopefully, with a little monetary persuasion, she'd give me some real answers.
Chapter Ten

Thursday, February 11, 2010 2:23 p.m.

When I arrived at Veronica's house mid-afternoon, the driveway was vacant. I walked up to the door and knocked several times. There was no answer. Dammit, I needed to see Veronica's renter. Where was she?

She could be at work, at a park, or somewhere else. The problem was I had no idea what the name of the renter was. So, there was no way I could locate her.

I walked around to the side of the house. There was a small window about six feet above the ground. The window had no curtains or blinds. I got up on my tippy toes and looked inside.

To my dismay, the house was completely vacant. No furniture. No appliances. Nothing at all. Where did Veronica and her renter go?

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a slender man with a receding hairline. He was about my height and in his late thirties. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly either. "Why are you peeking into the house?" he asked.

"I'm Erika Mudrose and I'm a private investigator. I was trying to find somebody."

The man's thin eyebrows arched. "Private investigator? What are you investigating?"

"The murder of Calvin Norwich," I replied in a matter of fact tone.

"Calvin Norwich – he was that big-time eviction lawyer. Thought they said his wife did it."

"You can't believe everything they say. Anyway, I was looking for this lady. She's Veronica's renter."

The man looked at me with a dumbfounded expression. "Veronica doesn't have a renter. She lived here by herself."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Positive," the man answered.

"And who are you?"

"I'm her neighbor."

"What's your name?"

"Brad – Brad Chadute," he replied.

"How long have you known Veronica?"

"For about three years," Brad answered.

I crossed my arms. "A few days ago, there was a woman who answered the door. She was this older lady with bad teeth and hair. Kind of chubby. She told me she rented from Veronica."

Brad smiled. "Sounds like one of her characters."

"Whose character?" I asked.

"Veronica's. She likes to dress up as different people. You know old ladies, fat people, whatever."

I winced. "So, the lady I saw was Veronica?"

Brad nodded. "Yup:"

"Veronica's not fat or old?"

Brad shook his head and pulled out his phone. He showed me a photo and pointed. "That's Veronica."

I glanced at the photo. Veronica looked nothing like the woman had met. She had an athletic build with long dark hair and a nice smile. "When was this photo taken?" I asked.

"A few months ago," Brad answered. "But when Veronica puts on old lady makeup and a fat suit, she looks totally different."

"Is Veronica an actress?" I asked.

"That's what she wanted to be when she was younger. Never made it in the movies or anything like that. It was just a little hobby for her."

"That's interesting. What did Veronica do professionally?"

"I think she does marketing."

"Where?" I asked.

"She's been out of work for a while. She was hoping to get this one job, but it fell through."

"Are you and Veronica good friends?"

"Friends? Yeah, you could say that."

"Do you two have a relationship?"

Brad shook his head. "Me and Veronica? That would never happen."

"And why not?"

Brad gave me annoyed look. "Because I'm not into women."

"Sorry for the inference," I said in a sheepish voice.

"No worries," Brad responded.

"Brad did Veronica tell you who she was dating?" I asked.

"Veronica was terrible with men. Always picking the wrong dude. There was the fat guy who was cheap. He used to split the bill with her and make her pay half even though he would eat twice as much as her. Then there was the good-looking dude who would floss his teeth at the restaurant table. Poor girl!"

"Did Veronica tell you that she was seeing Calvin Norwich?"

"Who told you that crap?"

"His wife," I answered.

"She's full of it. Veronica was a good girl. She didn't sleep with married men."

"And you're sure she never told you about Calvin?"

"Not one word," Brad answered.

"Brad, I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"Veronica is dead."

Brad's face turned gray. "Veronica's dead? Oh my God, I just saw her this morning. She was moving."

"Moving where?"

"Don't know. She didn't tell me. How did Veronica die?"

"In a car accident," I replied.

"When this happen?" Brad asked.

"Four years ago," I answered.

Brad's face became twisted. "Are you kidding me? That's impossible. I told you I just saw her."

"Someone stole the real Veronica's identity and has been pretending to be her for all these years."

"That's horrible," Brad said with disdain in his voice.

"So, do you know what her real name was?" I asked.

Brad shook his head. "Nope, I've always known her as Veronica."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"One hundred percent," Brad replied.

"Do you think that the lady could have killed Calvin Norwich?" I asked.

"The Veronica that I knew was kind and sweet. If she stole an identity, so what? That doesn't make her a killer."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Thieves and killers are of different breeds," Brad replied.

"If that's case, why would Veronica suddenly disappear after Calvin was murdered?" I asked.

"Because her house was in foreclosure," Brad answered. "She got a sheriff's notice and they were coming out later tomorrow to lock her out. So, she moved."

I raised my eyebrows. "Foreclosure? Was Calvin Norwich the lawyer for the bank?"

"Don't know." Brad answered.

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and waved it at Brad. "Can you tell me where Veronica is?

Brad glared at me. "Look lady, told you before I don't know. I could take your money and lie, but that wouldn't be right."

I put my money back into my purse, pulled out my business card, and handed it to Brad. "If you hear from Veronica, let me know."

Brad nodded. "I doubt I will. But if I do, I will tell her that you dropped by. But like I said before, Veronica is innocent. She didn't do it."

After I said good-bye, I turned and walked back to my car. I wasn't so sure Brad was right about Veronica's innocence. With the foreclosure, she certainly had motive. But when I had looked at the court docket online, I didn't remember seeing Veronica's name. Maybe I had missed it for some reason or the case was under her real name. I needed to find something that linked Veronica to the crime. I then had a terrible thought. If Veronica hadn't killed Calvin, my client had to be the perp.

## Chapter Eleven

When I arrived at the housing court, the clerk's office was filled with all kinds of people. The lawyers were easy to spot. Most wore standard suit attire coupled with a briefcase.

Next to the wall, were a dozen or so computer terminals that contained the county's evictions. I did a search for Veronica's name. Nothing came up. That meant the eviction had to be filed under someone else's name.

Unfortunately, the computer wouldn't let me search by address. I pulled out my phone from my purse and did a search for the County Recorder's number. I clicked the link to the number. After a few seconds, I was connected to a female clerk with a squeaky voice. I asked her for the name of the owner for Veronica's address. The clerk put me a hold for a couple minutes and then returned. She told me that Samantha Kodflint was the owner. I thanked the clerk for the information and then hit the end button.

I then typed her name in the courthouse's computer. I smiled. A case came up with her name. I quickly reviewed the summary for the court docs. Samantha had lost the house because of a bank foreclosure. Brad had told me the truth. Samantha's eviction was scheduled for tomorrow.

I checked for the case's attorneys of record. There was no one representing Samantha. Apparently, she hadn't filed any papers in the case and a default had been entered against her. I then did a search for the attorney for the bank. Calvin Norwich's name came up. That didn't make any sense. Why would Calvin evict his own girlfriend? Surely, sleeping with her had to be a conflict of interest.

I then did a search for Samantha on my phone. After a few minutes, I found out that her social media name was @SamiVChameleon. The straitlaced photo of Samantha that Brad had shown me was on various sites. There were several pics showing Samantha dressed up as an old woman with missing teeth. In others, she was a morbidly obese middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair and blue eye shadow.

Samantha also had a blog. It was called, "Chameleons, Make-up, and Drama." In her last post, she ranted about her upcoming eviction.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010 7:14 p.m.

I'm losing my house. You know the one I got from my grandma. I shouldn't have taken that loan against it for my business. You know the one that crashed last year. Guess no one wants to buy make-up that will help you turn ugly.

Anyway, I couldn't keep up with those damn payments. They were over $2,500 a month. Tried loan modification, but they wouldn't give it to me.

A couple weeks ago, I found out that the lawyer for the bank is someone I know. We're really close you know. Like personally and other things. But I can't talk to him because he thinks I'm someone else.

That's the problem with being a chameleon. No one knows who you really are.

Oh well. I'll figure out something. I always do.

@SamiVChameleon

I did search on Samantha's blog for other posts related to the foreclosure. There weren't any others. On top of this, Samantha's last post had been written the day before Calvin's death.

She had lied to him about her real identity. Was that enough to convict her for his murder? Probably not, but at least she had motive.

What didn't make sense to me was why Samantha was pretending to be Veronica. What was the benefit? It obviously wasn't money because Samantha had lost the house.

The bigger issue was that I had no idea where Samantha was. She hadn't posted anything else online since her last post. I had no address or phone number.

I did a search on the blog for an email address. There wasn't anything posted. I also searched various sites and found nothing.

I went back to her blog and stared at the post about the pending eviction. There were no comments. In the comments section, I typed the following:

Sorry that you're having a bad time. So many of us are losing our homes and it isn't fair. Hope you were able to do something to keep your house or find something new. Let us know what happened. Take care of yourself.

I then hit the submit button. Hopefully, she would read my comment and respond. If not, there had to be another way to find her.

My next stop would be the county criminal courthouse. With Samantha's affinity for changing her appearance and stealing IDs, I might find something on her.

## Chapter Twelve

The county's criminal courthouse was inside an old brick building. Unlike the housing court, it didn't have any computer terminals. Nor did it have a general index for criminal defendants. Instead, you had to request microfiche for each year that you wanted to review.

I filled out a form and handed it to a twenty-something female clerk with slicked-back strawberry blonde hair. The clerk took the form and retrieved the microfiche for me. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked.

"No, that's it," I replied.

I took the microfiche and walked over to the microfiche reader machine. I inserted the list of cases for this year and I found nothing under Samantha's name. I then inserted other microfiche for the preceding 10 years. I found one case. I pulled out my notepad and pen from my computer bag and wrote down the case number.

I gathered the microfiche, my belongings and walked to the table that had the forms for case file requests. I quickly completed the form and then walked back up to the clerk.

I handed the clerk the microfiche files. "I found a case that I'd like to see. Here's the form."

The clerk nodded and took the form. I waited for a few minutes until she came back with the file and handed it to me.

I walked to an empty table and sat down. I opened the case file and saw a mug shot of a slightly younger Samantha with long dark hair. In April 2007, she had had been charged with felony assault along with impersonating an attorney. According to the police report, she had been shopping downtown at the renowned Qualyp's Clothing and More. When she tried to purchase a three-hundred-dollar dress with a credit card, her transaction was declined.

After Samantha claimed her credit card was good, the owner ran her card again. It was again denied. Samantha became indigent. She said she was a lawyer and threatened to sue the owner for having a faulty credit card machine, which caused her undue distress.

The owner demanded that Samantha leave. She refused. Samantha grabbed the dress from the counter. The owner told her to the put down the dress. Samantha ignored the owner's request. Instead, she walked into the dressing room and changed into the dress. The owner demanded she take the dress off. Samantha told the owner to stop harassing her. The owner then walked up to Samantha and tried to pull off the dress off her. Samantha punched the owner in the face. The owner scurried away with blood dripping from her mouth. She then called the police. Samantha was later arrested and taken to the women's jail.

Because Samantha was low-income, her case was assigned to the county's public defender. They were able to work out a deal with the D.A.'s office. The D.A. agreed to reduce the felony assault charge to misdemeanor assault and drop the charge of impersonating an attorney. Samantha was sentenced to 12 days in county jail, 100 hours of community service, and three years of probation.

I flipped through the other pages of the file. There was pending petition for expungement because Samantha had successfully completed her jail sentence, probation, and community service. There was also a letter from the probation office. The letter noted that she had successfully her community service with TenantLiberties.

My eyes glommed on the word TenantLiberties. Manuel was the leader of TenantLiberties and Samantha had performed her community service for his organization. She also had been romantically involved with Calvin Norwich, the county's eviction lawyer. Samantha was the link between them.

However, a mere connection didn't mean that Samantha had killed them, but it was the best evidence I had so far. And maybe, it would lead to something more.

I walked back to the clerk's desk, handed her the file, and asked her to make a copy of probation's letter. After a couple minutes, the clerk returned with the copy. I thanked her for her time. I then opened my bag and carefully placed the letter inside.

I checked my phone for emails and messages. No one had called me. The only emails were ads for things that I didn't need.

I tapped the Internet icon and went to Samantha's blog. To my chagrin, she hadn't responded to my post. So, I still had no idea where she was.

My next stop would be TenantLiberties. Perhaps, I would find out more about Samantha's connection to them.

* * *

When I arrived at TenantLiberties, it had a sign on its glass door saying "Closed for funeral. Will reopen tomorrow." I pulled out my phone from my bag and did a search. After a couple of clicks, I found that the funeral was being held at Elizabeth's Cemetery 5:00 p.m. in downtown Chatlyn. I looked at my watch. It was 5:13 p.m. The cemetery was just a few miles blocks way. So, I'd be a tad late.

I glanced down at my gray sweater, black leggings, and knee-high black boots. Not exactly funeral attire. However, I doubted that Manuel's supporters would care about my clothes. And if they did, it was too late to change into anything.

I got into my car and drove down Main Street for a couple miles until I reached the cemetery. To my surprise, the parking lot was packed. After circling the parking lot a couple of times, I finally found a parking space. I stepped out my car and grabbed my bag and purse.

After a few minutes, I spotted Paul whom I met before at TenantLiberties. His muscular frame nicely filled out his dark blue sports coat, white dress shirt, and gray slacks. I tapped him on the shoulder.

Paul looked at me angrily. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I wanted to pay my respects," I lied.

"You didn't even know him," Paul snapped

"I admired the work he did," I replied with a straight face.

"Are you a tenant?" Paul asked.

"No," I answered.

"Then you shouldn't be here," he scoffed. "This is for tenants only."

"Look Paul, I'm not the enemy," I pleaded. "The only thing I own is a condo that I live in and that's it."

"But you're working for that landlord's lawyer's wife, right? So that makes you the same. Get out," Paul demanded.

"I just need to ask you a question."

Paul shook his head. "No questions."

"Just a minute of your time," I implored.

"This is a private event. If you don't leave, I'm calling the cops."

"Go ahead. I'll tell them to arrest you for the murder of Manuel and Calvin."

"Are you out of your mind?" Paul hissed. "Your client did it. End of story."

"If you're so sure, then meet me after the funeral ends."

Paul glared at me. "I need to go to the reception after this."

"You know what? I don't have time to wait. Meet me after the funeral or your ass will be jail."

Paul's face became twisted. "Where do you wanna meet?"

"On the corner by the bus stop. Text me when the funeral is over," I said as I pulled my business card my purse. I handed my card to Paul. "This time don't throw it away."

Paul stared at my card and stuffed it in his coat's right pocket. "Gotta go now."

I nodded. I turned around to see if I knew anyone else. Not one person. It'd be a waste of time to go up randomly and question folks about Samantha. I walked back to my car and got inside. For the next hour or so, I surfed social media sites for any possible leads on the case. To my disappointment, I found nothing but news reports and commentary supporting my client's arrest.

At three minutes past seven o'clock, I received the following text from Paul.

"Erika – Can't meet with you. An emergency came up. But I can see you tomorrow at 10 at TenantLiberties."

I texted Paul back: "Dammit Paul. I need to see you now."

Paul responded: "Sorry. Can't make it. See you tomorrow at 10. Gotta bounce. TTYL."

I wanted to scream, "Asshole." How dare that jerk cancel our meeting. And what was his so-called emergency? A meeting with a lawyer? For God's sake, I hoped he wouldn't lawyer-up on me. If he did, I wouldn't be able to get anything out of him.

I then texted Darryl that I'd be home in a bit.

* * *

When I walked inside my condo, Darryl was cooking my favorite dinner – fried catfish, baked potato, and coleslaw. I smiled as I inhaled its tantalizing aroma. I pecked Darryl on the lips. "How was your first day of work?" I asked.

Darryl grinned. "It was great. For the next week, we'll be in training. After that, we'll be doing home visits."

"Home visits for what?" I asked.

"To remind people to fill out their census. We want to make sure that everyone completes it."

"That's interesting," I said.

"Yeah, it is," Darryl replied. "What's even better is that there are all of kinds of people working there. The team lead is a retired doctor. There are a couple of laid off engineers like me. One is my age and the other is a little bit older. And there's a young lawyer. Passed the bar a year ago but couldn't find a job in law. So, she decided to give the Census job a try. There's also a few laid off teachers and some other folks. Babe, it's really interesting mix."

"Sounds like a great place to work."

"Yeah, it's good so far," Darryl said while flipping over the catfish in the frying pan. "I'm glad that I'm working."

I smiled. "So am I."

"So, how's your case going?"

I related to Darryl what I had found.

Darryl's eyes widened. "Babe, your prime suspect is an imposter?"

I nodded. "But I don't know where she is. She hasn't responded to my blog post and I need to find out more about her connection to TenantLiberties."

"Aren't you going back to TenantLiberties tomorrow?"

I nodded. "Hopefully, I'll find something that will help with the case."

"I'm sure you will," Darryl said.

"I hope so," I replied.

Darryl turned off the stove and dished out our dinner. We took our plates to the living room and flipped on the TV to watch the news. Nothing new about the case.

I was a little disappointed. However, I was glad that there wasn't additional evidence pointing to Liz's guilt. I turned to Darryl and noticed that he looked a little glum.

"Why the sad face?" I asked.

"I was just was thinking about my father," he answered. "It's been exactly three months since he passed away and I really miss him."

"I'm really sorry," I said. "I miss him, too."

"You know when my mother died three years ago, she had melanoma. It wasn't like she died right away. It took a long time. But when Dad died, he just dropped dead from a heart attack. I didn't even get to say good-bye." Darryl's eyes swelled with tears.

I put my hand on Darryl's shoulder. "I can't even imagine the pain you're going through."

"It hurts like hell and I'd wish it go away," Darryl said.

"It will take some time," I replied squeezing Darryl's hand.

"And you know what I really miss about my dad?"

"What?" I asked.

"Hanging out with him," Darryl said as he wiped away his tears. "We used to do everything together. And I remember the time I brought him to fathers and sons' day in middle school. Some of the kids looked at me funny when I said he was my dad. Here I was this white boy with skin almost pale as milk and my dad was a dark-skinned black man. One kid even said that he didn't know I was mixed with black. And you know what I said?"

"What?" I asked while rubbing Darryl's shoulders.

"I smiled and told him I wasn't black. My mother was white and the man who gave me life was a white man. But he wasn't my daddy. My real daddy was there with me and he was the one who was raising me to be a man."

I smiled. "Perfect answer."

"Indeed, it was. Stopped the kid from saying anything else. But things like that would happen over and over. Like at high school graduation, parties, and other places. And my dad and I would talk about it. He would say that I was his son and if people had problems with us, that was their problem and not ours."

"That's good way to look at it," I said.

"Yeah, it is," he said. "I just really miss him. The good times. The sad times. Everything. Memories of him will always be with me."

I pulled Darryl toward me and hugged him for a long time. I thought about Darryl's father and times we had spent together. He was a good man and like Darryl, I never would forget him.

## Chapter Thirteen

Friday, February 12, 2010 6:54 a.m.

I stared at my alarm clock on the night table. I didn't feel like getting up. My meeting with Paul wouldn't be for another three hours. I turned to Darryl's side of the bed. It was empty. I smiled. My man was at work.

I slowly peeled off the bed covers, walked into the bathroom, and took a quick shower. I walked into my closet and changed into brown wool pants that had an elastic waist and a matching sweater.

I went into the living room and turned on my laptop. I checked my email and then clicked on Samantha's blog. There was a new entry posted.

Chameleons and Death

Friday, February 12, 2010 1:28 a.m.

They think his wife did it, but I know she didn't. How do I know? I just do. Did I do it? Of course, not. I loved him. Who did it? Can't tell you, but I'll give you a clue. The killer loves figs and onions.

@SamiVChameleon

I pulled out my cell phone from my purse and called my friend Jayne at the police department. After a couple of rings, Jayne answered.

"Jayne, this is Erika. I think I found a witness to the murder of Calvin Norwich."

"Who?" she asked.

"Samantha Kodflint."

"She's the nut who was screwing him. We already know about her."

"Did you see her blog this morning?" I asked.

"Yeah, we did," Jayne answered. "Claiming that the wife didn't do it. She's full of shit."

"Jayne, think about this. Why would Calvin's mistress say that his wife is innocent?" That doesn't make any sense," I argued.

"Erika, anyone can post anything online and claim anything. That's not evidence."

"What about the fact she's an imposter?" I asked.

"What you do mean?"

"She's been using the name of a dead woman – Veronica Quanewood. Isn't that illegal?

Jayne heaved a heavy sigh. "We already know about that. Samantha used to be Veronica Quanewood. Changed it for some crazy reason. Now, she goes back and forth between the names. Uses Veronica as a stage name. It's weird but not illegal."

"But Veronica Quanewood's mother said she was dead."

"Dead? Jesus Erika, did you see the death certificate?"

I shook my head. "No, but . . ."

"No, but anything. Samantha is a nutcase and so is her mother. You need to stop wasting your time with them."

"But she gave a clue," I protested.

"That she made up," Jayne huffed.

"I think you should follow up."

"Look Erika, we aren't going to waste our limited resources on some nut, so she can get notoriety. We've already have real evidence that points to the wife and no one else."

"What kind of evidence?" I asked.

"Didn't you see the press release?"

"No," I answered. "What did it say?"

"It's online. So just read it." Jayne replied.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I asked.

"No," Jayne answered. "Gotta run. I have a meeting in a couple of minutes."

"All right. I'll talk to you later."

I ended the call and then clicked on the Internet icon on my phone. Found the Chatlyn County Police Department and read the press release. According to the police department, strands of Liz's hair were found in the hotel room and Manuel's apartment. They also found some other evidence, which pointed to Liz as well. However, at this point, they weren't going to disclose it publicly.

I shook my head. How could the police be 100 percent sure that Liz was the killer? Samantha surely wouldn't post something just to get some more visits to her blog. Then again, maybe she would. At any rate, I needed to find out whether her clue was real or fabricated.

I wrote response to Samantha's post.

Figs and onions. Interesting clue. But I don't know anyone who likes that. Like to meet with you. Just tell me where and I'll be there.

I hit the submit button. I perused a few websites to check out the news. Nothing new on the case. I then turned off my laptop and put it in my bag. I put on my coat, grabbed my bag and purse, and headed out the door. My next stop would be the women's jail.

## Chapter Fourteen

I waited for about ten minutes until a tall, burly female correctional officer brought Liz to the visiting room. Liz was dressed in a red jumpsuit. Her ankles were bound in cuffs. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her pale skin was blotchy with a grayish cast.

The correctional officer sat Liz down on a wooden bench and told me to press the button when we were done meeting. After I nodded, the officer left the room.

I gave Liz the once over and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible. The food in here is horrendous. I had scrambled eggs this morning. I wanted to puke. They were runny and had weird shit in them. And yesterday for lunch, I had a burnt sandwich with something that was pretending to be cheese. The crap in here isn't even fit for cockroaches."

I made a wry face. "I'm sorry about that. Jail food is generally gross."

Liz nodded and pointed at her hair. About an inch or so of gray roots contrasted with the rest of her colored dishwater blond hair. "The assholes in here laughed at me when I asked for hair dye. Said it's against the rules."

I looked at Liz with an expression of bewilderment. "Why are you looking at me like I'm crazy?" Liz asked.

"Two days ago, you didn't have a strand a gray," I replied. "I don't understand how your gray could come back so fast."

Liz half-smiled. "I was using a temporary rinse to cover up my gray roots. Been doing that for a while because my colorist didn't have opening until March. The minute I wash my hair, the rinse comes out and you can see the gray roots."

"It doesn't look that bad," I said.

"Don't lie to me. I know I look like shit."

I shook my head. "Sorry, you feel that way."

Liz took a deep breath and then exhaled. "Do you have any good news about my case?"

I told her about Samantha/Veronica, the blog posts, and her fetish for impersonations.

Liz's eyes widened. "So, the slut knows who killed my husband."

"And Manuel's killer, too," I added. "But the cops won't investigate."

"Screw the cops," Liz hissed. "They're the reason why I'm in this damn place."

"The cops are claiming that they found strands of your hair at the hotel and Manuel's apartment."

"That's bullshit. I was never at either of those places."

"Maybe someone planted your hair."

"Either that or the cops are lying about their so-called evidence."

"Yeah, that's possible," I replied. "So, do you know what Samantha meant by that the killer likes figs and onions?"

Liz shook her head. "I have no idea. It's an odd combination."

"Actually, it's not that odd. I looked it up online. Apparently, there are all kinds of recipes that use figs and onions. People eat them with pork, beef, fish, and chicken."

"Sounds interesting. But then again, I'm not much of a culinary expert.

"Me either," I replied. "But there's one thing that's bothering me."

"What?" Liz asked.

"At our first meeting, you told me that Veronica was underwater in her mortgage."

"And she was. That's why she lost her house."

I shook my head. "But the house was under Samantha's name."

Liz looked at me with a puzzled expression. "And what's your point?"

I stroked my chin. "Your husband didn't know Samantha's real name. Instead, he thought her name was Veronica."

Liz shook her head. "I still don't understand why it matters."

"If your husband knew that he was evicting Veronica, he probably wouldn't have taken the case because he would had a clear conflict of interest."

"Didn't you tell me that the slut said in her blog that Calvin didn't know who she really was?"

"Yeah, she did."

"So that explains it. Calvin thought he was evicting someone else."

I nodded. "But what about the address? But wouldn't he had recognized it?"

Liz shrugged her shoulders. "Calvin and his slut met at the Criteway Hotel. Maybe she lied and told him that she was married or living with someone. So that's why they couldn't meet at her house"

"Yeah, maybe," I said. "But if your husband didn't know Samantha's address, how come you had it?"

"Found it online," Liz answered.

I narrowed my eyes. "There's nothing online that connects Samantha to Veronica. So, you had to find it another way."

Liz groaned. "Erika, do you want to know the truth? I found texts on my husband's phone from the slut. I tailed her after one of their rendezvouses. Found out where she lived. Did a search and found out the owner was underwater. Did some more searching and found Samantha's blog and pics. Her photos did her in. I knew that Veronica and Samantha were the same person. And when I found out my husband was evicting Samantha, I had to laugh. There was no way I tell him that he was really evicting his little slut. Nope, not my place. Thought she might tell him. But she didn't. She was too damn proud. So, she lost her home. End of story."

I glared at Liz. "And why didn't you tell me this at the beginning?"

"Because I didn't think it was important," Liz replied in a matter fact tone. "Whether the slut's name is Veronica or Samantha, it doesn't really matter."

"Liz, it does matter because I wasted a lot of time trying to track her down. If I'd known the connection, I could have saved a lot of time."

"Well, sorry about that."

"All right. By the way, have you gotten a lawyer?"

Liz shook her head. "No, I decided I didn't want one. I'm representing myself."

"That's a really bad idea."

"Erika, I got you as my investigator and once you find the perp, I won't need one."

"And what if I don't?" I asked.

"You will," she replied.

"Liz, you really need to rethink this. A lawyer will protect your rights."

"And take my money. My cousin Warren talked to a bunch and the cheapest wants a twenty-five grand retainer and said the total costs could run two hundred grand or more if my case goes to trial."

"Sounds reasonable."

"I'm not wasting my money on that."

"You're screwing yourself without a lawyer."

"No, I'm not," Liz countered. "I went to law school."

"And never passed the bar or practiced law."

"I've watched Calvin's trials," Liz argued.

"Evicting tenants has nothing to do with criminal cases."

"The law is the law," Liz said. "And besides my cousin can help me."

"Is Warren a lawyer?" I asked.

"Used to be," Liz answered.

"And he practiced criminal law?"

"Warren did a whole bunch things. Personal injury. Criminal defense. Class actions. You name it. He's done it."

I rubbed my chin. "Liz, if Warren is a lawyer, why was he looking for one for you?"

"Because he can't practice anymore. Lost his license over some bullshit a few years ago. But he and I talked and he's going to help me. He can't represent me in court, but he can advise me on what to do."

I shook my head. "That's a really bad idea. You need to find another option."

"Erika, I've got no money to hire anyone. So, my cousin is my only option."

"Then plead poverty and get a public defender."

Liz shook her head. "Already looked into that. Don't qualify. Even though my bank accounts are frozen by the government, I technically have money."

"Then borrow it."

"Already did and that's paying for you."

"Then borrow more."

"Can't do that. My sources are tapped out."

I sighed. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

"Not damn thing." Liz answered. "Just find the killer soon because this place is aging the hell out of me."

## Chapter Fifteen

After I left Liz, I did a search on my phone for her cousin Warren. A whole lot of crap came up. To my dismay, he hadn't even been a California lawyer. He had been barred in the Midwest. At one point, Warren had been part of a political machine in local elections. Got disbarred for stealing clients' money, failing to show up at hearings, and bad legal advice. Warren blamed his lapse in judgement due to his dual addiction to alcohol and gambling. The Bar didn't care. Yanked his license and said that "his horrendous acts were absolutely inexcusable."

I shook my head. I wanted to go back and warn Liz. However, I was sure that it would be pointless. Liz knew who her cousin was and apparently didn't care.

I then got into my car and headed toward TenantLiberties' office. When I arrived, no one was there. I looked at my watch. It was exactly ten o'clock. I sent Paul a text saying that I was waiting for him.

After a few minutes had passed, I received a text from Paul. It read, "Sorry can't meet. I'm at the doctor's office. Had an emergency."

I wrote back, "Paul – I can meet you at your doctor's. Just tell me where and I'll see you then."

Paul texted, "Sorry can't do that. My doctor won't allow it."

"Who's your doctor?" I asked.

"None of your business," Paul answered.

"Why won't you tell me the name of your doctor?" I asked.

"Because it's personal," he answered.

"Personal how?" I asked.

"Just is," he answered.

"You know Paul, I'm tired of you avoiding me."

"No avoidance. Things came up. Can't help it."

"All right. Taking an early lunch and getting some figs and onions with chicken. Do you want me to save some for you?"

"Gross," Paul answered. "Never heard of such a bizarre combination. Gotta bounce now. Doctor wants to discuss my results now. I'll let you know when I'm in the office."

I shook my head and walked to my car. That asshole. Why wouldn't he tell me the name of his doctor? What was so personal about that?

On the flipside, it could mean that he was being treated for something embarrassing. I wiped my brow. I needed to stop focusing on Paul's drama. Instead, I needed to find out whether Samantha's clue about figs and onions was something real or fabricated. Liz didn't know what I was talking about and Paul didn't seem to know either. I was stuck and needed something so that I could move forward.

I rubbed my belly. I was hungry. I got in my car and headed downtown.

* * *

When I arrived at Lenita's Nibbles, the eatery was packed with customers. I ordered a soy hot chocolate and a bagel with scrambled eggs, Swiss cheese, bell peppers, and tomatoes. I smiled. Both my drink and sandwich were perfect.

A twenty-something man walked up to my table. He was wearing a long-sleeve cotton burgundy shirt and blue jeans. "Are you Erika Mudrose?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," I replied. "How can I help you?"

The man pulled some papers and handed them to me. "You've been served."

My face winced. "Served with what?" I asked.

"With a lawsuit," the man answered. He then turned away and walked to the street.

I peered at the papers. It was a Small Claims lawsuit from my no-good former client Suzanne. Claimed that I had breached my contract by not finding her daughter. Wanted a full refund of my fee.

I wanted to scream. I couldn't believe that Suzanne had filed a frivolous lawsuit against me. She had no basis whatsoever for her claim. I had done everything right. In fact, I even had given her some free time on her case. How could she be so ungrateful? For some reason, she couldn't grasp the fact that some people couldn't be found for various reasons.

I pulled out my laptop from my bag and turned it on. I then started drafting a response to Suzanne's lawsuit.

## Chapter Sixteen

Tuesday, February 17, 2010 4:36 p.m.

Things were looking bad for Liz. In the morning, the police had issued a press release saying that they had found the gun that had allegedly killed both Calvin and Manuel. Their search for gun registrations showed that Liz was the owner.

The police also said that they were now investigating the past death of Liz's first husband – Wendell Pullroy who had died 12 years ago in a motorcycle collision. They implied that the crash might have been the result of foul play on Liz's part.

And over the last few days, I hadn't made any progress on Liz's case. I had texted Brad several times for a meeting and he claimed to be always "busy." A couple times, I had visited TenantLiberties looking for him and I was told that he wasn't there.

On top of this, Liz's disbarred lawyer cousin Warren was a pain in the ass. He was constantly calling about the status of Liz's case.

And as for Liz, she had been denied bail this morning. The judge had deemed Liz to be a "flight risk" and a "danger to the community."

Right now, I was in the visitor's room at the women's jail. I was waiting to see Liz. After about twenty minutes had passed, a correctional officer came out with Liz, who was clad in a red jumpsuit with ankle cuffs. After the officer exited the room, she sat down on a wooden stool.

I glanced at Liz and pointed to her left eye, which was black and blue. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Some bitch punched me because I wouldn't give her my grilled cheese sandwich," Liz answered.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"No, I'm not okay. In jail with a bunch of crazy bitches. And when I asked the goddamn guard to give me makeup to cover my black eye, she laughed at me and said it wasn't allowed."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah, you should be," Liz hissed. "If you had found something to exonerate me, I wouldn't be here."

"Give me some time. Things should come together soon."

"Yeah, I hope so. Do you have anything new for me?"

I sighed. "I have a couple of questions."

"What?" Liz asked.

"Did you hear about the cop's press release saying they were investigating the death of your first husband?"

Liz winced. "There's nothing to investigate. Wendell died in motorcycle accident. A big rig killed him. End of story."

"Did you know the big rig driver?"

"Hell no. I had nothing to do with Wendell's death."

"Did you get a settlement from his death?"

Liz nodded. "Yeah, I did. The big rig driver fell asleep and lost control of the vehicle."

"How much did you get?" I asked.

"What the hell does this have to do with anything?" Liz asked.

"Because the cops might think that the amount might have been a motive to kill him."

Liz glared at me. "It was a goddamn accident. And that's it. I loved Wendell. I would never do anything to hurt him."

"Then why did you lie when I asked about your finances?"

Liz's face became twisted. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You told me inherited money from your aunt," I said.

"I did. What's your point?"

"Your cousin Warren told me that you have only one aunt and that's his mother who is very much alive."

Liz shook her head. "The aunt I inherited my money from was my great-aunt Lillie Mae. She's on my mother's side and was my grandmother's sister who never married. Warren knows nothing about her because he's related to me through my father's side."

I clasped my hands. "All right. Then how come you didn't tell me about your money from your first husband's accident?"

Liz frowned. "Because it wasn't relevant, and you didn't ask."

"That's a bullshit answer," I blurted.

"It's the goddamn truth," Liz retorted. "And how I got my money is irrelevant. All you need know is that I didn't kill Wendell. And I didn't kill Calvin. And I didn't kill Manuel. End of story."

I sighed. "All right. Since your bail hearing went bad today, are you going to get a lawyer?"

Liz grimaced. "I've got my cousin Warren advising me. Told me before the hearing that I'd probably be denied bail. So, it wasn't a surprise."

"Trusting your cousin is really bad idea. He's disbarred. Plus, he's from another state. He never even practiced law in California."

"Criminal law is criminal law. Doesn't matter what your state you're in. Back in the day, Warren handled a lot of criminal matters. Erika, he knows what he's doing."

I shook my head. "Liz, I did some checking and found out the Public Defender's office can handle your case for free. Because your accounts are frozen, that means that you're indigent. So, you're eligible for services."

"That's not what was I told," Liz replied.

"Whoever told you that, gave you really bad information. All you need to do is ask for a public defender at your next court hearing. It's really easy."

"Can't let those bastards represent me," Liz scowled. "They'll get me convicted."

"The Public Defender's office has some of the best lawyers in the county. I'm sure you'll be assigned a seasoned lawyer."

Liz shook her head. "Seasoned my ass. I don't trust any of them. Not especially with Linda Groombell being the head of the office."

"What's wrong with her? She's been with the office for over twenty years."

"And she was screwing my Calvin on and off for the last four or five years."

I groaned. "I didn't know. Then the Public Defender's office can conflict out and you can get a court appointed attorney."

"I don't want a court appointed attorney," Liz seethed. "With my luck, I might get one who screwed Calvin in the past. I trust my cousin Warren to advise me and no one else."

I wanted tell Liz that her jealously was making her paranoid. Instead, I said, "I give up. Use your disbarred cousin and if you get convicted, blame it on him."

"No, I will blame it on you," Liz replied. "You need to find real evidence that will exonerate me. And you need to do it, now."

I sighed. I wanted to yell at Liz. Instead, I decided to keep my temper in-check. "Liz, I've got to go now. I'll let you know when I have an update on your case."

"Great. Just find something because being in jail is driving me nuts."

## Chapter Seventeen

Wednesday, February 18, 2010 11:39 a.m.

While I was enjoying a nice cup of mint soy hot chocolate at Lenita's, I scanned my email on my phone. There was nothing worth responding to. I then checked out Samantha's blog. I was pleasantly surprised with a response to my comment. It read:

Meet me on the Silicon Valley northbound train between noon and two, today.

@SamiVChameleon

I glanced at my watch. It was almost 20 minutes to noon. The nearest train station was about a 10-minute drive. Great, I'd make it in plenty of time.

I typed a response. "See you in a bit."

I put my phone into my jacket's left pocket and finished my drink. I then gathered my belongings and headed toward my car.

My phone vibrated. I pulled it out from my pocket and saw a text from Paul. "I'm at the office now. Can you meet at noon?"

I texted, "Sorry can't meet. Going to meet someone @ train station. How about later?"

"Will three work for you?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Great. See you then," Paul wrote.

As I was about to put my phone down, it rang. I picked it up and answered. Liz's cousin Warren said, "Did you see the shit the police put out about Liz?"

"Yeah, I did. It's horrible," I answered.

"Liz ought to sue their asses for their goddamn lies."

"Yeah, she should," I said. "Can we talk later? I've gotta run because I have a meeting."

"All right. No worries. I can call you later."

"Better yet, maybe we can meet later for lunch," I said.

"Sounds good," Warren replied.

"I don't know what kind of food you like, but there's this place that makes the best roasted chicken. They serve it with figs and onions. It's out of this world."

"Sounds delicious," Warren said. "But I don't know if this restaurant can match my father's cooking. My father used to make the best chicken that was utterly scrumptious with figs and onions."

I almost dropped my phone. Samantha said in her blog that the killer loved figs and onions. Did that mean that Warren was the killer?

My voice went down an octave. "You've got me hungry," I lied. "Forget the restaurant. Maybe I can visit your father's house for dinner sometime."

Warren's voice faltered. "My father died a few years ago after a long bout with Alzheimer's. But Liz's roasted chicken with figs and onions is almost as good. When she gets out, maybe we can convince her to make us a meal."

Oh my God, I couldn't believe that Liz had lied to me about not knowing anything about figs and onions. "Sorry about your father," I said.

"Thanks," Warren mumbled.

"I need to go now, or I'll be late. I don't like to cell and drive."

"All right. Call me when you're done."

"Sure thing," I answered.

"Great. Talk to you later."

I hit the end button and got into my car. I turned on my ignition and headed to the train station. When I arrived, the train station was packed with folks. An eclectic mix of chatter in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, and Hindi permeated the air.

There were several signs in various languages providing the number to the local suicide prevention line. The Chatlyn County Transit Agency had the third highest rate of suicides by train in the country. Before the recession, there were only a handful of suicides per year. Since the recession, the number had skyrocketed.

Last year, over 30 folks had done it. All ages. A middle-aged man had been kicked out of his home after losing his job of 25 years. A young woman who had graduated top of her class in college was tired of all of job rejections. And then there were those who had run out of unemployment benefits, had no job prospects whatsoever, and had no friends and family to help them. To them, suicide was their only option.

I wiped my brow and scanned the crowd waiting for the train. Most looked unhappy and stressed, but no one looked like they had given up on life. I looked for Samantha and didn't see her. I approached a few folks and flashed Samantha's photo from my cell phone. To my chagrin, no one had seen her.

I purchased a nine-dollar ticket for the Silicon Valley northbound train and waited for its arrival. After a few minutes, a three-car train arrived on the platform.

I boarded the first car. It was packed. I grabbed the overhead bar for support. I wedged myself between folks while looking for Samantha. To my disappointment, she wasn't in the car. I walked into the next section of the train and Samantha was nowhere to be found.

When I reached the final car of the train, I saw a bent-over elderly woman with a walker. She slowly walked to the middle of the car and shouted with unsteady voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very sorry to bother you. My name is Nancy and I was a nurse in the Vietnam War. My grandson is at the airport. He needs seventy-six dollars and three cents to pay for his bags. I wish I could give him the money, but I can't because I don't get my Social Security check until the first of the month. His father lives with me. He lost his job last year and he won't get his unemployment check for another week. If my grandson doesn't get on the plane, my son will lose custody. I can't let that happen. My grandson means everything to me. I hate to ask, but if you could help me with anything, I'd appreciate it. I can pay you back as soon I get my social security check."

Several passengers went up to the old woman and handed her fistfuls of dollar bills. One middle-aged man gave her a twenty-dollar bill. The lady smiled with a crooked grin and took the money with her hands, which were covered in white linen gloves.

My eyes bulged. Nobody wore white linen gloves anymore. It had to be Samantha dressed up in one of her old lady outfits. She was obviously wearing white gloves to disguise the youthfulness of her hands.

I wanted to scream, "You thief, stop taking these people's money." Instead, I remained silent because I didn't want to scare her.

I stared at Samantha for a few minutes and watched her continue to take money from the crowd. I was furious. How could she take advantage of folks who probably needed the money for their rent, food, and electric bill?

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Samantha. She was dressed in jeans, sweater, and jacket. "Are you looking for me?" she asked.

I nodded and felt the heat rising to my cheeks. How could I've had accused that poor old woman of such malicious acts? I turned to Samantha and said, "I'll talk you in a minute."

I walked toward the lady and handed her a dollar. I mumbled, "Ma'am, I hope this helps." The lady smiled and thanked me. I then walked back to Samantha.

Samantha shook her head and whispered, "I wouldn't have done that."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it's a scam," she replied.

My face became twisted. "She dresses up like old ladies like you?"

Samantha shook her head. "No, she's old, but she has no son or grandson. Uses that story at least once a month to get extra money. Sometimes, she nets as much as two hundred a day."

"And she's never been caught?"

"Not yet. She changes up her story a bit and doesn't do her spiel on the same train twice. Besides, who's going to want to turn in their grandma? It just wouldn't be right."

I sighed. Perfect, an old age con artist. "Can we talk about figs and onions?"

Samantha winced. "Not here. Too many people."

"Then where?" I asked.

"At the next train stop," Samantha answered. "We need some privacy to talk."

We stood in silence until the train pulled up to the Chatlyn Downtown exit. When the doors opened, we departed the train. There were about a couple dozen people milling about in the station.

Samantha pointed to an empty bench. "Let's sit there," she said.

We walked to the bench and sat down. "In your blog, you said you know who the killer is."

Samantha nodded.

"So, who is it?" I asked.

"Told ya that the killer likes figs and onions."

I shook my head. "That's a clue, not a name. What the killer's name?"

"Don't feel safe telling you that."

"Come on Samantha. Stop playing games. Just tell me."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Because they could come after me."

"It's on your blog. They already know it's you."

"That's why I didn't give a real clue."

"What the hell? The figs and onions clue isn't real?"

"It's just a tweaked version of the clue so they couldn't link it to me."

"What's the real clue?"

"The killer doesn't like figs and onions anymore."

I frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It just means they don't like them anymore."

"Why? Because it made them sick?"

"Just they wanted change."

"The food they eat?" I asked.

Samantha shook her head. "It's not food."

"What do you mean? There's a ton of recipes on figs and onions."

"Think again."

"About what?"

Samantha tugged at her jacket's right sleeve and pulled it up. Her wrist displayed a tattoo bracelet with tiny diamonds. I looked her tattoo and then back at Samantha's face. "The killer had their figs and onions tattoo removed."

"Exactly," Samantha replied.

"Why?" I asked.

"I don't know," Samantha answered.

"Who removed it?" I asked.

"Don't know," she replied.

"How do you know it was removed?"

"Because it was used to be on their chest and it's not anymore."

"So, the killer's a man?"

"Yes," Samantha nodded.

"Can you tell me anything else about him?"

"No, I can't."

"Is he old? Is he young?"

Samantha sighed. "Can't tell you."

"Do you have his picture?

Samantha twitched. "No, I don't."

I could tell from her body language, that she was lying. "Let me see his picture," I demanded.

"Told you I don't have it."

"Let me check your phone." I ordered.

"You're not touching my phone," Samantha hissed.

"Look this isn't a game. My client's life is at stake. She's been arrested for crimes that she didn't do. You gotta tell me who it is."

"I can't," Samantha whined.

Samantha replied as she looked at her watch. The overhead sign for the next train flashed, Northbound Silicon Valley will arrive in 2 minutes. "I have to go now."

My mind suddenly flashed to the bandage that had peeked out from Warren's sweater. The bandage that he had kept scratching. Oh my God, the bandage must have been to cover Warren's removed tattoo. "Liz's cousin Warren killed them, right?" I asked.

Samantha's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

"If you don't tell me now, then we'll be forced to subpoena you," I said firmly.
Samantha shrugged her shoulders and turned to walk toward the boarding area for the train. Shots rang out. I ducked my head under my bag for cover. Screams were heard throughout the station. I turned and looked at Samantha. She was lying sprawled out on the ground with blood gushing from her head and backside.

## Chapter Eighteen

I collapsed next to Samantha's body. I was too afraid to move. Maybe if I were lucky, Warren would think I was dead.

More shots rang out. From the corner of my eye, I could see two more passengers on the ground. One was grabbing his chest and the other was missing her face.

Vomit rose in my throat. I wanted to release it, but I couldn't. I didn't want Warren to know that I was still alive. I forced myself to swallow the incessant bile.

I visualized that I was glued to the ground and there was nothing that could remove me. I replayed this image in my head, so I wouldn't move.

After thirty or so seconds, I heard about a dozen footsteps. A female voice shouted, "Drop your weapon now!"

A voice yelled, "That isn't gonna happen." Warren's voice sounded unnatural like it was muzzled or behind cloth.

A male police officer shouted, "Surrender, now."

Warren yelled, "I'd rather die."

The female cop shouted, "We want you alive."

"My memory will always be alive because I just emailed it to the media," replied Warren.

"What do you mean by that?" the female cop asked.

"I sent them truth," he replied. "Now, it's time for the end."

"You don't want that to happen."

"I do," he said.

Several shots were fired. Screams were heard throughout the station and then there was one split second of silence.

A female cop cleared her throat and said, "The suspect is dead."

People cheered. I looked up and saw Warren lying face down in the middle of the station. Next to him was his cell phone and gun.

A burly cop turned Warren over. He was wearing a ski mask. The cop yanked it off. My eyes glazed over. Oh my God, it wasn't Warren. It was Paul from TenantLiberties. The man whom I had lusted over. How could I've been so stupid?

My stomach churned, and bile rose to my throat. Unlike the first time, I let the vomit come out. Pieces of undigested food and liquid spilled out of my mouth. I couldn't stop until my stomach was completely empty.

## Epilogue

Monday, July 12, 2010

Six months had passed since the media had received Paul's rambling diary of 7,500 words. It was posted on numerous websites. So far, it had been downloaded more than a half-million times.

In one excerpt, Paul blamed Calvin for his grandmother's death back in 2003.

I can't stand the eviction man Calvin Norwich. If it weren't for him, Grandma Nita would be alive. For ten years, she lived in St. Kristy Senior Apartments. Because my grandma needed help, my Uncle Jim moved in. He would get her medicine, cook, and clean the apartment.

Now, Uncle Jim wasn't a perfect man. He'd been in jail for taking and dealing drugs. But he was very good at taking care of my grandmother. Plus, he was getting up in age. Who was going to hire a 52-year-old ex-con? Nobody. Taking care of my 83-year-old grandmother for a free room was a good deal.

Everything was all-good until they had that annual inspection. The manager wanted to make sure that my grandma was taking care of her place. Uncle Jim cleaned up everything well. Grandma Nita was proud of the Uncle Jim's work.

When the manager came by, he checked out the rugs, kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. In my Uncle Jim's room, he found a bag of marijuana. Uncle Jim told the manager that that his marijuana was legal because it was medical marijuana. The manager didn't care. He said it was a violation of federal law to possess marijuana in subsidized housing.

Three days later, Grandma Nita got an eviction notice from the law offices of the eviction man. She pleaded with the eviction man to let her stay. Told him she knew nothing about the marijuana. The eviction man wouldn't listen. Said the marijuana violated the lease and it didn't matter that it wasn't hers. Uncle Jim then told the eviction man that he would move out. The eviction man told him that they both had to leave because it was the law.

Grandma Nita tried to find help. She and my uncle found a free lawyer to help them fill out some court paperwork. But the lawyer wouldn't take her case. Told them that they had represent themselves in court.

I wanted to help, but I couldn't. I was sharing a room with my girlfriend and I wasn't working. My mom was dead, and my dad was locked up in prison for some bogus crime.

When Grandma Nita and Uncle Jim went to court, they told their story. But the judge wouldn't listen. He only cared about what the eviction man told him - that Grandma Nita had violated the lease. So, she and my uncle had to leave.

Because of the eviction man, the court threw my Grandma Nita and Uncle Jim out of the apartment. Uncle Jim was able to get into a rehab place. He stayed there for a while until he got in trouble and went back to jail.

But no one would help my grandma because she had an eviction on her record. She even tried renting a room, but folks didn't want to rent to an old woman. So, she wound up on the streets of Chatlyn County. Five days later, my grandma died from cold exposure. They said that she couldn't handle the cold.

God, I hate the eviction man. If it weren't for him, my grandma would be alive. Why did he have to be so damn evil? Why couldn't he give my grandma a second chance? Damn him for his evilness.

In another passage, Paul talked about his fondness for figs and onions.

I remember when I was a little boy; I used to go to Sydney's Place where Grandma Nita was a cook. Her specialty was roasted chicken with figs and onions. It was so good. They even did a story in the newspaper about her cooking.

Because my grandma died, I wanted to do something to remember her by. I wish I could cook like her. But I can't. My food never tastes the same. But one thing I knew that I could do was almost as good. A month after my grandma died, I got a tattoo of figs and onions on my chest. So, my grandma will always be with me in my heart.

In another part, Paul talked about his obsession with Calvin Norwich.

Every week, I go to the courthouse and check out the number of people who've lost their homes because of the eviction man. Some are old like my Grandma Nita. Others are mothers with kids. And some lost their jobs and just couldn't keep up with the rent. It's so unfair. Why doesn't the eviction man have any compassion? Sometimes I wish he'd just die so that the evictions would all end.

Paul then discussed when he joined TenantLiberties.

July 9, 2005

I met this cool guy – Manuel. He's started this org called TenantLiberties. They are going to stand up to the eviction man. They are tired of him throwing people out of their homes for no reason.

What's even better is that Manuel is going to give me a job. I've been trying to do the graphic artist thing, but it's hard making money. And my part-time job is so boring. I'm tired of being a guard for the hotel. I need something that will make a difference. And this gig will. I can't wait until I start. Yay!

Paul then wrote about meeting Samantha.

June 22, 2007

I met this really cool chick. Her name is Samantha. She's doing community service. The cops blamed her for some crap she didn't do. I really like her and she's so beautiful and perfect.

She looks like my grandma when she was younger. She has her smile and eyes. Plus, when I talking to her, I can hear my grandma's voice. And then when she dresses up like an old lady, she looks exactly like my grandma. It's as if my grandma has been reincarnated. It's so eerie. But you know what? I totally dig it. It just means that Samantha and I were meant to be together.

Paul talked about problems he had with Samantha.

April 9, 2009

I can't believe that she slept with the eviction man. She knows how much I hate him, but that didn't stop her. Why? I don't understand. She also lied that she stopped seeing him. I know that's not true because I saw them meeting at the hotel. You know the one I used to work for. Criteway.

I want to end it with Samantha. But I can't. I love her too much. Plus, if I stop seeing her, I won't have my grandma anymore. I need Samantha. She is my grandma's soul. Her essence. Her being.

In another chapter, Paul wrote about his dilemma with Manuel.

October 6, 2009

Manuel is such a bastard. He was with my Samantha. How could he sleep with her? He knows she's mine. I hate him so much. I want to quit my job. But I can't. I need it to pay my rent. And if I quit, I'll become homeless. The hotel isn't hiring. In fact, it let some people go. And I checked other places and they are all downsizing. Goddamn recession.

Why does Samantha have to be like my grandma in every way? Grandma Nita used to have a lot of men when she was younger. Sometimes she'd see three or four men at the same time. I guess I shouldn't blame Samantha. She's just being my grandma. Instead, I need to figure out a way, so I will get what I want.

A month later, Paul wrote:

Samantha just told me that she's losing her place. The eviction man thinks she has a different name. He doesn't know it's her. I can't let Samantha die like my grandma. She already died once. Dying twice isn't fair. I've got to do something.

December 1, 2009

I've come up with the perfect plan. I'm going to kill both of them. The eviction man and Manuel. And you know what? The cops won't know it's me. Instead, I'll blame it on the eviction man's wife. I know where she lives. A few days ago, I broke in. It was easy. Tripped the alarm and then went in the bathroom. Found a gun in a drawer. Might belong to the eviction man or to his wife. Also, found her hair brush, which had strands of her dyed blond hair. Put the hair and gun in a plastic bag. Going to plant the hair in the hotel room and in Manuel's house. Nobody will know but me. So perfect. And then after the eviction man and Manuel are gone, I'll have Samantha forever. She'll keep her place. And I'll be the head of TenantLiberties. Oh my God, I feel so good.

The other thing I'm doing is getting my tattoo of figs and onion removed. Doing it on Saturday. Doctor said it would take a few sessions. But it will come off. Don't want anyone to trace anything back to me.

January 23, 2010

Taking too long to remove tattoo. Decided instead to get something on top of it. I got a new tat. It's a heart with chain. The chain represents the chain on my heart that won't be released until I kill Manuel and the eviction man. But I'm not ready to do it, yet. Got to wait until the perfect time. Plus, Samantha claims she heard me talking me in my sleep about killing them. Told her that was crazy. Lied and said I would never hurt them. I think Samantha believed it. So, I have nothing to worry about.

Then again, she could be my grandma reincarnated and know that I'm lying. If she is, she knows I'm doing it for her. I'm going to save her from dying, again.

February 4, 2010 Night

Can't believe it, I did it. Killed the eviction man at the hotel. Did it for my grandma, Samantha, and all the other people that he evicted. I'm a hero. Yes, indeed, I am. God, I feel good.

February 9, 2010 early morning

Did it again. Manuel is gone forever. He had to be killed because what he did to Samantha. Now, I'm a hero twice. Yes, I am. Yay!

But I can't keep the gun. Too dangerous. Found the perfect place for the gun. Broke in the eviction's man garage at his house and put in it a storage box. Wiped my prints clean. So now, everyone will think the wife did it.

February 10, 2010 early morning

The eviction man's wife is now in jail. Everyone thinks she killed him and Manuel. Good. She deserves to be in jail. She was getting rich from the eviction man's work. Now, I'm a hero the third time.

February 12, 2010 early morning

That stupid private investigator chick keeps trying to talk to me. Saw her at Manuel's funeral. I wish she'd go away. And then there's Samantha. She wrote something on her blog. She said the killer likes figs and onions. I hope to God that no one thinks that it's me. But, how could they? My old tat is covered with new one. So, no one will ever know.

February 18, 2010 late morning

Dammit. Can't take it anymore. Samantha wrote on her stupid blog that she was going to the train station. Then I got a text from that P.I. chick that she's meeting someone at the train station. Has to be Samantha. Have to do something. Can't let her talk to her.

Plus, now I know that Samantha can't be my grandma. Grandma would never do this to me. No, Samantha must be the devil. She has to die. And with her, I will have to die and then join Grandma. I have no choice.

But before I go, I will let the media know the truth. The people must know everything. The eviction man's killing my grandmother. Samantha pretending to be my grandma when she's not. And then, Manuel who betrayed me. Yes, now it time for the truth. Now, I am a hero again for the fourth time.

That was Paul's last entry in his diary. It made me feel awful. If I had known that Paul was so unstable. I could have prevented Samantha's death. Why couldn't I see the truth?

As for my former client Liz, her life is still in flux. After being released from jail, she took the February bar. To her chagrin, she failed it again – the nineteenth time. To my amazement, she decided to take the bar again.

On top of this, she's also still battling the IRS. She's hoping that she'll be able to reach a settlement over Calvin's business taxes. It will probably cost her the house and the bulk of her savings. At least, Liz still has a job with a local nonprofit. And the police decided to stop investigating the death of her first husband.

As Warren, he had worn a bandage due to contracting a case of poison oak from repossessing a car that had been buried in the owner's bushes. Thank God, I hadn't gotten poison oak from him. On a different note, he's thriving in his car repo business. On top of this, he's still illegally advising Liz about her legal problems on the side.

Darryl's job with the Census ended about a month ago. He's just completed a final round of interviews with a Silicon Valley startup specializing in tech solutions for forty-somethings and older. It sounds like he'll be a perfect fit.

As for me, I lost my case to Suzanne in Small Claims Court. The judge ordered me to refund one-half of my contract fee to Suzanne. That was about 1,500 dollars. We worked about a payment plan – hundred dollars a month.

Right now, I'm working a couple of small cases. Nothing major. However, I'm hoping I'll land something big soon. And if I don't, I'll keep trying until I do.

__________________

I hope you enjoyed, "Death of the Eviction Man: An Erika Mudrose Mystery Novella." If you have any comments, feel free to email me at gayletiller@yahoo.com.
