Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (25 page)

Cassie helped Bea get Rosalie settled before she left. She
did not bother calling the Detective. If he knew where she was going it would
just give him more reason to complain, or worse, have her picked up and
deposited on the first plane headed out of town.

She drove south on Mayfair Boulevard toward the county
clerk’s office.

The concrete government complex was beginning to feel like a
second home. Cassie located the County Records entrance on the back side of the
big building, and found a parking spot nearby.

Inside, six people stood in line as two clerks worked behind
the counter. It took only a few minutes before Cassie was motioned to come
forward.

The girl looked barely out of high school; her nametag
identified her as ‘Lena’.

“Hello,” Cassie said, opening the Power Of Attorney letter. “I
need to get a copy of a lien that was probably filed yesterday afternoon.” She
gave the address on Fullmer, but kept her driver license in her hand, waiting
until asked for it.

Lena used the computer to confirm a lien had even been
recorded, and then said, “You want only the one that was filed yesterday?”

“There’s more than one?”

Lena read from the screen, “The first one was filed in July 2004
and still shows open.”

It took a couple heartbeats for Cassie to recognize the date.
It still didn’t make sense, but that was when Rosalie signed over ownership of Baylin
House to the Trust.

“I guess I need everything you have,” she told Lena. “And could
you give me a copy of the procedure to have liens removed?”

Lena reached somewhere under the counter and produced a
multi-page photocopy with big letters across the top:
Lien Rights, Rules, and
Restrictions in Cordell County
.

“I need your ID so I can pull the docs. And six dollars. The
printing fee is a dollar a page.”

Cassie handed over the Nevada Driver License and the correct
amount in cash. Lena studied the license, and looked up with an expression that
she wanted to say something. Cassie readied her usual response about Las Vegas
being like any other city when you live there, and waited for it, but Lena
glanced sideways at the other clerk and took a strangely disgruntled breath,
and said nothing at all.

She tapped the required keys on the keyboard, and walked to
the oversized printer in a far corner. Cassie watched the young woman pull a
handful of pages from the delivery tray and cull out her print run of six, then
stop at a desk and write something on another sheet of paper. She folded that
sheet closed, and clipped it to the six printed pages.

As Lena handed over the clipped pack to Cassie, she held it
a moment too long, tapped the folded paper with her thumb, and gave a slight
nod when Cassie tugged. Finally, she let go.

Cassie left the Recorder’s Office without a clue what that
was all about, but she waited until she was inside the car before she unfolded
it.

Lena had written a phone number, definitely not one that
belonged to the government offices because they all began with the prefix 755;
this one was 648. Cassie picked up her cell phone to dial.

A sudden rush of paranoia made her hair prickle; she put the
phone away and quickly scanned the building’s entrance, and windows, and
visible walkways. There was no sign of Inspector Fozzi, but Cassie’s heart
still pounded with anxiety. This had to stop!

She started the car’s engine and drove north on Mayfair
Boulevard to a small parking area safely off the street before she took out her
phone again and dialed the number. After sixteen rings there was still no
answer.

Cassie put the phone aside and picked up the Lien documents.
The top page gave a summary of Lien Rights, then a legal description of the
property and Rosalie Baylin Trust as Owner of Record. The second page added
Lien Holder information – a lien for $50,000 placed July 6, 2004 by Travis
Harmon Legal Services. The third page was small print, legalese boilerplate that
did not tell her anything.

Rosalie’s finances were still in good shape two years ago so
Cassie didn’t see any reason for Travis Harmon to put a lien on the property. She
dialed the lawyer’s office number.

“Travis Harmon Legal Services, how may I direct your call?”

“Could I speak to someone about a lien filed by your office
two years ago on a Fullmer Avenue property, please?”

A couple beats later a young man picked up. “This is Jerry,”
he announced.

Cassie gave her name and referred to the POA issued by that
office before she explained her question about the two-year-old lien. Then she
heard elevator music again.

The next voice was much older. “Am I speaking to Ms.
Cassandra Crowley?”

Cassie confirmed, and he continued, “I understand you’re
asking about the Lien placed on the Baylin House property. That was a request
by Rosalie Baylin, in part to protect her ownership, and in part to relieve her
of an unnecessary sense of obligation. It doesn’t amount to much, but taking
care of her legal needs over the years has been my way of contributing to the
good work she does.”

That sounded reasonable enough. Most lawyers have a list of
Pro Bono cases, and maybe that was why Rosalie did not call him for help with
Brady Irwin.

But this was a desperate time, and Cassie didn’t have any
problem asking for help. “Mr. Harmon, do you handle Criminal cases?”

“No, my firm is devoted to Civil Law only. I can refer you
to someone if that kind of help is needed?”

“I guess maybe not. Rosalie has an arrangement with
Strickland and Yates, and I was just curious why your office wasn’t handling
it.”

A pregnant silence came after that. Cassie waited quietly, hoping
he would ask what kind of problem Rosalie was having. She heard him take a deep
breath.

“That firm would not be my choice,” he said with great
reserve. “If Rosalie has need of Criminal Defense on any level, I would
recommend you contact Arthur Wright at Wright Pastor and Bachelor.”

Cassie wrote down the number he gave, and thanked him for
the information. But she wouldn’t call anyone else and drive up more legal fees
until she knew exactly what was going on.

She flipped to the second lien, the one filed yesterday by
Strickland & Yates LLC, Attorneys At Law, for $200,000 in contracted legal services
authorized by Ms. Rosalie Baylin, Executive Director of Rosalie Baylin Trust.

Strickland & Yates’s address was on Mayfair Boulevard. Cassie
put the car in gear and drove out of the small lot headed north again.

She was watching the left hand side of the street, looking
for the legal firm’s address, when she spotted another familiar address – David
Thornton CPA, the name on Bea’s payroll stub.

She drove into the lot and found an open parking space in
front of a patio entrance. Inside, the directory listed David Thornton CPA on
the 2
^nd
floor.

Cassie stepped into the elevator and punched ‘2’.

Thornton’s receptionist was Cassie’s mom’s age, bleached
blond curls piled high on her head resembling a 1943 Betty Grable poster
hanging in a movie museum somewhere. She had enough eye makeup to look like a
used up cocktail jockey working the graveyard shift, and wore a western suit
that probably came from the same designer outlet where Margaret Goodman Frank found
hers. It looked like exactly the same suit, only a different color.

“Who did you say you have an appointment with?” she asked
petulantly when Cassie said she needed to meet with someone familiar with the
Baylin House account.

“I don’t have an appointment,” Cassie told her politely. “I
want to talk with whoever handles the account. Rosalie Baylin Trust is the
formal account name. I’d like to pay the outstanding balance so the last
quarter’s Financials can be released.”

Blondie picked up the phone and pushed a couple buttons. She
relayed Cassie’s request to whoever was on the other end.

“Would you tell me your name again please?”

“Cassandra Crowley,” Cassie told her for the third time. “I
have a Power of Attorney letter authorizing access to anything involving Baylin
House, if someone needs to see it.”

Blondie relayed that information. Then she nodded her head
as though the person on the other end could see her, and put the phone down. “I’ll
need to make a copy of your POA for our files,” she said.

Cassie expected that, and handed it over. Blondie
disappeared into another room a short way down a hall, and closed the door
behind her.

Ten minutes later Cassie was ready to barge down the hall and
wrench it from somebody’s hands, but then Blondie reappeared, reading the
letter as she walked to the reception area. She handed it back, and Cassie
checked close to make sure it was the original, not a copy. The raised Notary
Seal was her confirmation.

Blondie said, “I can make you an appointment with Mr.
Thornton if you’d like. He doesn’t have any available time in the next week,
but we could try to squeeze you in after the end of the month.”

Was she kidding?

“Isn’t there someone else who could just give me a copy of
the Financial Statements for the last Quarter?” Cassie protested. “I’m prepared
to pay the overdue—”

“Yes, but you’d have to see Ms. Margaret Goodman to get
approval for that.”

***

Cassie phoned Margaret’s number as soon as she got to the
car, not surprised when the Latino woman told her Mrs. Frank was not available.
No doubt Thornton had already warned her. But Cassie wasn’t giving up that
easy.

She put the car in gear to leave, and discovered the only
safe ‘EXIT’ from the lot was a driveway onto a different street. She drove out
headed north, hoping she could get back to Mayfair this way without getting
lost.

After three long blocks she finally reached a cross street
that went all the way through. She was near the end of that block when she spotted
a sign outside a small bungalow: ‘Doug Skolnik Private Investigation’.

Really?

She turned into the driveway beside the bungalow and found
herself in the parking area behind the Strickland & Yates building;
three-stories of black marble and black glass, with giant gold letters near the
top.

Cassie’s eyes widened. The jailhouse-law-firm shared its
parking lot with the dead PI? How convenient was that!

She found a parking space and went inside the black marble
building. “Hello,” she said to the silver-haired receptionist. “I understand
Private Investigator Doug Skolnik works for your firm. Could I speak with
someone who can give me a reference for him?”

The woman hardly looked at Cassie before she pressed a
button on the phone console, and then typed something on the computer keyboard.
She never did speak to anyone, but her fingers flew rhythmically more than once
before an unusually tall, young man came from an inside office and approached
Cassie.

“Hello,” he said, smiling affably. “My name is Brent
Mitchell. I’m the liaison with all of our outside contractors. May I have your
name?”

Cassie straightened her posture to her full 5’11” height,
still craning her neck to make eye contact with this kid. Cripes, he must be
seven feet tall.

“Cassandra Crowley,” she told him, and noted the
receptionist’s fingers flying again with just the right number of keystrokes to
have logged in that information. “I’m looking for reference details on the work
Doug Skolnik was doing for your office. Can you help me with that?”

While she waited for a response, she glanced around the room
for chairs where they could sit, or a box she could stand on. Craning her neck
to maintain contact was uncomfortable. The realization wasn’t lost on her for
friends who’d had to crane up the same way for years to talk to her.

“Probably not. Are you a reporter?”

“No, actually, I was hired to complete Rosalie Baylin’s
autobiography and Mr. Skolnik is --”

Brent made a face like he’d just found egg shell in his
omelet. He smiled quickly at the receptionist, and guided Cassie to a settee on
the far side of the outer office.

She kept her voice low. “Can you confirm that Mr. Skolnik
was on assignment for Strickland and Yates when he died?”

Brent’s face maintained total professionalism. He tilted his
head for a beat, “Mr. Skolnik’s client list includes more than a dozen firms
throughout the state. I’m sure he was working for several of us at any given
time.”

Cassie acknowledged with a nod. “Then is the name Fred
Zimmer familiar to you?” She expected another throw-off about Skolnik’s other
clients.

But she heard the kid suck air at hearing the name. And it
wasn’t the kind from just hearing it in the news. He KNEW that name!

His expression stayed chiseled as he leaned forward, “Ms.
Crowley, what point are you trying to make here?”

“I’m curious about the connection between Skolnik working
for you, and a two-hundred-grand lien filed by your firm yesterday against the
Baylin House property.”

The stone face cracked, just barely, but enough. Cassie stood
and left the Strickland & Yates building before he could say anything else.

Driving out of the side street, Cassie continued north on
Mayfair until she reached the computer store. Thirty minutes later she parked far
enough up the driveway at Baylin House to unload the heavy printer close to the
front door.

“Just leave it in the box for now,” she told Bea, setting it
out-of-the-way in the corner. “When I come back tomorrow I’ll hook it up and
print pages for Rosalie to red-line.”

Then she used the Baylin House phone to try the mystery
number written by Lena at the County Clerk’s Office. The phone picked up on the
third ring.

A woman’s voice, raspy like a heavy smoker, said, “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but someone at the county asked me
to call this number,” Cassie explained.

“Are you the lady from Las Vegas that knows Sydney?”

“Yes . . . is this Sydney’s number?”

“This is her daughter’s house.”

“You’re Sydney’s daughter? I’m Cassandra Cr--”

“No, no, Sugar, I’m not Annie, I’m a friend of the family they
called to watch Annie’s boy while she goes up to visit her mama. I guess you
heard Sydney’s in the hospital up in Victoria, but she’s getting better. They
might let her out later today or tomorrow.”

“In the hospital? What happened?”

“Oh I guess you didn’t hear, then. Well, Sydney had an
accident out on the highway between here and Victoria. Totaled the car, Annie
said. Sydney was pretty bad for a while, so I brought Lena’s kids over here
where I could take care of all of them until Annie comes back. You want the
phone number up there where you can talk to her? I can give you the number at
the Waller house . . . that’s Sydney’s folks . . . and like I said, she’s
supposed to come out of the hospital maybe today or tomorrow.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Cassie wrote the number in the steno book, partly horrified
that Sydney had gone through such an ordeal, and partly relieved to confirm she
hadn’t been in an explosion like the one in Cassie’s apartment.

Next she dialed Rob’s number, and stayed calm enough to tell
him she was going to the motel for the rest of the day.

“Cassie, I wish . . .”

“Me too,” she whispered, and hung up before he could say
anything else. She was still angry that he didn’t tell her about Brady’s
arrest, and she didn’t trust herself getting into an argument with him about
it.

That evening she used her cell phone to call the Waller
residence in Victoria. Sydney’s mother answered the phone.

“I know she’ll be excited to see you, Cassie,” Mrs. Waller
cooed. “The doc said he’ll let us bring her home tomorrow, so you just come on
up Saturday or whenever you can. And have those tires checked before you leave.
Lordy, we don’t want anyone else scraped off that damned highway.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I will. Is that what caused Sydney’s accident? A
bad tire?”

“They said she had a blowout, yes. Her tires weren’t bad,
but her Daddy says if you don’t make sure they all have the proper air pressure
that’s one of the things that can happen on hot pavement.”