Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
"If I can find Sophie's alarm information," I explained to Greg, "I can call and ask about recent service dispatches."
"You think the guy from the alarm company had anything to do with this?" he asked. "Iris said she thinks he left before the shot."
"I don't know, Greg, but what I do know is he was probably the last person to see her alive. At the very least, he might be able to tell me what her emotional state was that morning."
He nodded. "I'd really like to know that myself."
As I expected, Sophie was as organized in her office as in everything else. If she didn't have her alarm information handy, it would surprise me. I started going through files in the bottom left hand side drawer of the desk. Each file tab was neatly printed with a one- or two-word description. This drawer mostly contained files on the computer and her web site. I pulled them out for us to review later. I went to the bottom drawer on the right hand side. Again, the files were well labeled. These were her household and personal files. There was even a copy of her will in one of them.
The last file was simply labeled Security. I yanked it from the drawer and went through it. There was a copy of her contract and other documents she had signed when she purchased the system. Finally, I found the abort code, the secret numbers or words that are plugged into the panel by the door to stop the alarm. The security company also uses this code as identification when a customer calls about their account.
Walking to the kitchen, I put the file in my tote bag, which I'd left on the table. I would call the company tomorrow and try to get some information on the service guy. When I returned, Greg was going through the files containing the computer information.
"These should help us with handling the web site," he told me, not looking up. "Since I helped her from time to time, I have some of the access codes at home that I used for editing the site, but nothing about the billing or host company. You're going to need that."
Greg turned out to be a great deal of help with Sophie's computer stuff. How it should be disposed of and who should I call about it were my top questions. By going through her files, we were able to determine our next steps.
Sophie had treated her adult web site like a real business, which, Greg kept reminding me, it was. All pertinent information was organized and filed neatly, including profit reports, members lists, contacts, and tax information. I was shocked to learn that the site earned more each month than I did at the law firm.
Greg said he would help out by contacting the host company, or firm that provided the Internet access for the site. He said he would also call the subscription billing company. The records revealed that the hosting fees for May had already been paid, so the site could operate until the end of the month without another payment. I glanced quickly over the agreements with these companies and asked him to see how much notice was required prior to shutting down the site and canceling services, especially under such unusual circumstances. After discussion, Greg and I agreed we would use the next few weeks to post an appropriate memorial and to notify the paid subscribers. We also found the information about the Reality Check web site, and he agreed to design a fitting memorial piece to post there as well.
Leaning back on the loveseat, I watched him eagerly examine the files. Greg Stevens was proving to be a major help. His good guy percentages were rising.
When he asked if I had ever seen Sophie's adult site, I admitted I had not, nor did I want to. He told me I should before he started editing it for the memorial piece and offered to open it up right then and there. I declined.
When I got home that evening there was an e-mail from him with a link to the site. He certainly felt strongly about my need to see it. And I felt just as firm about my decision not to see it. But sometime in the middle of the night, when my mind whirred like a turbine engine powered with caffeine, I gave in.
Okay, like I've already confessed, I've visited adult or pornography web sites from time to time. I've even participated in cyber sex. But when I opened the Sassy Sophie web site and came almost instantly face-to-face with Sophie's smiling image, it was too much to bear. Quickly, I signed off without going any further.
The rest of the night I wandered my townhouse trying to piece together all the information like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Hollowell. Olsen. Her son. The man who'd confronted Hollowell. The web site. Even Greg. Each had unique edges and curves that fit into Sophie's life in a particular way.
The great unknown was the murderer, if there was one. I still didn't believe Sophie was suicidal, at least not in the conventional way. I was anxious to speak with the alarm company, hoping it might provide more insight. But how could it be murder when Sophie had pulled the trigger herself? Yet Greg kept insisting that it had to be murder. I just felt something wasn't right.
A murderer with a motive. This was the stray detail. The missing puzzle piece that invariably falls to the carpet beneath the table, making you search on your hands and knees so you can complete the puzzle, be satisfied, and finally return the one thousand cheaply cut pieces back to their cardboard box.
In my mind, I organized what I already knew, arranging the information in my head like Post-it Notes on a blank wall. Mentally moving them around, I looked for common threads and repeated themes. In my work as a paralegal, I often review materials in such a way. I'm trained to look for cracks in contracts and inconsistencies in provided facts. But there was one little difference. The work at the firm didn't involve a close personal friend, or challenge my faith in what I believed was a heroic spirit.
Chapter Eleven
AS USUAL ON a Monday morning, traffic on the San Diego Freeway heading north was heavy, especially approaching the vicinity of the airport and heading deeper into Los Angeles. I concentrated on my driving and read all the major billboards along the way. Anything at the moment to keep my mind off what I was going to say to Peter Olsen once I reached Santa Paula.
The idea for making this trip blew across my sleep-deprived mind sometime between three and three-thirty this morning. After which, I finally fell asleep for a few hours. About eight, I left a voice mail for Tina, the firm's office manager, saying I needed to take another personal day off to tend to some business. Mr. Wallace wouldn't mind, but Steele, I knew, would be furious. Too bad. I didn't work directly for him anyway.
Before leaving for Santa Paula, I'd called the security company. But after being put on hold and waiting for fifteen minutes, I gave up. I was anxious to find the technician who had stopped by Sophie's on the day she died, but I was more intrigued about meeting Peter Olsen. I made a mental note to call the alarm company later.
Bits and pieces of Sophie's unknown life were surfacing. With each question asked and each drawer opened and gone through, her life's baggage was floating to the top like oyster crackers in clam chowder.
In Sherman Oaks, I made the transition to the Ventura Freeway and headed away from the sprawl of Los Angeles. I was about halfway there and knew I needed to take the remaining time to put together a plan. On the seat next to me was Sophie's address book. Olsen's addresses and telephone numbers for both home and office were listed, written neatly under the O's. Hollowell's numbers were in the book, too, along with mine and Greg's.
A box sat on the seat next to the address book. It contained photos and trinkets. Most of the photos were of the same boy at different stages, typical grade school poses. They were the same type of color shots most parents displayed proudly year after year, chronicling their child's progress through the educational system. It wasn't hard to conclude that the young man in the photos was Sophie's son. Even as a young boy he was the spitting image of his mother, right down to the honey blond hair and slight dimple in the left cheek. His eyes were clear blue with a bit of an almond shape, his nose straight as an arrow.
Late last night, I had sat at my kitchen table with a cup of hot herbal tea and arranged the photos in chronological order as best I could. The school shots had been easy since most had his name and the grade on the back—Robbie, Grade 2, etc. As he aged, he still looked like Sophie, but with a more angular and masculine line to his jaw. The last photo was a high school graduation shot with the boy in his cap and gown. He was smiling, but looking slightly downward, at the ground. I studied the picture and the others over and over. He seemed shy and reserved, unlike his vivacious mother.
None of these photos had been on display in Sophie's home. Zee found them while cleaning out a closet in the master bedroom on Saturday. I had brought them home to look through, then forgot until last night.
The box was decorated with fabric, lace, and tiny silk flowers. They were treasures kept in a special place for special viewing. Also in the box was a large silver locket containing a few wisps of hair and a tiny photo of an infant, and a pair of worn baby shoes. The shoes had been placed in a plastic zip close bag.
I couldn't help but wonder how often Sophie had taken this box out of its hiding place, lovingly touched the contents, and cried herself to sleep.
What had surprised me most had been the newspaper clippings and copies of school report cards. Robbie Olsen had been a track star in junior high and high school. Local newspaper articles, now yellowed, reported on regional track meets. His name had been carefully underlined wherever it had appeared. His report cards showed him to be an able but not gifted student.
According to the bits of information Doug Hemming had, Sophie had not seen her son since he was about three or four. Yet someone had helped her keep in touch. The boy may have thought his mother was dead, but his mother had kept tabs on him though the aid of someone close enough to provide her with this information.
Sophie once told me that her father had died when she was very young and that her mother had passed away when she was nineteen. She said she didn't know of any other family members. Her mother had told her that just before she had been born they had moved to California. Who was left if the ex-husband wanted nothing to do with her?
As I approached Camarillo, I reached over and lightly touched the top of the fancy box. Did my own mother have such a keepsake? Did someone send her my high school and college graduation photos? Quickly, I shoved the thought aside.
I passed through Oxnard and entered Ventura. Every town along this part of the freeway seemed to host factory outlet malls. I quickly glanced at the map and saw that the turnoff for Santa Paula was coming up soon. Highway 126 was what I needed. A road sign flew by informing me Highway 126 was two miles ahead.
Santa Paula is a town of about twenty-six thousand located in the Santa Clara River Valley. It's primarily an agricultural area, also known as The Citrus Capital Of The World. I drove by acres and acres of citrus groves, separated now and then by fields of some type of vegetable growing low to the ground. Workers, heads covered with an assortment of straw hats and baseball caps, toiled under the hot baking sun.
I exited the highway and drove into town. Following the map I had downloaded from MapQuest, I headed for Olsens' house. It was about eleven in the morning. I didn't think he would be at home, but I wanted to get an idea about how he lived. You can tell a lot about a person by his choice of residence, maybe not if he's a killer or not, but at least his taste and station in life.
The Olsen home was a large ranch style house tucked away in a wooded clearing on a very small street that could be taken for nothing more than an alley. The whole neighborhood was like that. A honeycomb of small streets that bobbed and weaved in all directions, canopied by large, old trees. Many of the houses were half hidden. Most seemed roomy and well maintained. It was a very good neighborhood, and probably housed most of Santa Paula's professionals.
I cruised by Olsens' house slowly, trying not to look like a crook casing the joint. There was a car in the circular driveway, a new Oldsmobile. Satisfied with my findings, I worked my way back to the main street and headed in the direction of Olsen's business.
In my digging, I had discovered Peter Olsen owned a retail store specializing in farm equipment. When I drove up, it reminded me of a car dealership, but instead of the latest models in two- and four-door sedans, the showroom and parking lot contained the most up-to-date farm implements and machinery.
I parked my car on the street, but before getting out, I powered up my cell phone. Rummaging in my bag, I found Greg's business card and dialed his number at Ocean Beach Graphics. I had told no one about my last minute trek to Santa Paula. Zee would worry all day if she knew. Seth would pick up on that and worm the truth out of her, leading to me sitting through a long and heated future lecture.
Still, I felt that someone should know...just in case.
As usual, Zee was right. I wasn't the police or a detective. I was just me, a middle-aged, overweight, nosy woman. I was no more equipped to interview and cope with a conniving murderer than I was to play basketball with the Los Angeles Lakers. But I was hell-bent on finding out the truth about Sophie's final hours, and that single-mindedness alone made me a formidable opponent. At least in my fantasy world.
The phone was ringing on the other end. A man answered. He sounded young. When I asked for Greg and told him my name, he said to hang on.
"Odelia?"
I was only a hundred miles away, yet his voice felt like home. The desire to turn the car around and head back was engulfing me like a fast-moving storm. I steeled myself against it. I had made a commitment to get to the bottom of this and would see it through.
"Um, hi Greg," was all I could muster.
"What's up? You on a cell phone?"
"Yes, I'm in my car. In Santa Paula."
Silence on the other end.
"I'm going to talk to Peter Olsen," I said quickly. "Sophie's ex-husband." There was a pause. I filled it with a little white lie. "I was wondering if there's anything you'd like me to ask him, something I might not have thought of."
"Why didn't you tell me you were going?" he asked. "I could've gone with you." He sounded worried.
Half of me wished I hadn't called him. The other half wanted to wait by the curb in front of Olsen's business until he got here.
"Odelia, you have no idea who you're dealing with. He might be the killer."
"You could've been the killer, too. But I gave you a chance." I heard him sigh. "This is important to me, Greg. I need to speak with him." Then empty air, making me wonder if I'd lost the connection. "I'll be all right," I added and heard the sigh again.
"Guess it's too late now to talk you out of it," he finally said. "But I still wish you'd waited for me."
"I'll be careful."
"It's almost noon now. I want you to call me by two, no matter where you are. And give me your cell phone number. And the description of your car and license number."
It all sounded a bit dramatic and paranoid to me, but comforting all the same. I gave him the information he wanted and hung up, after swearing I'd call by two.
As soon as I walked into the showroom area of Olsen's, I was approached by a paunchy, middle-aged man wearing a knit shirt with Olsen's Machinery stitched over his heart.
"Mr. Olsen?" I asked.
"Back office," the man said, indicating the direction with a jerk of his head.
My eyes followed the route of his chin. I could see a glass door leading into an office and headed that way.
Inside the office sat a pleasant looking elderly woman with a dumpling body and matching face. She wore a cotton dress in a tiny floral print. A strand of pearls cuddled themselves against her thick neck. She looked like she'd be more at home baking cookies and knitting instead of sitting behind a desk answering phones and pushing paper.
"May I help you?" she asked me in a courteous tone. She had a thick European accent, German maybe.
"I'd like to speak with Mr. Olsen, please."
"Peter or Robert?"
The question threw me. I hadn't expected to run into Robbie Olsen. In fact, the idea had never crossed my mind. I preferred to speak with Olsen senior, but if I could snare a few minutes with Robbie, all the better.
"Whoever is available," I answered.
"And who should I say is here?"
"Odelia Grey. I'm a friend of the family."
Her oatmeal-raisin warmth disappeared as soon as I said the words, and something in the way the old girl looked me over told me not to underestimate her cozy appearance. She disappeared into a back office and returned in an instant, holding the door open for me to enter.
"Peter is out right now, but Robert can see you," she said with more than a smidgen of disapproval in her voice.
Inside the office there were two large wooden desks. One was occupied by a fine looking young man wearing a company knit shirt. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the live version of the boy in the photos. Here at last was Sophie's son. He was beautiful, like having a piece of her in my presence. I fought the urge to fling myself at him and crush him to my hefty bosom.
"Hi...Robbie Olsen," he said shyly as he stood and extended his right hand. "Gram said you're a friend of the family. I'm sorry, but I must confess, I don't remember you." His demeanor may have been modest, but his voice was confident and his words well mannered. Sophie would've been proud.
That he called the old lady Gram wasn't lost on me. No wonder she'd looked me over suspiciously when I said friend of the family. I made an on-the-spot decision. My poker face is non-existent, so lying was not the best option. I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible without giving away Sophie's secret.
"No, we've never met. I'm an old friend of your mother's."
"Really? Didn't you go by the house? She should be home."
He looked up at a large clock hung on the wall. It was round with a thick wooden frame and plain no-nonsense face. The whole office looked like it had been decorated in the fifties and never updated.
"Her program is on right now, so I know she'll be there. Would you like me to call her for you?"
Of course
, I said to myself. Peter Olsen probably remarried somewhere along the line. And with my luck, Gram was probably the wife's mother and not Peter's. I kept to my commitment of sticking just slightly off track of the truth.
"No, that won't be necessary," I assured him. "What I mean is I knew your biological mother, Sophie."
He plopped himself down into a large wooden rolling chair behind the desk, looking not quite as surprised as I thought he might.
"Are you the lady who called a few days ago?" he asked.
In person, he looked even more like Sophie than in the photos. His large blue eyes fixed on me with expectation. I was the one surprised.
"Someone called you a few days ago about Sophie?"
"Yes," he answered, settling into the chair in a youthful slouch. "But I'm guessing now it wasn't you."
I shook my head. "But may I ask what the call was about?"
He gave my request some thought before continuing. "About my biological mother. At least that's what the woman said. She didn't say much else. Only that she had been a good friend of my mother's and wanted to know how I was doing."
My antennae were vibrating at full warp speed. "Do you remember what this woman sounded like?"
He shrugged. "She sounded nice. Normal voice, nothing weird or strange about her that I could tell." He leaned forward in his chair. "But my mother, Sophie I mean, died when I was little. Isn't it kind of odd that two of her friends would contact me about the same time?" The question was asked calmly, with no hint of suspicion, just naïve curiosity.
Boy, I'll say. I could feel my nose twitch involuntarily as my brain spun this new information around. "Did this woman give you her name or say she'd call you again?" I asked, trying not to appear overeager for information.