Fifteen

I left Anna Flores’ office with more questions than answers. I hadn’t yet developed a working relationship with an attorney but decided it might be a good idea—just in case.

As long as I didn’t use pretext or deceit, Butler Farms management might willingly give me some more information. It was worth a try. Pretext is presenting yourself as someone you are not or having a position of more privilege or authority than you really do; in other words, misrepresenting your identity. Deceit is simply lying to acquire information. Both are illegal and would surely get my PI license suspended or revoked.

I already knew that any personal information an employee submits to social media is usually not protected by privacy laws—sites such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, and similar social platforms.

I pulled into my driveway and punched the button on my garage door opener. I guided Patsy inside, not taking the time to close the garage door. I would be leaving again in a couple of hours.

I pulled my phone from my purse and then tossed the purse onto the sofa. I went to my home office and started my desktop computer. When it finished booting, I entered Lupe Santiago and Daryl Davis’ names into the various social media platforms. I’d get to Bob Henderson a little later.

First, Lupe: Guadalupe Maria Santiago. I didn’t find anything particularly noteworthy. Forty-seven years old, originally from McAllen, Texas, divorced with two adult daughters. Three brothers, all of whom had moved to the Bakersfield area. She’d worked at Butler Farms fourteen years. A couple of minor traffic tickets and she was active in one of the local Latino political action groups. I scanned a number of her social media posts and found nothing of concern, either in content or with whom she’d communicated. At least that was true for all her posts in English. I had no idea about the ones in Spanish, but I intended to find out.

And then Daryl Davis: fifty-three years old, Master’s Degree in Business Management from Vanderbilt, originally from Carson City, Nevada, married with one adult son, ten months at Butler Farms, previously twenty-six years with a major west coast grocery chain. Everything I found was spotless and glowing.

That was an hour spent with little-to-nothing to show for it. I was at a loss where to go at this point. I grabbed up my phone and keyed up Max. I gave him the three names and he said he’d run them through the system when he returned to his station.

I called Darlene Watson at the Butler Farms HR Office and set up an appointment with her for Thursday afternoon. Based on my recent conversation with Anna Flores, I wasn’t expecting much from her, but it couldn’t hurt to ask a few questions. At the moment, I had nothing—anything at all would be good. I slipped my phone into my blouse pocket

My stomach informed me it was needing food. I’d follow-up on Bob Henderson as soon as I got a bite to eat. I went to the kitchen and found some leftover potato salad in the refrigerator. Just as I pulled a fork from the silverware drawer, my phone chimed. I pulled it from my pocket and then checked the digital readout before answering.

“Hey Ron, what’s up?”

“I’m headed to lunch and was wondering if you’d like to join me. You’re choice of venues.”

I looked at the potato salad, frowned, then let the fork drop from my fingers. “How about the 24th Street Café? Their Turkey Reubens are terrific.”

“Good suggestion. One of my favorite places for breakfast and lunch.”

“Meet you there in twenty minutes.”

I joined Ron, who was already seated in a booth with a Formica-style table top and seats covered with sea foam green vinyl. The café is a relatively small, free-standing building near the corner of 24th Street and Chester Avenue. Most of the exterior walls are covered by a thick growth of ivy except the windows and doors. It’s quaint and has a 1950s theme inside with a Midwest feel.

As usual, the place was crowded. I ordered the Turkey Reuben with onion rings and Ron ordered a Cajun seafood omelet. I’m pretty daring when it comes to food, but a Cajun seafood omelet was a bit much for my taste. Eggs and sefood together?

“So, what’s new with you?” Ron asked after a sip of the tea he’d ordered just before I arrived. He’d requested a cup of coffee for me—very thoughtful.

“Not much. I’m at a dead end on both fronts. I don’t have a clue who’s messing with Butler Farms and no leads on who shot Alice. Pretty damn frustrating. Maybe I should go back to office work and kiss the detective thing goodbye.”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re better than you think you are. Besides, being confined to an eight-by-eight cubicle really ain’t your style. You’d go freaking crazy in no time.”

“I appreciate the confidence but I’m not so sure. I’m totally baffled.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you know an attorney who can work miracles. I might need a court order to have access to some information.”

“Actually, I do know such an attorney. She’s worked for my father a few times and Dad swears by her.”

 “Oh yeah?”

“Her name is Trianna Weatherly. She mostly assists with corporate and other business matters. But Dad says she’s on top of just about everything lawyer related.”

“Trianna Weatherly? Don't think I 've heard of her.”

“Yeah. She’s got an office over on Truxton Avenue, not far from the courthouse.”

“I’ll check her out. Thanks.”

Our food arrived a few minutes later. We made a bunch of small talk as we ate.

Ron swiped at his mouth with his napkin. “I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like to go out to dinner Friday night.”

“Yeah. I think I’d like that. Got a place in mind?”

“How about the Hungry Hunter Steakhouse up on Rosedale?”

“Sounds good to me,” I answered. “I haven’t been there in quite a while.”

“Okay, it’s a date.” Ron glanced at his watch. “But right now, gotta head down the road. I have an appointment in half an hour. I’ll pick you up at five Friday night. I’ll make reservations for five-thirty. It gets super crowded by six and the next couple of hours. Maybe we can beat the crowd by getting there a little early.”

“Sounds perfect.” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out my credit card holder. When I reached for the plastic, Ron tapped my hand.

“Put it away. Your money’s no good today.”

“Thanks.”

We slid from the booth and exited the restaurant. As we strode to the parking lot, he reached for my hand and I allowed him to take it. My emotions were in a tug of war. I’d pretty much been removed from the romance stuff for close to a year and I missed it more than I cared to admit. My interlude with Ron in Vegas was nice—very nice. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to move toward a possible relationship that required commitment and all that stuff. At the moment, my only commitment was to myself and my job and I liked that. Romance can turn everything upside down and inside-out if you let it.

When we arrived at Ron’s car, he seemed as uncertain as I did about how to say goodbye. I took the initiative and gave him a hug with a kiss on the cheek. He kissed me on the forehead.

“See ya Friday,” he said.

“Looking forward to it. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I was parked a short distance away. I slid onto Patsy’s seat without looking back. I’d gone but a few blocks down 24th Street when my phone indicated Max was on the other end. I pulled into a store parking lot and picked up on the call.

“Hey Big Brother. Ya doing okay?”

“Doing fine. I called to tell you I finally got some information on the guy in the Camaro.”

“And?”

“He’s not Alice’s killer. His credit card indicated he’d ordered food at the In and Out Burger in Visalia at almost the same time Alice was shot. And he’s on video at a nearby bank just minutes prior to that, taking money from an ATM. Sorry, but he’s not your guy.”

“Damn! I was hoping like hell …”

“Yeah, I know. But he can prove he wasn’t in Bakersfield at the time Alice was murdered.”

“Any idea why he was so determined to run from you the other day?”

“For one thing, the car was stolen, and second, he has an outstanding warrant for failure to appear in court—something about a drug case.”

“I guess his rap sheet just got longer.”

“Yep, a lot longer.”

“Another dead end,” I said after a sigh. “I’m getting real tired of dead ends.”

“Hang in there. You’ll find an answer. You’re a good detective.”

“Thanks Max. Sometimes I wonder. Anyway, let me know what you get when you run those names I gave you earlier.”

“Will do. Talk to ya later.”

My head dropped until my forehead rested on the top of Patsy’s over-sized steering wheel. After taking in and then expelling way too much air, I raised my head and leaned hard against the seat back. I had no bad guys on my list, no leads to any bad guys, and no idea what to do next. Some days just suck. This one would put a top-of-the-line Hoover to shame—other than lunch with Ron.

I revisitied the pep talks I'd gotten from Ron and Max. Maybe they were right; maybe I didn't have enough confidence in myself. I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. I reset my mental state. I was determined to do anything possible to resolve those two challenges. Thanks, guys!

Look out, world. Olivia Michelle Grace is recharged and on her way.

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