If I Live Read online

  “Dylan! How ya doing, man?” I turn and see Kurt Keegan, Detective Keegan’s son, who I also went to school with. We were pretty good friends in high school, but I haven’t seen him but once since I got back stateside.

  I shake his hand as if nothing has changed. For all I know, he’s tight with his father and is part of Keegan’s criminal circle. But he was always a good guy when I knew him, nothing like his dad. The pull of money is always a change-maker, though.

  I shoot the breeze with him, hoping he doesn’t mention to his dad that I was at the scene.

  “So I hear you’ve been working on Brent’s case,” he says. “My dad was a little irritated that they hired you.”

  “We’re helping each other out,” I say, evading.

  “Yeah, I bet. He likes to micromanage. I would imagine you’re butting heads. Just hang in there. We should have lunch sometime. Catch up.”

  I give him the same number his dad has and tell him to call me when he has some time. I don’t know quite what to think of what he said. Is he feeling me out for his old man, or is he really clueless?

  Later, I look up his address and drive by. He lives in an apartment not much better than mine. There’s a vehicle in his parking space, a pickup that’s probably five years old. If he has money, he’s not spending it on things like that. But then, neither is Keegan. His toys are all carefully hidden and are owned under aliases. Nothing I’ve seen yet has implicated Kurt, but I’m not stupid enough to think that his dad left him out.

  I hope he calls me so we can have lunch. If he’s involved in Brent Pace’s death—or anyone else’s—I’ll take him down too. I have no nostalgic allegiance to murderers.

  6

  CASEY

  The Craig’s List ad I answered is for someone to “earn up to $2,000 a month working from home,” and I figure the fewer people I encounter per day, the better off I’ll be. I did a phone interview already with the wife of the attorney who is hiring. She didn’t tell me much about the job I’ll be doing, but she asked me to come in for an interview with her husband.

  I take special care on my makeup and wear my frizzy wig, hoping neither of them will recognize me from the news. At least my voice isn’t recognizable, since the media has only been showing my pictures.

  In a strip mall, I find the office. “Billy Barbero, Esquire,” says a bronze sign next to their door. It’s not an upscale law firm, just a one-man show. And when I step inside, I realize just how downscale it is. His wife, the woman I talked to on the phone, is probably fifty, wearing a pair of jeggings that don’t flatter her fleshy thighs, and a baggy Metallica sweatshirt. Her desk is covered with binders and stacks of paper, with only a small area cleared out for her to write on.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Liana Winters. I have an appointment with Mr. Barbero?”

  “Yes, I talked to you,” she says, looking around her desk for something. She pulls a clipboard out from under some notebooks and hands it to me. “If you don’t mind, fill out this application so we’ll have all your info. He’s with a client right now, so it’ll be just a minute.”

  As I take the clipboard and sit down, she yells out, “Billy, Liana Winters is here!”

  I look up, startled. Through the door, he yells back, “Who?”

  “The girl we’re hiring!” she yells back.

  I’m encouraged that she’s already identified me as the new hire, but I can see that it’s not a conventional law office. I fill out the application with fake information about Liana Winters, including employment history. I don’t know what will come in handy for this job, since I’m not sure what it entails, but they could clearly use a receptionist or administrative assistant. I truly was an office manager at my job before Brent’s murder, and I was good at it, so I write that down with a fake address and hope they won’t try to check my references. Somehow, I don’t think they’re organized enough.

  When I’m almost done, the door opens to his office, and a young woman with a service dog—a German shepherd— comes through the door. She looks a little like Natalie Portman, but she’s wearing dark glasses. She must be blind. “Marge, can you call my ride for me?”

  “Sure thing, hon.”

  The man I assume is the attorney is in a wheelchair—the narrow kind with no armrests—and he wheels out rapidly behind her. He has long gray hair to his shoulders and is wearing a T-shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee.

  Marge calls for the ride as the blind girl says some parting things to the attorney, and I wait quietly, finishing my application. When Marge hangs up, she says, “He’s not answering, sweetie.”

  “Figures,” the blind girl says. “He knows I need him. Maybe he’s heading this way. I’ll wait outside and keep trying him.”

  She lets the dog lead her to the door. Once she’s out, I get up and step toward the attorney. “Hi, I’m Liana.”

  Barbero shakes my hand. “Come on into my office,” he says. “Help yourself to our coffeemaker if you want some coffee. It’s all DIY around here.”

  I don’t really want any, so I decline and follow him in.

  His office looks like a tornado hit it. Binders are stacked halfway up the wall, filling every space behind his desk. Half of his desk is covered with papers, but he does have a clear space in front of where he parks his chair.

  “So . . . Marge hired you, did she?”

  “Um . . . I guess she did.”

  He looks down at my application, nods approvingly, then says, “So let me tell you what we do here.”

  “Okay.”

  “I represent disabled clients. The gal you saw in here is one of them. We sue establishments that aren’t following the Americans with Disabilities Act.” He stops and chuckles. “We have hundreds of lawsuits in progress all over the country. Unfortunately, one of my best researchers just passed away. Pneumonia, nasty case. Didn’t expect that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Anyway, we need to replace him.”

  “What does a researcher do?” I ask.

  “I need you to find violations of the Act. Hotels that don’t have wheelchair-accessible pools, mainly. That’s our biggest moneymaker and they’re easiest to find.”

  I nod. “So you want me to go around to the local hotels?”

  “No, ma’am,” he says. “Not physically. You’ll use Google Earth or Google Maps. Pick out a city and zoom in over every motel listed in the area, and if you can’t see the pool lift beside the pool, we’ll sue them.”

  “Really?” I ask. “It’s that easy?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he says. “The law’s the law.”

  He types something on the computer, finds a Google Earth satellite image of a pool behind a hotel, and shows me what a pool lift looks like. “It’s rectangular, like this. If you see anything like this, just skip over it. If you don’t see one, call the motel and ask them if they have a pool lift. Then give me the name of the hotel and their address and phone number and I’ll sue them on behalf of one of my clients.”

  I think of all the motels I’ve stayed in, and I’ve never seen a pool lift. But I haven’t been looking for one. “So . . . you don’t have to be a customer of the motel to sue it?”

  “Nope. Under the law we can sue them without ever going to the place. It’s an important service to the disabled community.”

  I stare at the satellite image. “I think I can do this.”

  “All you need is a good Internet connection. You’ll get paid by the number of leads you give me. Ten bucks a lead.”

  It seems easy enough, but I won’t know how much that will make me until I try it. “I can start right away.”

  “Then welcome to your new job,” he says, reaching out his hand again. I shake it and get to my feet. “Just e-mail your leads to us, and keep up with them yourself to make sure Marge pays you the right amount. She’s kind of a mess. You can bring them here if you want to make sure she gets them.”

  “Okay, I will. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Barbero.” />
  “Call me Billy. We’re not formal here.”

  “Okay, Billy.”

  He wheels out behind me as I go back into the front office, smiling. “Thank you, Marge,” I say.

  “When’s she starting?” she asks him.

  “Now. I think she’ll be a go-getter. Good hire.”

  I’m feeling good about this when I step out of the office. I’m walking to my car when I see the blind girl and her dog waiting on the sidewalk.

  I walk over to her. “Excuse me, I heard you were having trouble getting in touch with your ride.”

  She looks just to the left of my face. “Yeah . . . who are you?”

  “I’m Liana Winters,” I say, confident because she can’t see my face. “The Barberos just hired me to be their researcher. If you still need a ride, I’d be happy to give you one.”

  “Really?” she asks. “That’s fantastic. I can pay you. I can’t get Uber because I can’t see the app. I ought to get Billy to sue them. I was going to call the cab company next, but Siri isn’t cooperating on my phone.”

  She introduces me to her dog, Butch. He seems friendly, but focused. I lead them to my car, not certain how much help they need. I clean off my back seat and put my emergency bag into my trunk so the dog will have room, then I open the door for her.

  She seems about my age and has a friendly expression on her face. I’m sorry she can’t see, but I’m glad she can’t see me.

  She lets the dog in, then easily gets into the front. I slide into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

  She gives me the address. “What did you say your name is again?”

  “Liana Winters,” I say. “And yours?”

  “Claire.”

  “So you’re one of Billy’s clients?”

  “Yep. He was a godsend. He saw me in a Starbucks getting coffee, and asked me if I wanted to earn some cash.”

  “So you work for him too?”

  “No, he kind of works for me. I’m a plaintiff. He uses my name on some of his lawsuits. He has a stable of disabled people whose names he uses. Gives us a cut.”

  “Oh.” I’m quiet for a moment, not sure if that sounds legitimate. I hope she’s not being taken advantage of.

  “I figure we’re helping disabled people everywhere, you know? The lawsuits just make it more possible for us to have access to things. And it’s a good living for me.”

  I decide not to judge their motives or intentions. It must be legal or they wouldn’t be doing it, I tell myself.

  She lives in a nice neighborhood in a fairly new house. I pull into the driveway, and she gets out and opens the back door for Butch to hop down. “Thanks so much for the ride. It wasn’t awkward and painful like rides can sometimes be.”

  “Glad to. Anytime.”

  “Really?” she asks. “Because I’m always looking for people to drive me.”

  “Sure.” I tell her my phone number.

  She hands me her phone. “Will you put it in my contacts list so Siri can find you? That is, if she’s in a cooperative mood.”

  I navigate to her contacts and type my info in. Before giving it back, I grab a Kleenex and wipe off my prints. I hand it back to her, still holding it with the tissue. She doesn’t notice as she takes it.

  “I need to do some shopping for my niece’s birthday party. You can work in the car if there’s an Internet connection nearby.”

  “Yeah, that would work fine.”

  She pulls a ten out of her pocket and hands it to me.

  “You don’t have to pay me,” I say.

  “Yes, I do. If you don’t take my money, I won’t call you again.”

  Grinning, I take it and stuff it into my purse. “Okay, then.”

  “I’ll call you about the shopping.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “Bye, Claire.”

  I watch as she gets into her house, then I back out of the driveway and head home, smiling that I’ve made a new friend. I like her company, and I like even more that she won’t be able to see me on the news.

  I feel like God has provided once again. I whisper a quiet “Thank you.”

  7

  DYLAN

  I’m striking out in my investigation of the dead Mr. Brauer, so I wait until the day after the funeral, then pay a visit to his house. There are three cars parked in the driveway, so it looks like someone is home.

  I park my car on the street, hoping that Keegan and Rollins don’t happen by and see it. It also wouldn’t be good if she told them I talked to her, but that seems unlikely, especially if she thinks they might have had something to do with her husband’s murder.

  Then again, I could be barking up the wrong tree entirely. It could have been a random robbery, a drug deal, or something else that has nothing to do with the police department. But my gut tells me that’s not the case.

  I knock on the door, and after a moment, a young woman cracks the door open, keeping the chain lock engaged. “Yes?”

  I decide not to show her my police credentials, because anything police-related is likely to spook them. “Hi, my name is Dylan Roberts. I’m a private investigator. I was wondering if I might have a word with Mrs. Brauer.”

  The girl studies me, then says, “She’s already told the police everything she knows.”

  “I know, but I’m not with the police force. I’m kind of coming at this from a different angle.” I lower my voice. “I’m working on a case that may intersect with this one. It’s very important that I talk to her.”

  She frowns and lifts her eyebrows, then says, “Wait here just a minute.” The door closes and I wait on the porch, hoping they’re not calling the police to check on me.

  After a few minutes, an older woman comes to the door and unlocks the chain. She has deep lines on her forehead and red blotches under her eyes. She peeks out suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  “I wondered if I could talk to you privately,” I say quietly. “I’m investigating a case that has led me to believe that there are some dirty police officers on the force. I’m trying to figure out if your husband got crossed up with them.”

  She opens the door now and steps out, looks from left to right as if searching for anyone who might be staking out her house. Finally, she says, “Come in.”

  I step inside and she quickly closes the door behind me. She turns to the girl, who I assume is her daughter. “Go check on the food in the oven,” she says in a German accent. “I need to talk to him alone.”

  Now that we’re under the lights, the girl looks college aged. She disappears into the kitchen, leaving us alone. Mrs. Brauer gestures toward a chair, and I lower myself into it. She sits on the couch adjacent to me.

  “Have you talked to the police?” I ask her.

  “Yes. But not about what had been happening. I cannot trust any of them.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  She pauses and seems to think about it, then lets the words spill. “He goes to work at six or six thirty every morning to get things set up before the first employees arrive. He always keeps the door locked behind him. That’s what makes me think he knew this person or he would not have let them in.”

  “Was the lock broken? Any sign of forced entry?”

  She shakes her head no. “Whoever it was came in through an unlocked door. My husband would not have unlocked it just for anyone. Not for a stranger.”

  “Mrs. Brauer, can you tell me if you were having any financial problems?”

  “Yes, we were having problems.” Tears spring to her eyes, turning the whites pink. “That’s why he couldn’t pay.”

  “Couldn’t pay who?”

  “The cops.” She gets up and walks to the door to the kitchen and peers in to make sure her daughter isn’t listening. Then she comes back to the couch and her voice lowers even more. “They came every month and demanded payment. Thousands of dollars for protection, they said. But we did not have it. Business was slow, and we had a daughter in college, and he couldn’t pay. They warned
him there would be consequences.”

  “So when did he tell them he couldn’t pay?”

  “Two days ago,” she says, her eyes taking on a distressed, panicked look. “He came home worried. He didn’t sleep that whole night. He told me he wanted me to get out of town, but I wouldn’t go. I didn’t want to leave him. He thought they would make an example of him. He told them he needed more time to get the money, but this was the second time in a row he had told them that. They had been there two weeks before and had given him that extra amount of time. He was really scared. He tried to get a second mortgage on our house, but it was turned down. We didn’t have enough equity.”

  “Did he ever tell you who the police officers were?”

  She rubs her forehead, then says, “Detective Keegan and another man named Rollins. When they come they’re not in police uniforms. Just plain clothes. It’s terrible what they do to the businesses. We’re struggling to make ends meet as it is, and they take our profits so that we can’t even support ourselves. And now they’ve done this to send a message to all the other businesses around. Every business owner around us knows who did it, but no one will tell you because they’re scared themselves.”

  Her pitch is rising, and she gets up, grabs a tissue from a box near the couch. She wads it up and wipes the tears on her face. “Do you have any power to stop them? This should not happen. This is America.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I may need your testimony,” I say. “Your husband isn’t the only one who’s been killed. I’m very close to having enough evidence to turn over to the DA. But I’m going to need your help. Would you be willing to testify?”

  She hesitates, but then she lifts her chin. “Yes, I would. If I can help get that scum off the streets, yes, I will testify.”

  “Mrs. Brauer, is there anyplace you could go for a couple weeks? I’m worried for your safety.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” she says. “I want to leave town. I really want my daughter out of here. I cannot let her know too much because I am afraid she could not stay quiet. They would kill her.”