Chapter 12
Phil Mason looked out the big picture window of the condo sipping a cup of coffee laced with Kahlua and felt the quiet of the house. No one nagging at him, no one to yank on the purse strings and no one to worry about ever again. He practiced his widower face, frowning slightly, turning down his mouth just a fraction. He even considered putting drops in his eyes to make them tear up. Life would be good now. He’d never put himself in this position again, no woman was worth it. He had enough money from Lisa’s estate to live comfortably, close to a million. Give it a few months and he could move to Sri Lanka. His dollars would stretch for years if he were careful and if he could find a rich widow in need of a loving consort.
He decided he would go to the bank early next week to close out the accounts and get the contents of the safety deposit box. He would move slowly and very, very carefully. Those detectives might be back. Everything he could think of had been purged. It wouldn’t hurt to check once again just to be sure. While he was contemplating other drawers and cabinets to clean, the phone rang.
“Phil, honey, how are you doing?” Monique Richards in her little girl voice breathlessly intruded on the perfect moment.
“Monique, I told you to cool it. Don’t call me here or on my cell phone for awhile. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.”
“But, darling, I miss you so. Don’t you want some comfort? I could come over and take care of you.” She shook out her long blonde hair, ran her hands through it pretending she was with him.
“Stop it. You cannot come over here. Cops are still hanging around asking questions. The last thing I need is cops finding you here.” His voice took on an edge she knew only too well from past encounters.
“Okay. I can wait for you to call, just remember we’re in this together so don’t get any funny ideas. Even Stevens. I suggest you go pick up a throw away cell phone and get hold of me so we can get some plans put together. I suggest you get it today. If you haven’t called me by tomorrow, I’ll be coming by.” Monique’s little girl voice took on a harpy quality and sweetness left her. “You listen to me, Phil, you’re not dumping me. I’ve put my neck on the line for you. Just you remember that.” She slammed down the phone.
Monique Richards contemplated her explosion. Used to getting whatever she set her mind to, this glitch was just a mild stumbling block.
Raised in Prescott, adopted by her mother’s parents, she had the best of everything. Married and divorced twice by the age of 26, she banked settlements from both husbands that put her over six figures. The money was put to good use, breast enhancements, botox lips, new eyes. Her blonde hair rarely showed the original dark she was born with. A tummy tuck might be in the coming years, but for now her personal trainer helped keep the belly fat at bay as did the fact she had no kids. Rumor had connected her to a big land developer who closed up shop and moved to Texas without wife, kids and his money. At social events, women hung onto their men fearing the vulture.
Before settling on Phil Mason, Monique engaged in an openly public affair with a prominent, very married banker whose wife was from old money Prescott. The wife, discovering his philandering ways, took a gun to the country club, shot up his Mercedes, poured a gallon of red paint on the hood, and prepared to turn her gun on Monique, when security arrived. The lesson for Monique consisted of “be more careful, not give it up.”
A degree in economics prepared her for her current job as a stock broker with her grandfather’s firm. She came and went, working when and if she wanted and still drawing down a full salary. Plans were for her to step into the presidential suite when her grandfather/father retired within the next couple years.
Phil carefully put the portable phone back in its cradle and sat down with a fresh cup of coffee topped off with his homemade Kahlua. Monique was going to present a problem for him. He’d have to be careful. He couldn’t afford to let her stay mad, but he also knew he had to watch his back with her. She could be a vindictive little bitch. It would take some of his best finessing and it would take some detailed planning. He finished his coffee, stood up to check on the rest of the drawers and cabinets when the doorbell rang. Peeking out the security window, he took a step back seeing the detectives had returned. He tried to collect his composure before opening the door, unsuccessfully.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Mason, may we come in? We have a warrant for your wife’s paperwork. Here’s a copy. It says we can collect bank statements, credit card statements, any financial papers, and electronic devices, not limited to computers, phones, PDAs, tablets, IPODs. If you’ll just have a seat here, we’ll try to be as fast as we can.” Fred handed him a copy, escorted him to the leather couch and gently pushed him down. “Detective Wolfe, you take upstairs, I’ll take this level.”
The office upstairs was a treasure trove. Oriole photographed, collected, and tagged boxes of financial information. Lisa had indeed been meticulous about record keeping. Files for taxes, each of the bank accounts, household bills, and personal files filled filing cabinets. The laptop and her tablet remained plugged in at her desk. Oriole gathered every item that had any pertinence to the investigation. Closing the last box, Oriole had the unmistakable feeling she had missed something very important. She looked from left to right and top to bottom trying to quell the uneasiness. Putting aside her concerns temporarily, she carried the boxes downstairs to check with Fred.
“Fred, I listed items starting with the 200 series, using 100 series for the first subpoena. You can start with 288. Something’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it. When you’re done, let’s regroup and see if you can help me figure it out.”
“I’m just about done, not much down here. In fact very little down here. I’ll start carrying boxes out. You check the garage and see if there’s anything we need. I used the 300 series down here. These boxes are ready.”
“I already checked the garage, nothing we need there. You got the last box? Let me grab my purse.” Oriole’s eyes popped. You could see the light bulb go on in her mind. “Quick, come here. Outside now!”
Fred and Oriole stepped outside. “Fred, I just had an epiphany. I’m upstairs thinking I’m missing something and for the life of me it won’t come. I reached for my purse and it struck me. Where is Lisa’s purse? Where are her keys?” Oriole’s excitement was uncontainable.
Fred, who didn’t carry a purse, missed the significance. “Okay, so her purse is missing. So?”
“It wasn’t at Lampier Ranch with her. It isn’t here at the condo. Where is it? Women don’t go anywhere without their purse. Another issue is how did she get out to Lampier? Where is her car? Not in the garage. We need to put out a BOLO for the car. Why is her purse missing?” Oriole paced back and forth in front of the SUV.
“Why do women always take their purse? Don’t they ever go anywhere without it?” Fred knew about guns, knives, grenades, horses, and trucks, but he didn’t know shit about women.
“You crazy head. Our lives are in our purse. You’ll find everything from a knife to nylons, makeup to munchies. We can survive for a day or two just on what’s in our purse.”
“No wonder they’re so heavy.” Fred gave up on female logic and started the car.