The Silent Widow

‘Interesting,’ said Goodman. ‘Smarter than I thought. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I got the feeling she was almost playing with me at times. As if there were a double meaning to everything she said.’

He filled Johnson in on his interview with Valentina Baden, how she’d confirmed almost to the letter the story he’d been given by the odious Nathan Grolsch.

‘She’s convinced Brandon’s dead. No doubt in her mind.’

‘I think so too,’ said Johnson.

Goodman thought for a moment. Did he agree? He remembered the forcefulness of Valentina Baden’s parting words to him. ‘Take my word for it, Detective. Brandon Grolsch is not coming back.’ He’d had overdoses before. All told it did seem the most likely scenario.

‘OK. So let’s assume he’s dead. Where does that leave us?’

The two men sat and sipped their drinks in quiet contemplation. Johnson broke the silence:

‘How about this. Our perp kills Brandon first. Figures he’s a junkie, he’s a nobody, nobody’s going to miss him. He, or she, holds on to the corpse. Then, when they kill Lisa, and later when they think they’ve killed Trey and leave him for dead, they plant Brandon’s DNA on the victims, to cover their tracks.’

‘You don’t buy the overdose story, then?’ Goodman asked.

‘Maybe,’ said Johnson. ‘Maybe Brandon’s already dead, and our perp gets hold of his corpse somehow. That would explain us having no record of it at the morgue.’

‘Like how?’ Goodman frowned. ‘How would someone get hold of Brandon Grolsch’s corpse?’

‘Maybe this “Rachel” sold it,’ said Johnson, matter-of-factly.

‘That’s sick,’ said Goodman.

‘It’s a sick world we live in,’ observed Johnson. ‘We need to find her, you know.’

Goodman nodded.

Both men relapsed into silence as they finished their beers.

Later that night, Willie Baden stared out of the window as his private plane took off. He’d managed to secure a slot to fly out of LA early, the one really good thing that had happened all week. Not that he enjoyed leaving Los Angeles, or his beloved team behind him. But needs must. He had to return to Mexico. His associates there had made that point brutally clear, and for now they held the upper hand in Willie’s latest business arrangement. Not for long, though. Once the focus of operations shifted back to Los Angeles, he would have the home field advantage. If he played his cards right, that stood to make him an obscene amount of money.

If …

Below him the lights of the city spread out like a blanket of fireflies, glinting in the darkness. At least it had been a successful trip. The chubby detective had got nothing useful out of him. With Glen by his side, Willie had stuck doggedly to the script, and they’d let him go.

‘Something to drink, sir?’ the flight attendant asked. She was new, this one, and not at all attractive. Valentina had replaced the old model, the luscious Conchita, in a fit of pique after his affair with Lisa hit the headlines.

‘Vodka tonic,’ Willie grunted. Perhaps it would help him relax.

He’d wanted Valentina to fly back with him, but to his surprise and irritation, she’d insisted on staying on a few more days.

‘I want to get my hair done,’ she told him. ‘And I have people to see.’

‘What people?’ Willie demanded.

She turned on him angrily. ‘I don’t have to account for my movements to you, Willie,’ she spat. ‘You forced me to come all the way here and talk to the police. I may as well make use of the time. God knows when we’ll next be back, after all.’

The thought of his angry, vengeful wife staying on in LA alone was not a reassuring one. But he was hardly in a position to prevent it, and on the grand scale of Willie Baden’s worries right now, it was nowhere close to the top. Still, it baffled him. Twenty-four hours ago, Valentina had ranted and raved about not wanting to leave Cabo, yet now she refused to return.

Whatever. Willie had long ago given up trying to fathom the workings of the female mind. Hopefully, his wife’s beloved charity would continue to distract her while he focused on how to make his ‘arrangement’ with his new Latino business partner work to his advantage. Ironically it was Valentina who’d introduced them, although Willie suspected his wife knew little of what a dangerous man he really was. It’s like being in bed with a cobra, thought Willie. The rewards could be huge. But the risks were appalling and constant.

I’m too old for this, he reflected, as his drink arrived and he downed it in one long, tremulous gulp. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.

From the balcony of her suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Valentina Baden watched the tail lights of a plane move through the night sky.

Willie would be in the air by now. Soon, she would have to follow him. But not yet. Not tonight. The thought of a few days alone, a few precious hours of total freedom, was exhilarating beyond anything Valentina had felt in years. It was almost like being young again. Young and beautiful and desired …