Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
Chapter Twenty
"I'M NOT ASKING your permission, Steele. I'm telling you. Advising you. Informing you. Call it what you will."
My voice was even, my tone matter-of-fact, as I stood in front of Mike Steele's modern chrome and black lacquered desk. The office was done in black, white, and silver, with a splash of primary color here and there. The whole room looked like it'd been lifted from some artsy-fartsy modern museum. Steele was sprawled lazily in his leather swivel chair, pivoting back and forth like an antsy kid waiting for recess. Every time his chair moved, it squeaked. His impudence annoyed the hell out of me, but I kept my face a blank.
"I'm taking a few days off next week, at least Monday and Tuesday," I informed him for the second time in less than two minutes. "And it's already been approved. I just wanted you to know."
"That's very inconsiderate of you, Odelia," he said in a voice dripping with reproach. "You know I need to get those qualification papers out to Hilldale. I promised them by next Friday."
He was always difficult when I wanted to take time off. It was one of the reasons I seldom did. Mike Steele and I had been working together in an edgy relationship for nearly five years. During that time I had maxed out my vacation accrual because I was too intimidated and weary to fight for what was mine. And when I did, I'd always had Mr. Wallace there to grant me the time off in spite of Steele's objections. Soon, that buffer would be gone and I would be on my own with this jerk. I had better be ready for battle.
With ceremony, I dropped an unsealed FedEx package on his desk. Inside were the documents he was talking about, prepared, and ready for signature.
"They're going out tonight," I informed him. "Hilldale will have them Monday morning by ten-thirty."
Steele stopped playing in his chair and sat up straight. He pulled the stack of documents halfway out of the envelope.
"Nice work," he said tightly, his jaw clenched.
Stuffing the papers back into the package, he shoved it across the desk in my direction. I'd taken the teeth out of his power play, a most grievous sin.
Gathering up the package of documents, I started to make my exit. With barely a glance in his direction, I said in a very professional manner, "Everything else due early next week is also completed. The other matters can wait until I return."
After sealing the overnight package and dropping it off for the five-thirty pickup, I went back to my desk. I continued working, getting things organized so I wouldn't come back to a mess on Wednesday. Or maybe Thursday. I had asked Mr. Wallace for two days off, with a footnote I might need one more. He hadn't minded. Steele was the control freak. But Steele wasn't stupid when it came to office politics. He knew better than to try to overturn an approval of vacation time given by Mr. Wallace, especially for no good reason other than spite.
After my lunch with Marcia Olsen and Granny-Get-Your-Gun, I'd decided to sink my teeth into Sophie's murder in a big way. I now called it murder with absolutely no looking back. There were too many arrows pointing in that direction to ignore. Still nothing concrete in the evidence department, but after seeing those photographs and reading the articles Marcia gave me, I didn't have a dog hair's doubt. Neither did I doubt that Hollowell was buried up to his neck in dung. I just couldn't prove it...yet.
I checked the time—five-ten. In about three hours I'd be sitting across from Hollowell trying to make nice-nice, while rooting around for information that could nail him, or his accomplice.
I felt exhaustion wash over me once more. It had come and gone in waves all afternoon. Since lunch, I had been working feverishly, getting projects for next week done and out the door in record time. Thankfully, I ran an organized desk and was able to prioritize and complete assignments easier than most. I planned on working another hour-and-a-half, giving myself just enough time to get home, shower, and dress for dinner.
After stretching out my kinks, I filled my mug with the dregs of the day's coffee, and prayed I didn't drop face first into my entrée tonight. Here and there during the afternoon, I had done some online research on Hollowell. Not as much as I would have liked, but time had been tight. I believe in the saying that knowledge is power, and I wanted to be as fully armed as possible before I met him again.
A few days ago, before meeting him for the first time, I'd run Hollowell's name through a California public records check. I found the purchase of his home and other real estate dealings, but not much else. That was when I first learned that his wife's name was Clarice. I also did a check on his company, Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company, under the California Secretary of State web site. The corporation had been listed, along with its registered agent. It had been in existence about twenty-five years. Printing the information, I had filed it away for a rainy day. Now, with a lull in the day's activities, I pulled it out, reading it for possible clues. The Secretary of State's web site listed only limited information. My experienced eyes scanned each morsel of data, looking more for what wasn't reported, than for what was.
Hmmmm. What have we here? I did some quick calculations. Sophie was forty-seven when she died. Peter Olsen had said both he and Hollowell were just one year older. That meant Hollowell was about twenty-three when this company was incorporated. That seemed mighty young to begin a new and thriving corporation, but it could be done.
Still, it could be a toehold.
I plugged in the web address for the research site used by most lawyers and law firms. After providing my password, I did a search under California Business and Corporation Information. Several hits popped up. I focused on the first one, only to find the same information I had discovered on the Secretary of State's site, except that this also listed John Hollowell as the president and chairman of the corporation. Not surprising that he was the big cheese of the whole shebang.
Scrolling down, I clicked another possibility, but it was just a fictitious name filing. Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company had filed the appropriate forms in Orange County to do business under HJ Financing. That had been about nine years ago. The next search result was similar, only this time the filing had been in Los Angeles County. The information for both was straight forward and unremarkable. It was the description of the next search item, the fourth finding, that caught my eye.
In the State of California, if a corporation wishes to change its name, it must file a Certificate of Amendment with the Secretary of State. According to the records I found online, Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company had once been called Woodall Development Corporation. The change had been made eighteen years ago.
Yanking my tote bag from my side desk drawer, I rummaged through it, locating the old newspaper clippings. I scanned the dates quickly.
Woodall died twenty-two years ago. Baby Hollowell died seventeen years ago. Somewhere in between, John Hollowell had married Woodall's widow, sired a son by her, and changed the name of her dead husband's company to his own name.
Nice work if you can get it.
Quickly, I input a new search command. This time for Woodall Development Corporation.
Scanning the list of short descriptions for each search result, I settled on one promising hit. It was the corporate information for Woodall Development Corporation at the time of its incorporation. I read the computer screen, then compared it with the printed page of information for Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company.
The registered agent for both Hollowell-Johnson and Woodall Development had been someone named Glenn Thomas. Not unusual since it had been a simple name change. The address for service on the registered agent was an address in Santa Ana. Thomas was probably an attorney or officer of the corporation. Too bad the entire slate of officers wasn't listed on either web site I was using; it would have been helpful. California requires that each corporation file a Statement of Officers with the Secretary of State's office, but a copy could take three to seven working days to obtain.
Glenn Thomas. Glenn Thomas. I'd heard that name before. But where? My memory was working hard to jog a pebble loose, but to no avail.
Checking my watch again, I noted that it was almost six. I still had some things to get done before I left for my working vacation. Reluctantly, I closed down the site, but not before printing the new information out.
Glenn Thomas. The name lingered on my tongue along with the bitter cold coffee I was drinking. I knew it would come to me. These things always nagged me until I remembered them, usually in the shower or in the middle of the night.
"YOU COME TO the restaurant, Greg Stevens, and I will personally steal the wheels off your chair and leave you up on concrete blocks!"
Cradling the cordless phone between my left ear and my shoulder, I continued getting dressed for my dinner date with Hollowell.
"It's not safe, Odelia," Greg replied. His voice was strong and insistent. "You shouldn't go alone."
I was wearing my relationship undies—black silk bra and matching hi-cut panties—not a hole or loose elastic in sight. Looking in the full-length mirror, I suddenly wondered why. This wasn't a real date. And I certainly didn't intend for Hollowell to get this close to skin. But it felt good, and lately I hadn't had much chance to dress up. I had even shaved my legs.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, sheer black pantyhose in the other.
"It's a public place. What's he going to do, whack me in front of God and everyone?"
More than once during this conversation, I wished I hadn't told Greg about the two newspaper articles or the corporate stuff. Maybe it was naïve on my part, but I didn't expect him to react quite so strongly.
Fortunately, I hadn't told Zee yet about the new developments. She wasn't home when I called after work, so I just left a message that I was going out to dinner. I knew she'd be as agitated as Greg if she knew about Hollowell's past.
It was a ritual, a safety device Zee and I had set up a long time ago. No matter where I went, if I was on a date with someone new, I would call and leave the information with Zee and Seth, or at least on their answering machine. If I ever ended up a missing person, it would give them some clue where to start looking. I'd done the same when I met Greg for breakfast.
I stopped dressing and tried to reason once more with Greg. "Besides, look at Hollowell's track record. If the articles do link him to those deaths, it certainly doesn't look like he gets his own hands dirty. Seems to me he's more of a remote control kind of killer, not a hands-on killer." There was a pause. "And he'll never loosen up with you there, admit it."
"I could just be there," he insisted, "in the background. You know, blend in."
"No."
I tried shouldering the phone while I struggled into my hose. It wasn't working. "Greg, hang on a minute."
I put the phone down. First, I slipped one foot into the silky fabric, then the other, working the nylon up my legs, a little at a time, one side at a time. Standing, I finished pulling the tight weave up and over my generous behind, grunting along the way. Gawd, I hate control top pantyhose. Every time I wore them, I waited for the elastic fibers to give, exploding like thousands of wild broken springs capable of putting an eye out.
Satisfied finally with the fit, I picked up the phone again. "Sorry, just had to pull on my hose."
"Too bad you don't have a web cam," Greg said with a wicked laugh. "Would love to see that."
"You wish, mister."
We laughed together, easing the tension.
"Seriously, Odelia, please be careful. You'll have your cell phone with you, won't you?"
"Won't fit in my evening bag." It was true. My favorite evening bag was a satin envelope not much bigger than a thank you note. It barely held essentials such as keys, driver's license, money, linen hankie, and lipstick.
"Damn it, woman! Take a bigger bag! Better yet, call me just before you see him and leave the phone on so I can hear everything."
"Greg," I said with a sigh, "I'll be fine. I promise you I'll call as soon as I get home."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart, bra and everything."
"One more promise, Odelia?"
"You're using up precious promises, Greg. You might want to bank a few for later."
He chuckled, then said in a serious tone, "Promise me you'll use valet parking."
"Valet parking?"
"Yes, valet parking. Promise me you won't park in some lot where he can walk you alone to your car. I need to know you'll be standing in front of a well-lit building with other people when he says goodbye to you."
I hesitated, thinking about his request.
"Damn it!" he said, almost shouting. "I'll even pay for it."
Now I felt bad. He was genuinely concerned about me and I was yanking his chain.
"Greg," I said softly and seriously, "I promise to use valet parking. And I promise I'll call tonight. And thank you for being so sweet and caring. It's much appreciated. Really. Now I have to finish dressing. Talk to you later." I hesitated. "I promise."
I hung up and slipped on my dress, thinking about Greg and wishing I was dressing to go out with him instead of Hollowell. I was wearing my favorite outfit, a black lace sleeveless sheath with a low cut neckline. The hemline ended a couple of inches above my chubby knees. Sticking my feet into low spiked heels, I looked into the mirror, taking stock of the goods.
Reaching down the front of my dress and into one cup of my black silk bra, I hoisted a saggy breast, rearranging it so the nipple looked upward under the smooth fabric. I did the same with the other side, then checked to see if they were even. My cleavage was definitely saying hello.
If Hollowell was into full figures, then he was into boobs, and that was one talent I had by the handful. There were questions to be planted and answers to harvest, and I wasn't coming home without some satisfaction. If I had to seduce the truth out of him, so be it. One BBW Mata Hari coming up!
Grabbing a lace shawl that matched the dress, I took one last look in the mirror. My palms were sweaty, my knees knocked.
I looked like a pot roast in mourning.