Point of Betrayal Page 18

  She glanced out the window at the empty veranda. Sam was apparently still walking. She went to the hallway, momentarily lost in the maze of square footage. She made two wrong turns before she found the atrium. Through a window she could see the inside of Georgie’s studio, a glass room overlooking the sea. An easel with a canvas sat in a corner, and art supplies were stacked haphazardly everywhere.

  Finding the door unlocked, she entered. The studio reminded her of the solarium at home. It was well organized with wall-to-wall shelving and drawers, all of which were labeled. She opened several cabinet doors and found more canvases, some lighting equipment and photography supplies, suggesting that Georgie had dabbled as a photographer and given it up.

  A sliding glass door led to a balcony. It was easy to picture Georgie sitting on a stool there, sketching ideas while she listened to the ocean beneath her. She went back inside and checked the hallway. Still no Sam.

  Behind a naked mannequin in the corner sat a small closet: it was filled with aprons, smocks and a few of what appeared to be Steve’s old dress shirts that Georgie had claimed as painter’s smocks. She searched the room, unsure of what she expected to find. Nina had written in her journal about exposing a Garritson secret. Ari was certain it had something to do with her pregnancy. It was just too coincidental.

  The desk was a cluttered mess. She sifted through the bills, receipts and notes that covered the desktop, but none of it seemed personal. Frustrated, she gazed about the room and pulled open all the drawers and cabinets once more. She dug through the cabinet full of photography supplies and found a wooden box buried underneath a camera case and a tripod. Inside were two photo albums, one clearly much older than the other.

  The first was full of black-and-white pictures from the forties and fifties, judging from the attire of the subjects and the cars in the pictures. She recognized a few people who looked like Georgie and guessed these were photos of her rich relatives. She imagined at least one of the children in the photos was Georgie herself. Many depicted old buildings in Laguna and some showed men and women in their swimming “costumes” enjoying the ocean. In one picture, Crescent Point, the site of Nina’s murder, sat off in the distance.

  The second album was more recent. All of the photos were color and taken during the seventies and eighties. Included were candids of Steve and Georgie’s hippie-like wedding, with Steve sporting thick sideburns and wild hair and Georgie decked out in a lacy gown that reminded Ari of Stevie Nicks. The photos of them as a couple morphed into family photos that included baby pictures of Sam and Evan. Most were taken at events, such as birthdays and barbeques by the pool, and the Garritsons were surrounded by friends.

  Other than the four Garritsons, the only other person she recognized was Scott Kramer, the teenager who cleaned their pool and became a family friend. He frolicked in the pool with the twins and apparently even took them out trick-or-treating one year. She couldn’t imagine he would’ve enjoyed spending the evening with two little kids, but he wore his gigantic smile, the one she’d seen at the funeral. He was definitely a handsome man.

  She flipped through the rest of the pages and sighed. There was nothing else to see. It was time to get back to the resort. Sam couldn’t walk forever. She replaced the photo albums in the box and arranged the equipment as it had been. When she went to close the door, she glanced at the shoe rack hung on the inside. Instead of shoes in the rows of pockets, Georgie had stowed lenses. Very creative, she thought. Each expensive lens had its own lined pocket and was enclosed in a plastic bag. A small photo album was tucked behind one of the lenses. It only contained four photos, but the subject in them was the same—a young Scott Kramer.

  The first was most likely a studio picture, perhaps his senior photo. The second was somewhat blurry and depicted Scott and Georgie, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, putting hamburgers on the grill at one of the barbeques. Ari blinked at the third photo, which was much different, much more sexual. Scott stood poolside with the skimmer in his hand, his bleach-blond hair falling over his eyes and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore only cutoffs, the top button undone. She guessed he was fifteen or sixteen.

  “Interesting,” she whispered.

  But her breath caught at the last photo of Scott in the pool between Sam and Evan. In it all three of them smiling for the camera, their wet hair slicked back.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered.

  Her phone vibrated. Biz had sent a text to her, Rory and Jane. “Get back to the resort. I’ve caught the murderer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jack knew a killer when he saw one. Bennett Mason, the security guard who sat across from him in Interview Room Two, was relaxed and affable—too much so. He’d willingly agreed to stop by on his day off after he finished his errands, which Jack knew had included a quick stop at the mall and the food court for a sandwich and a drink at The Miracle Mile Deli. He’d tailed him for most of the morning after re-interviewing Dean Horn, who’d broken into sobs when he’d seen Jack crossing the resort lawn to speak with him again. He’d known he was in trouble for falsifying his witness statement. What he hadn’t known was how devastating his lie had been to the investigation.

  After Horn had confirmed he hadn’t been at his assigned post near the restaurant on the night Margarita was killed and Ian Patton reaffirmed he was positive he’d seen a security guard in the shadows, Jack had returned to his desk at four in the morning and reread all of the statements. Then he’d seen the answer. A whirlwind day had ensued as he returned to the resort and then followed Mason.

  He hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, and he was ragged, unshaven and disheveled, but he was running on the adrenaline of a cop with an answer, one that he was waiting to confirm by talking to the clean-cut American boy sitting across from him. Mason was twenty-four and a senior chemistry student at ASU.

  Jack knew that Andre, Chief Phillips and David Ruskin were in the control room ready to watch the interrogation, which was also being recorded. He was grateful he wasn’t in the same room with Ruskin, because he suspected by the end of the interview he’d be ready to throttle the lazy captain.

  He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “Mr. Mason, I appreciate you coming down here on your day off. I inherited this case just yesterday and I’m interviewing the key players.”

  Mason smiled congenially and folded his hands in his lap. “More than happy to help any way I can. Margarita was a great gal.”

  He picked up his pen. “So, you knew her?”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh. The end of my shift coincided with the beginning of hers. I got off at three, and she would be going into work.”

  “She worked nights.”

  “Yeah, she got the money shift.”

  “The money shift? What’s that?”

  “Happy hour and the dinner rush,” he explained. “Waiters and waitresses who work nights make the best tips. The money shift.”

  “Ah, I see. So you would see her as she was arriving and you were leaving. Did you guys pass each other at the parking lot, or how did you get to know her?”

  Mason thought about the question for a moment before answering. “Well, I guess that’s how we originally met, probably in the parking area, but I’d see her a lot on the patio. She’d usually arrive ten or fifteen minutes early because she wanted to be prompt, so she’d grab a soda and we’d chat after I clocked out.”

  Jack offered a slow grin. “Was there ever anything else?”

  “No, no,” Mason said, flustered. “We were just friends.”

  “But did you want to be more than friends?”

  The easy smile disappeared into thin lips. After a long pause he answered. “At one point, for a while. Then Margarita made it clear she just wanted friendship so that was okay with me.”

  He pretended to read some notes. “Was it? Was it really okay?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly.

  Jack stared into his unflinching blue eyes. “What if I told y
ou that someone had seen the two of you arguing one afternoon?”

  “Then I’d tell you that person was lying. Margarita and I never had an argument. Not once. Never,” he said emphatically.

  He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Okay, let’s talk about the last day she was alive. Did you see her at the end of your shift?”

  As if coming out of a trance, Mason snapped up. “Uh, no. I didn’t. As I passed the patio, I looked for her to say hi, but she wasn’t there.”

  “She was late, which was unusual.”

  He nodded. “Yes, it was very unusual.”

  “Do you know why she was late?”

  “I do now but I didn’t know then. Her car wouldn’t start and so she borrowed a friend’s car, a little Honda.”

  He picked up the file again and read through his statement. “And that was the car you had towed the next morning, right?”

  “Yes. The lot has a strict nine-hour policy. It keeps the residents and visitors from parking there overnight and ensures there is enough employee parking. It’s kinda cheap, actually,” he admitted. “Management doesn’t want to fork out the money for another parking lot, even though we need one.”

  “So you saw this car had been parked there for over nine hours and had it towed, not knowing it was Margarita’s transportation that day.”

  He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. “Yeah, that’s it, really. The night security guard had chalked the tire so I had it towed.”

  “Which is the policy,” he confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “And unfortunately by towing the car, valuable evidence was lost because the trucker—and you—trampled all over the ground surrounding the vehicle as you prepared it to be hauled away.”

  He slumped in his chair. “That’s right. I’ve always felt horrible about that.”

  “I imagine,” he sympathized. “Let me ask you. Where do you park your car?”

  “I don’t. I ride my bicycle. I live close and it saves a lot of money on gas.”

  Jack adjusted his glasses and picked up Mason’s statement. “Oh, I see that now. Sorry. What kind of bike do you ride?”

  “Cannondale, a CAAD Ten.”

  “Sounds like a really nice bike.”

  “It is. It’s one of the best bikes Cannondale makes.”

  He scratched his head thoughtfully. “So where do you park a bike like that so it doesn’t get stolen?”

  “Well, I used to keep it in the employee break room, but some people started messing with it, so I started parking it over by the restaurant. The busboys are really cool and keep an eye on it for me. It’s not in the way or anything and the manager said it was okay. I lock it up, of course.”

  “How many other employees ride to work?”

  He shrugged. “A few, I guess. Not many.” He snorted and said, “This is Phoenix. Everybody drives.”

  Jack laughed with him. “So true. What color is your bike?”

  “Black and silver.”

  “But your seat is rather different, isn’t it? It’s very narrow and made of brown leather.”

  “It’s actually called a saddle and it’s much better for longer rides.”

  He took off his glasses and tapped them on the table while he thought of his next question. “Pretty distinctive, though, right?”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “It’s from Brooks. That saddle set me back a hundred and twenty bucks.”

  “You don’t know anyone else with a seat like that, I mean a saddle?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” he said with superiority. “Only serious riders would spend that much money.”

  “Was Margarita impressed with your bike?”

  The question surprised him. “Um, we never talked about it. She told me she was glad I was helping out the environment.”

  He chuckled as if Mason had told a joke. “Do you think it was a turnoff, though? Maybe one of the reasons she wouldn’t date you? I mean, who wants to date a guy with a bike? Where would she sit?”

  Mason’s face darkened and his body went rigid. “Margarita wasn’t that judgmental. If we’d gone out, I would’ve borrowed my friend’s car.”

  “Did you tell her that? Did you reassure her that you had wheels? Women have a thing for cars. How a guy gets around says a lot about his financial situation, his standing in life—”

  “That’s not why we didn’t date.” His pleasant tone had evaporated into an almost robotic voice.

  “Then why?”

  He swallowed hard. “She just didn’t like me in that way.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “What about Julio, the patio bartender?” He frowned and Jack added, “Wasn’t he the reason she kept arriving to work early? She wanted him to notice her. How did you feel about that?”

  “Julio’s fine.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is he? It didn’t bother you that she’d rather be seen with an uneducated second-shift bartender than a college man who was going places?” Mason’s face contorted into a sick expression at the thought. Jack leaned across the table and added, “She picked him to fuck and not you.”

  “I didn’t care!” he cried. “Whatever she did with that illegal wetback was her business!” He pushed away from the table but didn’t get up.

  Jack glanced at the video camera in the corner and pulled a form from a folder. “Bennett, I need you to look at one more thing and then we’ll be done.”

  He wiped his eyes and regained his composure. “Of course. I only have a few more minutes. I have a lot to do today.”

  “This is a page from the resort’s call log. Have you ever seen one of these?” He shook his head. “Anytime a guest calls the customer service line, the information is documented by the representative who takes the call. On the night of Margarita’s murder, a rep named Sarah took a call from a very distraught guest who had accidentally backed into a parked bicycle. Being a good citizen, the guest felt inclined to report it and offered to pay for the damages if the owner could be found. She described the bicycle very specifically, mentioning it was a Cannondale with a funny looking brown seat. That call came in at one twenty-five a.m.” He tapped the page while Mason scanned it. “Unfortunately, the bike’s owner never came forward.” When Mason looked up at him, his eyes blazing, Jack asked, “Why were you at the resort at one in the morning?”

  “I wasn’t,” he said indignantly. “I have no idea who this person is or why she’s describing my bike.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Home. In bed. I had to be at the resort by seven the next morning. You can check our records if you want.”

  “And I assume you rode your bicycle to the resort the next day?”

  “I did,” he said softly.

  “Is that why a bus pass was charged to your credit card that morning before your shift started?” He pulled the credit card statement from the folder and shoved it at him.

  A long pause ensued as Mason’s gaze flitted between the statement and the call log. His head shot up and he glared at Jack. “There’s no crime in buying a bus pass. Lots of cyclists alternate between types of transportation. I have no idea why this woman is reporting she hit a bike that looks like mine. My bike is perfectly fine.”

  There was a quick knock on the door, and Andre entered long enough to hand him a slip of blank paper and return to the video room. He pretended to read it, well aware that Mason’s eyes were glued to him. He folded the paper in half and set it on the file. Mason glanced at the note before their eyes met again.

  “Mason, what if I were to tell you that we just obtained a warrant for your bike and your apartment? We intend to have vehicle experts analyze every inch of that bike to determine if it’s recently been in an accident or repainted. Those guys are so good. They don’t miss a thing. They’ll even be able to figure out which bike shop did the work or if you did it yourself.”

  Now it was Mason’s turn to glance at the video camera. His expression became
opaque and far away. “If you’re charging me with something, I want a lawyer,” he finally said, unwilling to look at Jack again. “Otherwise, I’d like to leave.”

  “Okay,” he replied, “but I’d like to tell you a little story first. I think you had it bad for Margarita because she was a lot like you. She was pretty, in college and very smart. Just like you. You both came from good families, and I’m guessing you thought she’d want you for sure.” He paused, but Mason ignored him and continued to stare at the camera. “But she didn’t want you. She wanted the exotic bartender who was probably a little dangerous.” He chuckled and added, “I’ve met the guy. He’s definitely the Latin lover type.”

  Mason remained stoic.

  “You finally couldn’t take the rejection anymore. You showed up when she got off work. You knew the guard on duty, Dean, would be way busy entertaining Lisa at the guard shack in the west parking lot. You waited until Ian left Margarita and you followed her. Maybe you pleaded with her, or maybe whatever happened first was an accident. Maybe she made you so angry you just snapped. I’m guessing you threw her into the ravine and followed her down. That’s where you raped and strangled her. Then you carefully covered your tracks to make sure no clues were left behind.”

  He thought he saw Mason’s lips quiver, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “What you didn’t count on,” he continued, “was that Ian Patton actually saw a security guard as he and Margarita left, but it was too dark to tell who it was. Everyone assumed it was Dean Horn, but it was you. And I can’t imagine how upset you were when you found your beloved bike nearly crushed. That must’ve been quite a long walk home, only to turn around again and be back at the resort by seven a.m. to have the Honda towed.” He wagged a finger at him. “That was quite ingenious. Have the car towed immediately, which would give the police a reason to find your fingerprints all over it.”

  Mason’s gaze slowly shifted from the camera to Jack. “I said I want a lawyer.”