Time for another dip in the Sea of Cyber.
—
Unlike Vicki but like most everyone else, her sewing friends had extensive social networks. But none of them cross-referenced her. Or one another.
Going their separate ways after graduation.
Brianna Dominguez was a helicopter pilot stationed at Ramstein Air Base in Germany.
Brianna Petersen repped cancer drugs in Connecticut and New Jersey for a Big Pharma corporation.
No indication where Sherilyn Dorsey called home but she was married to a Redondo Beach firefighter named Bradley Komack and was now Sherilyn Dorsey-Komack. So somewhere in SoCal, maybe the beach town itself, making her a good lead.
Most of her photos featured the couple and their three cute kids. No outside job listed. Sewing was still a hobby, along with surfing and scrapbooking. She’d gone ash blond, put on a bit of weight, grown prettier.
I put all that on hold and looked for Matthew Salazar, now creative director for a high-end bourbon distiller. Production inBardstown, Kentucky, business office in Lexington where Salazar resided. He’d just married his longtime partner, Ben, a physician. The two of them were currently honeymooning in Aruba.
Back to Sherilyn Dorsey-Komack. I bookmarked her social pages, then switched gears and looked for Chanel celebrity parties.
Six events, but three had taken place recently, so I examined the coverage of the earlier three. Lots of A-list faces and those of the people who worshipped or lived off them. It took a while but I finally spotted an image that included Vicki Saucedo.
Revival celebration of Chanel No. 5 nine months ago. Her lips were cardinal red, her eyes shadowed in smoky tones, the outer lashes upswept like wings. Luxuriant black hair was drawn back as tight as her smile as she stood holding a tray of cocktails.
I kept paging, located another photo of her in an identical pose seven months ago. Fashion consultants drafted for cocktail waitress duty.
A few feet away, dressed in a black suit, shirt, and tie, thick arms folded across a puffed-up chest, was Paul O’Brien.
Narrowed eyes lasered on Vicki Saucedo’s back.
At some point, she’d responded to him. And ended up vegetative.
I printed and sat for a long time taking in the image. He, repulsively focused. She, blissfully unaware of what was to come.
In the eyes of the law, every victim deserves full effort. But that’s an abstraction, not reality and, besides, I’m not the law. So if a predator’s crumpled body on a balcony was the only issue, I’d have left it alone.
But a little green boat…
The chance that something in Vicki Saucedo’s past would link to a cool, efficient sniper for hire was remote. But at this point, what else was there?
My only possible lead was the high school pal who’d stayed local. But I couldn’t see any way to contact Sherilyn Dorsey-Komack and keep my word to Lee Falkenburg.
I took out my guitar and wrestled with Bach, always a humbling experience. He’d never composed for the guitar and attempts to translate him have led to a lot of improbable stretches. I’d thought it a unique situation until a concert pianist friend told me, “J.S. put the notes in place. He didn’t give a shit how you got there.”
That level of distraction drew me away for a while. But when my fingers began aching and I stopped playing, everything rebounded. I called Lee at home and told her about the Chanel party.
She said, “Used to go to their sales until Rodeo got clogged with gawkers. Never got invited to any of their fancy parties…so she definitely worked with your dead guy.”
“And he had his eye on her. Want me to send you a photo?”
“Definitely not. Why are you even telling me this?”
“None of Vicki’s family looks likely to hire a shooter so I was wondering about an avenging boyfriend. Her Facebook page doesn’t list any but there’s not much to it, period.”
I began describing the rose-wreath.
Lee cut me off. “Too much information. The poor little kid in the boat got lodged in my head until I got home and had two Martinis.”
I told her about contacting Sherilyn Dorsey-Komack. “Would that create a problem for your source?”
