“Definitely not the house. I went there yesterday and ran into Taylor. It went as well as I expected.”
Now tears filled Evelyn’s eyes as she put down the sandwich makings. “That poor girl. First her father, and now her mother has cancer and won’t live to walk her down the aisle.”
“Oh, no,” Cara said.
Her cool relationship with Karl’s first wife notwithstanding, no one deserved to suffer like that. And poor Taylor. Cara hadn’t had her parents at her wedding, either. It was yet another tragedy that they couldn’t support each other—Cara was uniquely qualified to help her stepdaughter cope.
“What were you doing back at the house?” Evelyn asked.
“Looking for clues. I have to find Karl’s killer.”
“I was afraid you would say that.” Consternation clouded Evelyn’s face. “If only the police had done their job in the first place.”
“Did Karl ever tell you he was having financial problems?”
“He told me there had been some setbacks with the surgical center, but he didn’t want to worry you. Although he didn’t go into detail, he said things had gotten complicated with his new investors. But you know Karl, he was sure things would work out for the best in the end.”
Cara glanced at a framed photo of Karl, smiling widely, standing between her and Evelyn at Taylor’s college graduation.
“I miss him so much,” Cara said.
“I know you do, sweetie.”
“I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I’m old. Which supposedly means I’m wise. Or at least that you have to listen to me when I tell you something.”
“And what’s that?”
“You can’t think on an empty stomach. I’ll make you a sandwich to go.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
JORDAN
Hey @socialmedpsychic414 I work for a suicide prevention hotline and have reported you for that post. Encouraging someone to kill themselves is unconscionable.
—@AnnieLCSW
Unless Wen had decided she no longer trusted any information that came from him, Jordan knew she would head to Malibu. But Cara wouldn’t go back there until she found what she needed. And she had probably already discovered that the headquarters of Gioni Enterprises, LLC, was an empty shell.
A second web search led Jordan to realize that the Gionis had a lot of business dealings, mostly as financers and developers—although Campbell Cosmetic had never been built. There was only one business that appeared to be owned and operated by someone who also had a role in the corporate structure. And it happened to be a retail business with regular hours.
Owned and operated by Ajila Gioni.
He headed west on Santa Monica Boulevard, checking his rearview every few blocks for Silverman’s orange Bronco.
Traffic was light and the trip to Venice Beach only took twenty-five minutes.
The door chimed softly when he walked into Olive and Sal. Jordan took off his sunglasses and let his eyes adjust, trying to determine whether the tree in front of him was real or not.
At the front window, an elegant older woman was tidying a display of little bags of salt in burlap sacks.
“You missed her,” she said.
Jordan’s uniform had given him away.
“You’re also out of your jurisdiction,” she added, beginning to make infinitesimal adjustments to a row of olive oil bottles.
