Chapter Thirty-Nine

Margo Angelhart

I'd told Jack last night that I didn't need him today in my search for Jennifer White, aka Virginia Bonetti. He was dealing with the fallout from the fire at Desert West. Clearly, someone set the fire to prevent Tess and Luisa from figuring out what Jennifer had already downloaded. If Logan was right, someone was stealing from the company, and it wasn't Jennifer.

The main reason I didn't want Jack with me was because I planned to lie. A lot. Jack had many skills, but he couldn't lie to save his life. When he was sixteen, Mom and Dad went away to one of Dad's medical conferences in Seattle. It coincided with their anniversary, so they left a day early. Mom had sent Luisa, who was only six, to stay with family, but left Jack in charge of the rest of us. Jack loved being in charge, but he was also very responsible. Most of the time.

This weekend, however, our cousins Mateo and Grace—fifteen-year-old twins—convinced Jack to have a "small pool party." Because our parents had said explicitly no parties, Jack bribed Tess, Nico, and me—he'd do Tess's and Nico's chores for a week and pick me up from softball practice for the next month. No more riding my bike a mile home in the heat.

The bash that was supposed to have "a dozen" people had more than sixty. There was alcohol—which made Tess super nervous. The party was fun for everyone but those of us who had to clean up and make the house immaculate for the return of our parents—and decide who would take the fall for the giant dent in the BBQ and the mailbox that had been knocked over.

Tess, Nico, and I kept our faces straight when Mom and Dad got home, but one look at Jack and Mom said, "What happened?"

He spilled everything.

Jack has no poker face.

Me? I had no problem with spinning tales. It made me a good detective.

I had considered just breaking into her condo, but there were too many security cameras and I didn't know anything about her neighbors. So after Jack left, I created a brilliant cover as a real estate appraiser. Because Jack had given me the file on Jennifer from Desert West, I had her email address and could easily clone it. I sent a message from Jennifer to the manager, asking her to let me—Margo Angelhart, Appraiser—into the condo on this day and time because I (Jennifer) was out of town for work. "Jennifer" gave her a phone number (a burner I had for just such emergencies) if necessary.

One problem: Frank Sanchez. He followed me as soon as I left Miriam's office. It took me longer than I expected to lose him, and I was ten minutes late.

The manager, Cora Mannigan, was distraught when I arrived.

"Is Ms. White selling? She didn't tell me she wanted to sell. She said she loved her condo."

Cora was in her fifties and impeccably dressed with real diamonds in her ears—probably—and no wedding ring. My guess: a divorcée living off her alimony but bored so took the job. Probably owned a condo in the complex and knew everyone and their business.

"She's looking to refinance and wanted an appraisal," I said. "I was told she did some remodeling when she first moved in."

"Yes," Cora said. "She updated the kitchen and it's gorgeous, especially the subway tile she selected, plus replaced the awful carpets with beautiful tile and wood floors."

"I need pictures for my files, so I can give her the best value on her condo."

I handed her my business card. I'd made eight—that's what the sheet feeder in my printer could handle—on nice linen paper. No color, but the paper was top-of-the-line. And in some businesses—like real estate appraisers—the simpler, the better. Classy block font, PO Box, phone number, license number (fake), and email.

"I used to work for Thompson Pierce," I said, mentioning the largest real estate company in the valley with multiple offices that would be next to impossible for her to verify, "but started my own business a year ago. I need to make my own hours because I'm helping my mom take care of my grandmother."

"That's so wonderful you're able to do that," Cora said. She started walking toward the elevator and I refrained from a fist pump that I had sold her on my temporary identity.

We rode the elevator to the top floor—the sixth—with Cora chatting about the amenities of the condo complex.

I asked, "Do you know Jennifer well?"

"No, I can't say that I do. I've met her, of course. I make a point to talk to all the owners, and we have a homeowners association meeting once a month that I run. It's one of my main responsibilities. You should know, for your appraisal, that our HOA is on top of everything. The fees are reasonable for a complex this size. We have two pools—indoor and outdoor—and the dog park, the—oh, here we are," she said when I stopped in front of Jennifer's door. I knew her unit number and I was certain that Cora would have continued walking to the end of the hall if I hadn't stopped.

Cora smiled and knocked. "Just to make sure she didn't come back early."

"Did she tell you about her trip?"

"No, I didn't even know she was gone until she emailed. She works so hard."

No one came to the door, so Cora opened it up. "Here you go. This kitchen is just amazing!"

It was, I concurred—bright and functional. A little too bright for me, but with lots of counter space and gorgeous green subway tiles. But it was the view that was truly stunning. The mountains east of Scottsdale were crisp and clear in the mid-morning light. A wide covered balcony that curved around the corner so she had a view to the north and east. Sunrises would be spectacular.

I sent the message to Theo, then took out my camera. I made a point to ask Cora to move a few feet with just enough frustration to still be polite, but a little annoyed.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and answered. "Kierland Prime Condominiums, Cora Mannigan speaking, how may I help you?" She listened intently, and then said, "Oh, lovely! I can arrange a tour, and we have six units currently for sale. They go quickly—oh. Yes."

I motioned for Cora to move again so I could get a different angle, then pulled a tape measure from my pocket and started measuring.

"One moment, Mr. Washington." Cora turned to me, a bit flustered. "I need to go to my computer, but it won't take long. Are you okay for a couple minutes?"

"Yes," I said. "I should be done in twenty minutes or so. I'll see you on my way out."

She nodded, clearly distracted, and left the condo.

Score another one for the PI, I thought.

I kept my camera around my neck and my tape measure in my pocket just in case she came back sooner than I expected.

Jennifer White was a tidy minimalist. The furniture was high-end, but basic. The condo had a large master suite and a small den. Her desktop was empty—no computer, but I didn't expect to find one. Many people only had laptops these days. I looked through the drawers—tax forms, food flyers, a lot of computer magazines, spec sheets, software documentation. A bookshelf was filled with mysteries, history books, and computer books. No photographs of friends or family—not one.

I was looking for any clue as to where Jennifer might have gone to hide out for a few days, and nothing at her desk jumped out at me.

I walked through the condo, searching for something, anything, fearing that my brilliant idea was a dud. I found her hobby pretty quickly—video games. She had two different gaming systems and dozens of disks. I had played many of them. I wasn't as into gaming as my younger brother and sister, but I could hold my own, and a few of my Army buds and I played Warzone a couple times a month. It was a good way to have fun and keep in touch.

Jennifer had all the Call of Duty games, which I understood, and a bunch of games I'd never heard of. The games got me thinking about communicating online, and then I had an idea.

I called Logan Monroe as I searched her bedroom. He answered on the first ring. "Are you on Discord?"

"Of course."

"Is Jennifer?"

"Yes! My teams use it all the time. I'll reach out and—"

"Not yet. Add me and I'll reach out. She'll see we're connected and might respond."

"But she doesn't know you."

"And she hasn't returned your calls in two days." I paused. "We'll do it together, at your office, thirty minutes." I was only a few minutes from his office. I gave him my Discord name and ended the call when he agreed to meet me. I hoped he didn't jump the gun. Jennifer was agitated and scared and I needed to find the best way to convince her to trust me.

I went through Jennifer's bedroom. Her bed was made. On her nightstand were several books—all nonfiction, including a book on the history of Arizona, and another on Arizona historic places. I picked it up. A bookmark had been inserted at the chapter about Bisbee, a historic mining town near the border with a population of five thousand. That might mean nothing, but I'd seen a shelf of books in her den by J.A. Jance who wrote a series set in Bisbee.

Here, too, there were no pictures of people. I went into the closet.

Gold mine.

On the top shelf above her neatly hung clothes (she even hung up her T-shirts) was a large metal lockbox. I took it off the shelf and brought it to her bed. Less than ten seconds later I had the wimpy lock opened. With one ear listening for Cora Mannigan, I opened the box and looked inside.

Clippings from the disappearance of Virginia Bonetti. Articles about Vincent Bonetti that had been printed from the computer—about the explosion on his yacht, his recovery, his business. Nothing jumped out at me other than Jennifer had been tracking her father since she faked her death.

But there were also articles about the fire that killed Jennifer White, presumably the girl whose identity she had assumed. Plus a file folder with an arson report.

I didn't have time to read it all, so took pictures of every page with my phone.

Under it all was a faded Polaroid photograph of two girls—one blonde and one brunette, wearing the same soccer uniform with pigtails and ribbons. They were about nine or ten. On the white part under the photo was written in ink:

Jenny and me, BFF.

Little hearts had been drawn on either side of the words.

One other thin folder revealed an autopsy report for Abigail Bonetti, dated twenty years ago. I took a picture to read later. A photo under the single page was of a very young Jennifer—or rather Virginia—and a toddler with a woman who looked so much like Jennifer now that I suspected it was her mother. Nothing was written on the back, but there was residue as if it had been ripped from a photo album.

I was carefully putting everything back when I received a text from Theo.

She's sending me stuff and said she had to go. Watch out.

I left the bedroom and went out to the balcony, taking pictures of the view. Cora walked in a minute later, breathless. "I'm so sorry! That young man could just talk forever about his grandma. Sweet boy, but I just don't have the time."

"No worries from me. I have all the measurements, the pictures, and a list of questions for Ms. White to answer. Walk me out?"

Cora beamed, chatted all the way down. I said goodbye and called Theo as I walked to my car. "You did great."

"I did, didn't I?" he gloated. "You got what you needed?"

"The jackpot."

Once I turned on my Jeep and sat with the AC blowing at me, I sent Nico a picture of the autopsy report and asked him for the layman's version. I then called Tess.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I was fine last night, too, but Jack called Gabriel." Dr. Gabriel Rubio, Tess's fiancé. "So now Gabriel is worried. I am fine."

"I know you are, and that's why I have something for you to do."

"I need something because Gabriel made me stay home."

I frowned. It's sweet that he's concerned, but no one could make me do anything I didn't want to.

"It's computer work and phone calls."

"Give it to me. And if I need to go to the office, I will."

I told her what I found and Tess knew what to do. "I'll send you pictures of everything in her lockbox. I have a lead on locating fake Jennifer."

I hoped.