Fatal Connections

Chapter 26

Of all the hired help, those four—Lupe, Sasha, Ingrid, and Astrid—had for various reasons been the most memorable. At least for Amy. And that was enough to move them to the head of the list for now.

I set the rest aside for the moment, with every intention of returning to them if I wanted to. This (unpaid) investigation was starting to feel like too much to handle. Don't quit before you've tried, Marine. And don't forget—there is no try.

So I started with a basic internet search on their names, looking for social media accounts or other signs of an online presence. Of the four, only Lupe, the friendly cleaning lady, and Astrid, their last nanny, had social media accounts. Both were on LinkedIn. Not one sign of a Facebook or Twitter account. But that was understandable. Maybe working for the Harcourts had dampened any desire they might have had to participate on any social media sites.

Astrid's LinkedIn profile showed her location as Reston, Virginia. Lupe Steinberg was in Gaithersburg, Maryland, a much closer, less annoying drive. Which one to contact first was an easy call, but I still needed an address.

I used the most economical databases I could to do a slightly more targeted search that would also reveal last known addresses. I focused my search on the Baltimore-Washington Metro Area, which includes Maryland, D.C., and Virginia. At some point, it might even include West Virginia and southern Pennsylvania, but we weren't there yet.

I found addresses plus cell phone numbers for only two of the four. Someone's full name could lead you to all sorts of information these days. As to accuracy, that was still to be determined.

With little hope of actually meeting either of the remaining two, I broadened the search to include the entire United States. Ingrid lived in Pittsburgh, and Sasha must have moved, because she lived in California, and at the time of her hire, the world was a lot less virtual.

As I revised the notes on my flowchart, my cell phone sprang to life with Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," my ringtone of choice for the month. To my relief, the caller ID revealed that it was Nick.

I grabbed the phone. "Hey, Nick. How'd it go?" Just tell me the cops are off our backs.

There was a short silence before I heard Nick say, "Not too bad."

His failure to elaborate irked me, but I suppressed the urge to snap at him. "So what did they ask you?"

After a small eternity, he said, "Just, you know, about my relationship with the Harcourts. Where I was at the time of the murder. Things like that."

As we spoke, I periodically chewed my lower lip. Something was off. Nick wasn't telling me everything, which didn't help to calm my sense of increasing anxiety.

"What else? Because I know there's more," I said, suppressing the urge to shout. "What aren't you telling me, Nick?"

He swallowed loudly enough to be heard at my end. "Mind if I come over to talk about this?"

Are you for real? I pondered either yelling no or disconnecting. But that would just be childish and stupid. I slowly inhaled a lungful of air and then blew it out in a rush.

"Before I agree to that, can you at least give me a hint?"

"Fair enough," he said. "Even though I'm not a prime suspect, I get the feeling I'm not quite off the hook yet. But I get a worse feeling that they might be more interested in you."