I keyworded contessa welles. Nothing. Maybe a nickname. Or as Reed had suggested, an NYPD clerical error.
I began pairing welles with connie, constance, consuela and ran into the opposite problem: too many hits. The two most interesting were a character in a Robert B. Parker novel and a wounded Andean condor in a Peruvian bird sanctuary. Avian Connie had learned to nibble treats daintily from her keeper’s hand.
The flood of names drained quickly as I filtered by age and geography, assuming Okash’s victim was around her age, give or take five years on either side, and had lived in or near New York. I repeated the process with wells with no greater success. Returned to contessa paired with surnames that a tired desk officer might confuse with Welles.
Welch, Welsh, Walsh, Walls.
Ping.
Two bottom-of-the-page paragraphs in the Newark Star-Ledger’s online archive reported the death, two years ago, of Contessa Walls, age thirty-six.
The decedent had been found hanging in an isolation cell at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey. Six years into a ten-year sentence for attempted murder; she’d spent most of that time in the prison’s mental health facility. At the time of her demise, she’d been in isolation due to disruptive behavior but not on suicide watch.
Note was made of a scandal the previous year involving male guards sexually abusing female inmates.
I searched for contessa walls medina okash and got a single hit. With Okash’s name crossed out, so much for that. But the content gave me a lead.
Online sympathy message posted to the O’Reilly Funeral Home in Newark a week after Walls’s death.
***Contessa Jane Walls. Your life was a challenging one.***
But there was purity in your soul.
I pray that your next life brings you
salvation and the joy you deserve.
*** Emeline Beaumont ***
One woman by that name, living locally.
Sister Emeline Beaumont
Assistant Director
Servants of St. Theresa
Los Angeles, CA 90049
A convent in Bel Air? I looked up the address. Sure enough: the foothills north of Sunset and west of the U.
I went out to Robin’s studio. She had on her full-face safety helmet and overalls. The exhaust fan whirred. A rosewood guitar back was held steady on her bench. Pretty wood but toxic dust. A routing jig Robin had designed and built was clamped perpendicular to the tabletop.
She was busy channeling hair-like layers of multicolored wood binding into place. Delicate work. I held back so as not to distract her. She saw me anyway, flipped up the helmet’s plastic shield, shut off the fan with a foot pedal. “Hi, babe. What time is it?”
“Six forty.”
“I got caught up. Some of this binding is satinwood and it loves to snap. I want to do it in one swoop, avoid irregularities.”
“No prob, I’m going out for a short ride.”
“Where?”
“A convent.”
She smiled. “I won’t ask but at least it’s not a monastery.”
“Want me to pick up dinner?”
“How about fish and loaves? No, I’m fine with leftovers if you are. Big Guy coming over?”
“No plans.”
“Then we’ll definitely have enough. C’mere and give me a kiss.”
CHAPTER
33
The drive was ten minutes on Sunset under a black sky, then a right turn east of Mount Saint Mary’s college. I was figuring the convent would be part of that campus but it wasn’t and I had to travel another 3.3 miles, well past the point where the views turned panoramic.
The address led me to a two-story, white stucco Spanish Colonial mansion, the kind you glimpse in the more venerable areas of Santa Barbara and Montecito, mostly hidden behind walls and gates. This property was open to the street. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the dark, but generous outdoor lighting said I’d been needlessly pessimistic.
The house was perched atop a high mound of lawn dotted with old palms and orange trees and a three-trunk sycamore whose branches stretched over an Italianate cement bench. A fountain of similar style burbled in the center of the property. To the right was flat asphalt parking hosting two blue vans and two blue Kias.
No signage, no crucifix, no steeple; nothing to suggest the place was a religious institution. That same anonymity extended to the clothing of the woman leaving the building and walking toward the lot, something green and shiny tucked under her right arm.
Long-sleeved blouse, knee-length skirt, uncovered dark bob. She was on the short side with a solid build and a jaunty walk. When she reached one of the compacts, she unfolded the green thing.
Several plastic shopping bags rolled up like a jelly pastry. She dropped one, bent and retrieved it, saw me get out of the Seville, smiled and waved.
I waved back and began climbing. The woman descended and we met halfway.
Thirty-five to forty, smooth complexion, strong nose, cleft chin, twinkly pale eyes.
“Dr. McCarthy? Glad you caught me. Thanks so much for the generous donation.” Softly contoured southern accent. Her hand extended.
I gave it a brief shake. “Sorry, I’m not Dr. McCarthy.”
She pulled away. “A donor I’ve never met said he might be dropping off a check. I figured a nice vintage Caddy—my apologies.”
“I’m Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist who—”
“So is he! Dr. Jerry McCarthy. Do you know him?”
“Actually, I do.” One of the most respected neuropsychologists in town. I said so.
“Feel free to join him in psychological generosity, Doctor. Are you coming to visit? It’s after hours and I was about to leave but if what we do inspires you, I’m happy to show you around.”
I showed her my LAPD consultant’s badge. Out of date and essentially useless, except for making a first impression.
“Police? Oh, dear. We haven’t made any complaints.”
“I’m looking for Sister Emeline Beaumont.”
All traces of good cheer withered. “Why would the police be interested in me?”
“They’re not, Sister. It’s about Medina Okash and Contessa Walls.”
“How did you connect them to me?”
“Your funeral message to Ms. Walls.”