“We still don’t have all the pieces. Wickersham was in a sexual relationship with Caroline Drummond, Nicholas Drummond’s sister. She works for an accounting firm that set up a lease with a shell company called Albatross, which paid Wickersham for his role in the setup. But we still don’t know who was behind Albatross, or which of them may have actually killed Constance Wright.”
“Get Albatross,” George said. “Once we have Wickersham, the Drummond sister, and this money man, one of them will cop to the killing. Or we charge them all with conspiracy to commit murder and see which one sings first.”
“I like the way you think, Lieutenant,” Tally said.
“My wife said that to me the other day,” George said wistfully. “But I think she was being sarcastic. Anyway, get on it. Bring these bastards down.”
Serrano said, “With pleasure, sir.”
George walked away, and Tally’s cell phone chimed. She clicked it open and smiled.
“Phone and text records for one Caroline Drummond from our friends at Verizon,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
Serrano and Tally were able to electronically eliminate over 97 percent of Caroline Drummond’s incoming and outgoing phone calls for the five-year duration of the records they received. Calls to and from her work, various restaurants for reservations and deliveries, and friends and family they were able to confirm as legitimate and unconnected to Wickersham or Albatross.
The other 3 percent consisted of hundreds of calls and texts to and from Samuel Wickersham, many of which contained graphic sexual content. The communication started slow, increased in volume and duration over the next two years—which coincided with Constance Wright’s troubles and her divorce from Nicholas Drummond—and then tapered off once the legal troubles ended.
“What is a purple-headed warrior?” Tally said, reviewing the text messages.
“Sounds like something you get diagnosed with after a bachelor party in Las Vegas,” Serrano replied.
“And why would anybody want one of those in their”—Tally squinted—“spicy love muffin? Is this how people sext these days? Hell, when I want a romantic night with Claire, I just come home with a bottle of rioja and put on some Coltrane. I feel so old fashioned.”
“I just open Tinder and start swiping right,” Serrano said.
“You are not on Tinder.” Serrano stayed silent. “Oh God, you are. Wait, have you matched with anyone on the job?”
“I plead the Fifth so as not to incriminate myself,” Serrano said.
“Ugh,” Tally said, mock shivering. “I don’t want to know.”
After removing the Wickersham correspondence from the list, there were still seventeen phone numbers they could not confirm.
One by one, they cross-referenced those numbers with Sam Wickersham, Nicholas Drummond, Isabelle Robles, Christopher Robles, Nestor Aguillar, Stefanie Steinman, and anyone at J&J Accounting. They were able to eliminate thirteen of the seventeen numbers as incidental. They then called the remaining four.
The first number went to a man named Ricardo Jimenez, currently living outside of Denver. Jimenez admitted to having had a sporadic consensual sexual relationship with Caroline Drummond during the period in question, which had ended after he’d accepted the job he presently occupied. Jimenez had married last year and now had a daughter on the way. Nothing about the situation seemed extraordinary, other than the fact that it would have broken Sam Wickersham’s heart to know he hadn’t been the only one sharing Caroline Drummond’s bed during that time.
Tally asked Jimenez if he’d ever heard Caroline discuss the name Albatross or any of the other people on the list. Jimenez said he couldn’t recall for certain but didn’t think so. Tally thanked Jimenez for his time. He seemed on the up-and-up.
The second number was out of service. Serrano checked the phone company’s records. The number had once belonged to a psychic / tarot reader named Diane Loderbaum. Serrano found Loderbaum’s now-defunct website, featuring a banner that read: “Your Future Is in the Cards.”
Based on the enormity of outgoing calls to that number, it seemed that Caroline Drummond had a regular Tuesday-night call with Ms. Loderbaum. Every call lasted between fifty-eight and sixty-two minutes, and it had been consistent for the better part of three years. Tally estimated Caroline Drummond must have spent around $10,000 to $20,000 getting psychic advice from Diane Loderbaum.
They were able to track down Ms. Loderbaum, now working as a professional matchmaker in Saint Louis. She acknowledged regular communication with Ms. Drummond.
“Why did she call you so often?” Tally asked.
“Same reason anyone called me,” she said. “She wanted to understand where her life was going. She seemed fairly unhappy, unsure of her direction, and thought I could help her untangle the threads of her life.”
“Did you?” Serrano asked.
Loderbaum sighed. “To be frank, I got the feeling that Caroline Drummond was the kind of woman who liked to talk about doing the right thing, without actually doing it. Making the effort made her feel good. Absolved. Like she cared.”
“How so?”
“Well, she kept talking about her guilt over stringing some young kid along. She was sleeping with him but didn’t have any real feelings. But boy howdy, he fell for her harder than a ton of bricks.”
“Does the name Sam Wickersham mean anything to you?” Tally said.
“She never used real names,” Loderbaum said. “But she mentioned a man she was seeing, a Hispanic man, whom she saw a real future with. Then he moved away for work, and they broke up, and it seemed to hit her hard. After that, we didn’t speak much. And then we stopped.”
“So why did you get out of the psychic business?” Serrano asked.
Loderbaum laughed. “No room in today’s marketplace for psychic phone lines. People get all that stuff for free now on the internet.”
They thanked Ms. Loderbaum for her time.
The third number was for an Italian restaurant called Mutz & Friends. When Serrano reached the store, the proprietor, a man named Vincent Biancamano, told him that Caroline Drummond had ordered the same meal every Thursday for as long as he could remember: a soppressata and mozzarella sandwich with oil, vinegar, lettuce, tomato, roast peppers, and onions on an eight-inch Italian roll with a side salad.
Serrano asked Biancamano if he remembered Drummond ever coming into the shop with anybody. Biancamano said she always seemed like a bit of a loner, never came in with anyone, never seemed up for small talk, left the store like she was always in a hurry, but always tipped.
He did note that Drummond hadn’t called in any orders in several months—they weren’t listed on Seamless—and wanted to make sure she was OK. Serrano said she was, not to worry, but if he could remember anything out of the ordinary to let him know.
“I feel bad for Sam Wickersham if he ever kissed Caroline Drummond after she ate one of those oniony sandwiches,” Serrano said.
“Reminds me of the time Lieutenant George’s wife started wearing that perfume—what was it called?”
“Oh God, I remember that,” Serrano said.
“He came in every day smelling like a lilac that had thrown up on a sugar cane. And I thought that Yves Saint Laurent he wears was bad. That couple needs to get their olfactory senses checked.”