Casale pointed at his business card in the middle of Forsythe’s desk. “You got my cell number. Call me if you change your mind.”
The Starbucks sign nearly seduced Janet. She was tempted to pull off the PCH and go through the drive-thru lane. She could almost taste and smell a double mocha cappuccino. But Janet couldn’t easily edge into the left turn lane and decided that was good, after all. She couldn’t afford to splurge, not with paying for her mother’s medications and doctor visits. At fifty-seven, her mother had the health expenses of an eighty-year-old.
She put the cappuccino out of mind and wondered how Jasmine Essam was doing. She would call the hospital as soon as she got settled at her desk.
As Janet entered the St. Anne’s lobby, Mary the receptionist raised a finger and said, “Mr. Mitchell wants to see you in the conference room.”
Janet thanked her and used her passkey to enter the office area. She swung by her office and dropped off her purse and jacket, picked up a legal pad and pen from her desk, and walked through the office area toward the conference room at the back. Her stomach did a quick flip-flop when she entered the room. Seated around the table were Frank Mitchell and Detectives Rosales and Andrews. A dark cloud seemed to hang over the room.
“Ah, Janet, come in and take a seat,” Mitchell said.
Janet sat on the same side of the table as Mitchell, directly across from the two detectives.
“Go ahead, Detective Rosales,” Mitchell said.
Sparks seemed to shoot out of Rosales’ eyes. Janet knew him well enough to recognize how angry he was.
Rosales said, “As I told you, Mr. Mitchell, I could kill someone right now. I can’t believe the stupidity of some people.”
Janet’s gaze drifted from Rosales to Andrews and back to Rosales.
“What happened, Hugo?”
“They made a mistake at the jail and released Rasif Essam.”
Janet’s mouth dropped open. “Mrs. Essam could be in danger. What—?”
Rosales raised a hand. “As soon as we discovered what had happened, we put uniforms outside the hospital and on Mrs. Essam’s floor. He’d have to be nuts to try to get to her there.”
Janet slowly shook her head. “I’d say that a man who nearly beats his wife to death and then, in a drunken rage, is responsible for the deaths of his three children, qualifies as a nut job.”
Rosales gave a brief nod. “Listen, it’s not Mrs. Essam we’re worried about. She’s got plenty of protection. It’s you people here. Essam raised holy hell in the emergency room last night about St. Anne’s interfering with his life.” Rosales fixed his eyes on Janet. “He had special words for you. Even while he was booked, he still ranted about you and how you corrupted his wife’s mind the last time you helped her.”
“You mean the last time I helped her after her sick husband kicked the crap out of her.”
Mitchell said, “The RBPD has offered to post a guard on our building. A police officer will escort all employees to their vehicles.”
Janet forced a smile. “I’m sure the RBPD will find Mr. Essam and put his butt back where it belongs.”
Detective Andrews said, “Ms. Jenkins, I assume you have an unlisted phone number at home.”
Janet blurted a laugh. “In this business, I’d be insane to have a listed number. The only phone I’ve got is my cell.”
“Good,” Andrews said.
“What are you doing here?” Jimmy Duffy asked Rasif Essam. “I heard on the news that the cops are looking for you.”
“I have to get out of town, but I need your help.”
Duffy wheeled his chair backward and stretched to reach his home office door. He closed it and then wheeled back to his desk. “What’s going on, Rasif?”
“It was all a misunderstanding. You know Jasmine. She’s always breaking the rules. I had to teach her to—”
“Rasif, the news said you nearly killed her and then crashed into a police car at a roadblock.” Duffy showed Essam a sympathetic look and said, “I’m sorry about your children.”
For a moment, Essam seemed unable to speak. Tears came to his eyes. “That damn Jasmine. It’s all her fault.”
“Were you drunk again?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Essam growled as he stepped toward Duffy.
Duffy backed up in his chair, but he could go only a few inches before he hit the desk.
“Are you going to help me or lecture me?”
“I don’t want any trouble, Rasif.”
Essam took a step away and backed into a chair. “There won’t be any trouble. All I need is an address.”
“You could look in the phone book or go on the Internet.”
“I already tried. The address and phone number aren’t listed.”
Duffy pressed his lips together and groaned. “All right, what information do you have?”
“I know a name and a workplace. I also have the plate number on a car.” He handed over a slip of paper.
“The easiest hack will be of the California DMV.”
“How long will that take?”
Duffy laughed. “Minutes. I break into that system a couple times a week.” As he tapped away at his computer keyboard, he asked, “Who is this woman?”
“The one who put all sorts of Western ideas in Jasmine’s head. The last time Jasmine and I…argued; the police brought this woman to our house. She took Jasmine and my children to her shelter and kept us apart for a week.”
Duffy stopped typing and spun around. “What are you thinking?”
Essam made a dismissive gesture with a hand. “Nothing for you to worry about. I just want to frighten her a bit.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Go back to Egypt. There’s nothing left for me here.”
CHAPTER 7
St. Anne’s Shelter was housed in a 1930s-era three-story mansion bequeathed to the organization in 1951 by a wealthy couple. It took up half a block of prime Redondo Beach residential property. The neighbors in the area had raised a ruckus about the house being converted to a battered women’s shelter, but the Catholic Church had ultimately won out and got the zoning it needed. The inside of the facility had changed dramatically over the years. The first-floor windows were barred and every wing was security-controlled. The electrical and plumbing systems had been modernized. But, the exterior was essentially the same as it had been for over eighty years: pitched slate roof, white dormer windows, and gray stone walls. The site was elevated several feet above the street and surrounded by two acres of grass studded by gigantic oak and sycamore trees. A concrete city sidewalk defined two sides of the property and a three-foot-high stone wall separated the lawns from the sidewalk. The parking area was on the right side of the building.
A man sat on the stone wall at the front left corner of the St. Anne’s property. His feet dangled over the sidewalk. He’d stationed himself there at 1 p.m. and had alternately kept an eye on the facility’s front entrance and the parking lot, between reading pages of a dog-eared copy of Michael Lewis’s The Big Short, a story that detailed the mortgage market crash of 2008. He put a hash mark on the inside front cover of the book as he turned the last page. There were now eighty-five hash marks there. He didn’t actually read the words anymore. He’d long ago memorized every one of them. He now turned pages as he recited words.