Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the First Husband
Walter steered the pickup away from downtown Phoenix, taking back streets and industrial avenues to avoid traffic cameras. My thoughts raced back to Connie, my older sister. When I was lying on that metal slab, I had heard Connie shouting in the hallway: 'You and I had a deal!' The words had felt like a second dagger lodged between my ribs.
"We need to know what my sister’s role is in this," I said, my knuckles white against the dashboard. "Connie introduced Leticia to several local business associates after we started dating. If my own flesh and blood helped set me up, I need to know why."
"Money makes monsters out of families faster than any poison," Walter said coldly. "We aren't going to confront anyone yet. First, we go to my house in Glendale. I have five years of research, police clippings, and coroner reports on their previous operation."
Walter’s home was a modest, barricaded bungalow at the end of a dusty cul-de-sac. Inside, the walls of his den were lined with corkboards covered in printed news articles, surveillance photos, and scribbled timelines. It looked like the war room of a dedicated detective. In the center of the board was a faded photograph of a smiling young man beside a woman with dark hair and a familiar, predatory smile.
"Julian," Walter said, touching the corner of his son's photograph. "He was twenty-seven. Smart, full of life. She used the alias 'Elena Vance.' Octavio went by 'Marcus Vance.' They targeted him because his grandfather left him a parcel of timberland near Prescott. They married in Las Vegas, and six weeks later, Julian was gone. The cause of death was ruled an accidental fall after heavy drinking, but Julian never touched a drop of liquor in his life."
I stepped closer to examine the news clippings. Alongside the story of Julian’s death were two other short obituary notices from Nevada and New Mexico. In every case, a middle-aged or wealthy younger man had married a charming newcomer, rewritten his will or insurance to favor his new bride, and suffered an untimely, sudden death within a year. In every instance, the body had been cremated before comprehensive toxicology screenings could be completed.
"Look at the dates," I pointed out, my voice rising. "They run this scam every eighteen to twenty-four months. They spend a year grooming the mark, a few months finalizing the legal paperwork, and then strike during a celebration where everyone assumes the victim indulged too much."
"The wedding toast," Walter nodded grimly. "Everyone saw you take a deep drink from that personalized crystal goblet. If people saw you collapse a few hours later, they’d assume you had an undiagnosed cardiac episode brought on by stress and alcohol. It’s an almost foolproof method—unless the body wakes up."
"And unless the glass doesn't get cleared," I added, remembering Leticia’s frantic whisper to Octavio in the morgue. She had ordered him to make sure the glass disappeared, but he had confessed the venue staff cleaned the tables before he could retrieve it.
"That glass is our smoking gun," Walter said, his eyes lighting up with fierce resolve. "If the wedding venue staff stored the unwashed banquet tableware in their catering crates, that goblet contains traces of the paralytic compound. It's biological evidence of attempted murder."
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"Then we have to get to the Desert Palm Event Center before Leticia realizes it's still there," I said, standing up. The fog in my head was clearing, replaced by cold, calculating purpose. "If Octavio goes back to hunt for it, he'll destroy it. We have to beat him to it."
"Not dressed like a morgue runaway, you won't," Walter cautioned, tossing me a pair of work gloves and a denim jacket. "We pose as a subcontracted clean-up crew. Let’s move before the sun gets too high."
