Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(65)

“Legally speaking, Gina, nobody cares who took care of the maintenance or paid to fix the appliances. If the apartment has not been legally transferred to you, including paying the appropriate gift taxes, or put into a trust for you, the apartment belongs to your father. He is free to leave it to whomever he pleases.”

Silence hung in the air for a few moments. It was Lisa who finally broke it. “It’s always possible your parents or your father did the transfer without telling you. I can find out the owner of any piece of property in the city. I’ll research it and get back to you.”

“I don’t know how long that will take, Lisa. I want to pay you for your time.”

Lisa waved her off. “You pay for the drinks, and we’ll call it even.”





72





After her weekend in Naples Gina had been overdue for a good night’s sleep. Worry that her father was close to making a commitment to a woman he barely knew had weighed on her the three nights she was down there. A sound sleep in her own bed would be the antidote to her feeling of fatigue. But it wasn’t meant to be. Lisa’s warning about the apartment served only to increase her anxiety.

It was 6:20 a.m. on Tuesday. She didn’t feel rested, but she was certain that she would be unable to fall back to sleep. Pulling on a robe, she headed for the kitchen.

As she waited for the Keurig machine to brew the coffee, she tried to sort out her feelings. She had heard plenty of stories from friends and parents of friends who felt cheated with regard to what they thought they would inherit. In one family there were four siblings, two who were very successful and two who struggled financially. The parents left the bulk of the estate to their less-well-off children, believing they needed the most help. The successful children argued that hard work had made the difference in their lives. They felt they were now being punished for the sacrifices they had made.

As an only child, Gina never had to wonder about what would happen when her parents were no longer around. “What was ours will be yours someday,” they had always said. It was to be a logical progression, a handoff from one generation to the next. Completely uncomplicated.

She breathed in the scent of the brewing coffee. It was already working its magic. She hadn’t taken a sip, but she was already feeling a little more awake.

How did she even start the conversation with her father without coming off as really selfish? Dad, I’m concerned that you and Marian are headed down the aisle pretty soon. Before that happens, could you kindly put the place in New York in my name so she doesn’t get any ideas?

Maybe that sounded so selfish because she was being downright selfish, she whispered to herself. Looking around the apartment, she thought, I didn’t earn this. Mom and Dad did. It was theirs; now it’s his. I don’t have a right to any of this.

After several sips of coffee she felt her energy level increasing. She went to the kitchen table, tapped open her email account, and scanned the new ones. One had arrived at 6:33 a.m., seven minutes earlier. It included an attachment. She didn’t recognize the sender. All that was written in the subject line was “REL.” Now wide awake, she clicked and watched the email take shape on the screen.

Miss Kane,

I spoke to friend. She suggest I contact you.

I was shock when I here Cathy Ryan dead. Like you, I don’t believe was accident. Paula Stephenson was another young girl hurt so bad. Like Cathy, I don’t believe she commit suicide.

I have to be careful. Don’t try to find me.



Gina clicked on the attachment and scanned the brief article. Thirty-one-year-old Paula Stephenson had been found hanging from her bathroom door in her Durham, North Carolina, apartment. Although they had not determined a cause of death, the police were investigating it as a possible suicide. I wonder how hard they’re investigating, Gina asked herself.

There was a brief mention of time she had spent as the weather broadcaster on a station in Dayton. There was nothing about a current employer or next of kin.

The article was from June 28, four months earlier.

Gina glanced back at the name of the sender. It was a jumble of letters and numbers followed by “@gmail.com.” It reminded her of one of those suggestions that are made when they want you to choose a unique password.

She reread the email. Was it from a fourth victim? The sender had been careful not to reveal his or her sex. It was also not clear if the sender was currently at REL or used to be there. Or for that matter it was possible he/she never worked there.

The multiple errors in word usage suggested that English was not this person’s first language. Or maybe that was intentional, Gina thought.

Whoever sent this knew what happened to Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson and knows Meg Williamson. It was too early to contact Williamson for help. Meg had done what she had promised. Gina had a new lead to follow. She hoped that the police in Durham would be more helpful than their counterparts in Aruba.





73





I’m getting my money’s worth out of this suitcase, Gina thought to herself as she threw the last few items in before zipping it shut. She glanced at her phone. Her flight would touch down in Raleigh-Durham at four o’clock in the afternoon.

She had tried to accomplish as much as she could in the little over twenty-four hours since she had received the mysterious email about Paula Stephenson, emailing Geoff to describe the new lead she wanted to pursue. He had texted her an hour later. Sounds promising. Go for it. Be careful.