Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft by Catherine Nelson Page A

The front
door was open until six, when the receptionist and Amerson went home, but I
wanted to slip in and out. I parked in the back and let myself in through the
rear entrance. I’m not an employee and don’t work full time, so I don’t have an
office or my own desk. But there are several cubical workstations in one of the
back rooms, set up with computers and phones for use by those of us who only
drop by occasionally. Tonight, the room was empty.
    I chose a seat and
pulled out my notes. It was tedious work, but I went through each plate number
I’d written down. My first step is always to see what name came back and if it’s
known to be connected to the case. My next step is to make sure the plate came
back to the same make and model I’d found it on. Stolen plates had blown open
more than one case in the past, or so my mentor Blue had said. Lastly, I input
everything into an Excel spreadsheet so I can more easily search for patterns
later. When I’d done this, coming across no names that rang any bells or any
stole plates, I printed the list.
    I’d learned the Camaro
and FJ were registered to an Eric Dunn. A quick property search told me Dunn
owned the house, having purchased it five years before. I ran his name through
the Sideline database and came up with several hits. A bit more searching told
me Dunn was a defense attorney. That went a long way in explaining how he could
afford his house.
    I wasn’t sure I was
making progress on finding Danielle Dillon, but I still needed to find Dix,
too. I looked up the number to the Starbucks where he worked and used the
landline to call. A girl answered, and I heard the espresso machine hissing and
blenders whirling in the background.
    “Hi. I was wondering
if Cory was working tonight.”
    “He’s not here at the
moment, but I think he’s closing tonight. Hang on, let me check.”
    It is frightening to
me what people will tell a perfect stranger over the phone, truly frightening.
    “Yep, he’ll be here
from five-thirty to close. Would you like me to have him call you?”
    “Oh, no, that’s okay.
I may just swing by.”
    I hung up and dialed
my voicemail. I had a message from Amerson, the Burbanks’ accountant, and
Ellmann. Amerson called to tell me no vehicle was registered with the DMV under
the name Danielle Dillon. I’d just looked it up myself and knew the same thing.
But that message had been there a while. The accountant left the names and
addresses of the housekeeper and gardener. Ellmann just asked me to call him
back.
    I added the
housekeeper’s and gardener’s addresses to my growing notes, along with the
accountant’s name and phone number, just in case. Feeling I’d come to a bit of
a standstill, I dialed Ellmann.
    “I was wondering if
you had plans tonight,” he said. “Would you be interested in grabbing dinner?”
    “Sure. Did you have
anything specific in mind?”
    “Not really. Why? Do
you?”
    “How about Pueblo
Viejo?”
    “Strange choice. I
have the nagging suspicion you’re up to something. Whatever it is, can we get
ice cream first?”
    Ice cream is Ellmann’s
favorite food. When in doubt with Ellmann, get him ice cream. Yesterday’s Ice
Cream Shoppe, located across the street from Pueblo Viejo, serves Blue Bell ice
cream. In Ellmann’s opinion, the only ice cream that’s better is the homemade
stuff at Pioneer Candies and Ice Cream.
    “Sure.”
    “You’re not denying
it?”
    “Would there be any
point?”
    “Probably not.”
    “So I thought I’d save
us both the time.”
    “Want me to pick you
up?”
    “No, I better meet you
there.”
    “Definitely up to
something. When do you want to meet?”
    I looked at my watch.
“How about twenty minutes?”
    He agreed, and we
disconnected.
    I gathered my printout
and tucked the notes back into my pocket. The drive, in the heavy evening rush-hour
traffic, took nearly the whole twenty minutes. It took me another five to find
a parking space and hike over to the restaurant.