Occasional calls from MJ, but not as many as I would have expected. Then there was a call every night to Helen’s cell phone. At exactly nine like clockwork. She never called him, but emailed every day to his [email protected] account. Deborah emailed [email protected], and MJ emailed [email protected]. No subtlety there.
But nothing suspicious in any of the content itself. Nothing at all. No anger or hostility expressed. Most of the email communiqués to and from the wives were brief logistical notes: when he’d be home, when he’d be out of town. Deborah gave me access to John Taylor’s Google calendar, which was a virtual map of his life to the quarter hour. Small wonder this guy had trouble being spontaneous—he was locked into a lifestyle that gave him little room to maneuver.
Still, I hit pay dirt when I check John Taylor’s cell phone records for the forty-eight hours before he was found dead at the Westin. Everything just as the wives had said—almost. A call to MJ Thursday morning that lasted about ten minutes—likely enough time to chat with her about domestic items and explain that he had to go down to LA. Deborah began calling his cell phone frequently starting Friday morning at around 6 AM. Calls of short duration—just one or two seconds. Clearly she’d failed to reach him or have a real conversation. That, I calculate, would be when John Taylor failed to show up for his usual early morning shower and breakfast. Man, that woman was tenacious. She kept calling, emailing, and texting—multiple times per hour all day Friday and Saturday until 3 PM. That would have been approximately when Mollie appeared at her door with the news. It all fit.
I’ve never endured that kind of harassment. Peter is my only relationship, and he’s usually pretty mellow. I see that anxiety though in some of my friends’ relations, the perpetual hounding if plans aren’t followed as expected. I wonder, not for the first time, what relationships were like before email, before cell phones, hell, before answering machines. My generation cut its teeth on this technology, but earlier generations? They must have had a lot more air, and a lot more mystery. Perhaps more doubt? Although I can’t imagine doubting Peter. And it seems as though neither MJ nor Helen had any doubts about John Taylor. So far, the records reflect their stories. Were they stupid or blissed out? Some combination of the two, I decide. Whereas Peter and I are just boring.
Then I see two unexplained outgoing communiqués from John Taylor’s phone on Friday evening, right in the window we’d identified as when he’d died. I sit up straight. At 6:47 PM he called MJ’s cell phone. It was only five seconds in duration—he must have hung up when voicemail clicked in. Certainly not enough time for a conversation or a message. Then, thirty seconds later, he texted MJ. Urgent. Come to Palo Alto Westin, room 224. Now.
Then nothing. So John Taylor had been alive at 6:47—and had summoned MJ to his secret hotel room. This requires some serious follow-up. I pick up the phone to summon MJ myself.
19
MJ
AT LEAST THEY HAVE AIR-CONDITIONING here at the station. I hate this hot weather, it reminds me of Tennessee, and of the silly things people used to say about the heat. Hot enough to make a prostitute sweat in church. As hot as a goat’s butt in a pepper patch. It’s also not good for some of the more delicate plants in the garden. Yesterday the temperature reached 99 degrees and today they’re forecasting more than 100. At ten in the morning, I’m already perspiring. Of course, it’s that time of life. And stressful situations make the flashes more frequent, and more intense. I’ve taken to wearing sleeveless shirts, even on cool days. At the office I wear short skirts (probably shorter than my figure can now bear). But the discomfort of being hot outweighs my sense of vanity. I heard a couple of the younger women snicker last week as I bent over the copier. All the sympathy and kid-glove treatment after John’s death lasted exactly two weeks. Let them. So what. I’ve got more important matters to worry about.
This time I know why I’m sitting here in the interrogation room. I’m a suspect. In a case of wrongful death. Meaning murder. I would expect (well, would hope) anyone who knows me to laugh at that, only I haven’t been able to face anyone since the first article named me as a “person of interest.” Other published reports quickly followed, of course, along with the announcement that this was officially a murder investigation, which fired up the media circus again. Person of interest! It sounds flattering. Yet I know how serious this is. Last night I couldn’t sleep, but wandered through the dark house, so nervous even my feet were sweating.