Fatal Connections

Chapter 68

Astrid's feelings about the Harcourt heirs were generally of acceptance and tolerance of their occasional behavior problems.

"Jaden, in particular, acted out a lot," she said. "I tried to talk to him. Tried to talk to his parents. But whatever he did while he was out with whoever, whenever, it never got him arrested or anything so horrible it couldn't be ignored."

"That must have been frustrating," I said. I could hear the memory of it in her voice.

"When I worked for them, he was seventeen. Within a year of legal adulthood. So what was I going to do?" The words poured out of her. "It's not like he joined a cult or committed a shooting or did anything other than hanging out and . . . I don't know. Drinking? Smoking? Ecstasy? Who knows?"

"Acted out in what way?" I asked.

"Oh." That word punched through the line. "For example, I was instructed to monitor his curfew time and I did, for all the good that accomplished. He just ignored me."

"Did the parents know?" That sounded less judgy than, "Did you tell them?"

I heard a sigh from the other end. "I mentioned it. Yeah. What they did about it, I wouldn't know."

She stopped talking. "What about Amy?" I asked.

"Amy had a few problems of her own. But her, I could talk to."

Astrid the Cool One then told me all about Amy and what they used to talk about. While I listened, I wondered how much of the story I was being told, and how much I was not being told.

Before Astrid, there was Ingrid the Quiet One. I called her next. Ingrid was quiet, all right, as in dead. Ingrid Swenson had been killed in an automobile accident two weeks ago. Her partner—soul mate, friend with benefits, whatever—told me this when she took my call. I immediately expressed my regrets at Ingrid's untimely demise and tried to couch my questions in a way that afforded proper respect for the bereaved.

The woman named Lu— "Just L-U," she said. "Short for Lucy"—had been Ingrid's partner for years. She described Ingrid as a reserved and private person. She expressed very few thoughts or feelings about the Harcourts or their kids. However, among those few thoughts, one apparently stood out. Lu claimed that Ingrid was worried at one point about the Harcourts' growing status as internet influencers and the effect that had on the kids' and her own privacy.

"Like I told the police, back then, they were mainly blogging," Lu said. "I think Ingrid was most concerned about their increasing use of social media."

So, the cops had finally reached out to the nanny. I asked Lu if Ingrid had ever talked about the Harcourt kids' behavior. "Did the police ask you about the kids?"

"I'll tell you what I told them. If there were serious problems, she never mentioned them," Lu said. Her voice took on a guarded tone, and I sensed an internal debate on her part. Was she keeping a secret or wondering what more to share?

I hate talking on the phone. If I could just read her face. I needed to do more video calls. Except then, there's no element of surprise. Plus I couldn't make faces while people lied to me.

"There is one thing," Lu said, sounding decisive. "Ingrid kept a journal. I'd be happy to send you a copy, if you think it would help."

Did I think it would be helpful? Does a bear care where the Pope shits? No, but I wanted that journal.

"Do you have a smartphone?" She could send me snaps of the relevant pages.

"No, actually. And I'm beginning to feel like a dinosaur." She chuckled. "But, why should I care?"

I made sure she had my address and asked her to send photocopies as soon as possible. And thanked her profusely before hanging up. I could have told her to send a copy to the cops, but I wanted the first look. It's called competitive intelligence. Besides which, it might reveal nothing. I would be more than willing to share it after I looked it over, if it contained anything of value.

Despite Lu's promise to send me a copy of the journal as soon as she could, I decided not to sit by the door and wait for it. My next call was to Sasha in Bakersfield. The day was far enough along that the three-hour time difference wouldn't be a problem. As the first of the three nannies, I wondered exactly how young the kids were when she came on.

As I listened to Sasha's phone ringing 3,000 miles away, a thought nagged me. When had the Harcourts started making their mark online? They must have just been getting started when Jaden was born. Maybe they were busy at other jobs while they developed their online platform as a side gig.

A woman's voice came on the line, voice mail, actually. Please leave your name and number. Thanks. No cutesy message, no "I can't get to the phone" or "I'm unavailable." Just leave your name and number. No promises on returning your call.

"My name is Erica Jensen," I said. "I'm investigating the murder of Ron and Marian Harcourt. I need to talk to you about when you worked for them and ask you some questions about their children. Please call me when you get this. It's urgent." I gave my number and hung up.

Then I turned to my other work, half hoping I could accomplish a thing or two, when the phone rang. I checked the ID. That didn't take long.

"Hello, Ms. Krikorian?" I answered.

After a pause, Sasha said, "Erica Jensen?" The voice held suspicion and curiosity. "Are you with the police?"

"No, I'm a private . . . researcher, but I have a personal stake in finding out who killed the Harcourts."

Another pause. "You knew them?"

"I worked for them," I said. "Briefly."

"When the police contacted me, I was shocked to hear what had happened. It's been years since I've even thought about them." Her voice sounded dreamy at first but seemed to darken as she spoke.

"Can you tell me what it was like to work for them?"

"You're not with the press, are you?" Careful.

"No." I had avoided saying it the first time, but I was tired of dancing around the issue. "I'm not police, not with the press. I'm the person who found them dead, and I'm trying to stay out of prison, because I'm not the one who killed them."

The words poured out of me. At one time, I might have been embarrassed by that and hung up. Instead, I wondered if my group therapist, Susan, would have considered this a breakthrough.

"Then we need to talk," said Sasha the Strict.