Mylovie.Com

By Pete Liebengood

When police are slow to solve the disappearance of her best friend, Marci, Liz Falcone, owner of a crime scene cleanup company, sets out on her own to find her. When she subsequently learns that Marci was murdered, she initiates a campaign independent of law enforcement to solve what is becoming a cold case and to bring the person responsible to justice. In the process, she learns of the murders of four other women, all committed in the same fashion and all of whom were clients of the online dating website mylovie.com, which is owned and operated by her estranged husband, Noah Epps.

Lizs vigorous search sets in motion a series of dizzying circumstances that lead to the capture of the murderer and the birth of a nationally televised reality show dedicated to solving cold cases. The shows first order of business is to shut down mylovie.com in order to prevent copycat murders. That action triggers another set of killings that hit too close to home for Lizs comfort and safety.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524588816

Pete Liebengood

Pete Liebengood is a retired former TV sportscaster (KCRA-TV Sacramento, KRON-TV San Francisco) and play-by-play contributor to ESPN (college basketball, college football, boxing, and tennis). He is the author of four mystery/thriller books the latest of which is Rendez-Vu. Raised in Santa Barbara, California, he attended San Francisco State University. He was the cocreator of the first local TV news magazine at KCRA-TV and also produced AM San Francisco for KGO-TV. He presently lives with his wife, Alicia Aguirre, in Redwood City, California.

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PROLOGUE

S ix-year-old Noah Joseph Epstein, wearing only a faded, oversized Surf City T-shirt and partially torn, white underpants sat in his dad’s leather recliner in front of the TV. It was his spot, had been since he was old enough to appreciate cartoons. His tightly curled, black hair was typically matted from sleeping, and his upper lip contained the residue of his morning Cocoa Puffs. For the moment, he was the picture of childhood innocence.

The new 1986 model, big-box Mitsubishi screen flashed strobe-like in Aaron Epstein’s oppressively dark, windowless, early man cave that featured rich paneling of reclaimed wood. The add-on room was decorated with pictures of the dad in action. The pictures featured a happy looking Aaron Epstein fly-fishing the Snake River, kayaking off the Mendocino Coast, and deep-sea fishing out of Cabo San Lucas, along with several photos of him with Arnold Schwarzenegger at a Mr. Universe competition. There were no photos of the happily married Epsteins for good reason. The décor was emblematic of the elder Epstein’s accrued wealth which he derived from his investment in a chain of fitness facilities he’d started with a partner a decade ago. He’d teamed up with Wilton McAvoy, a Santa Cruz CPA who hated his job, to purchase a mom-and-pop market located near the marina there. After converting it into a fitness center and stocking it with the latest and greatest pieces of exercise equipment, they’d hired the best fitness trainer and aerobics instructor in the area. The classes had filled with housewives eager to get back into shape. Within two years, Epstein and McAvoy had grown their portfolio to ten fitness centers, all of them located in Northern California, Washington, and Idaho. Editors of the San Francisco Business Times considered the growth of their company remarkable. In a feature article about Fit Nation’s founders, the reporter said:

Marketing has been their key. They chose a gorgeous, sexy brunette—an ex-Oakland Raiders cheerleader—to be their spokesperson. Their TV ads are borderline suggestive as the former cheerleader, displaying ample cleavage in a glittering workout top, invites would-be customers to get into the gym and put their fannies next to hers. Male sign-ups have outweighed women three-to-one ever since the owners turned to Miss Dinah-MO, as she calls herself in commercials, to become the focal point of their campaign.

Noah had made a habit of perching in his dad’s chair whenever Pops was off somewhere on business. It was his way of staying connected with the man he’d grown to worship as someone who always brought him lavish presents when he returned from his travels—an Evel Knievel junior bicycle was the ultimate gift—and who’d taught him how to paddle on a surfboard by the time he’d graduated from first grade.

While the boy’s eyes were riveted on the TV, he passively picked at—a chronic habit—the small, black birth mole located just above the left corner of his upper lip and engaged a second package of sour Skittles. He was tuned to an episode of ALF, featuring the eponymous friendly, warm, and fuzzy extraterrestrial who’d traveled all the way from the planet Melmac to star in a popular NBC sitcom as a member of the Tanner family. He was mesmerized by ALF and, sponsored by his dad, had sent away through the mail for numerous ALF mementos, including a rubber ALF that he kept above the headboard of his bed.

Noah’s eyes followed ALF’s ill-fated attempt to match light a turkey in the family’s oven, even after the doorbell to the Epstein home had rung a half dozen times. Mommy, mommy! he shouted. ALF blew up the oven and the whole kitchen. Come see.

From the rustling of her clothes—a printed muumuu—induced by the accelerated pace of her walk—and the clatter provided by her loose-fitting flip-flops, Noah quickly sensed his mother rushing from her bedroom (she no longer shared the master bedroom with his father) to respond to his call.

Mommy? Noah whined, after briefly glancing away from the TV screen and catching his mom’s Goldilocks blond hair bounce off her shoulder as she quickly moved down the hallway. Once she’d passed the door to the TV room, it was clear she wasn’t coming to watch ALF with him. Noah could only wonder why she’d been carrying her purse.

Gotta answer the door, Noah, she said, her voice sounding rushed.

Noah turned his partial attention back to the TV, but his inner antenna remained tuned to the now open front door. The voice that came from the outside—deep and husky—belonged to a man. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t a voice Noah recognized.

Now or never, the voice said. Come with me, Kate. You knew it would come to this.

But I can’t. I can’t just leave him, Noah heard his mom say.

Then why are you holding your purse?

His father won’t be back for two more days, Nick. You know that, damn it. You want me to get busted for child abandonment? Hell, you’d be implicated too. That’s serious stuff.

The voice of Nick laughed. We’re leaving the country. They can’t charge you with anything if they can’t find you.

True, I guess.

Don’t try to hit me with a guilt trip, Kate. It’s your choice, the man Noah now identified as Nick said. Leave him now, or I’m gone. You said you couldn’t spend another day under the same roof with him. You know I can’t stand people who waffle.

Noah could hear well enough to know his mother was crying. I’m so torn, Nick. You know I want to be with you forever, but …

Noah was startled because the only other time he remembered his mom losing control of her emotions was when she ran over and killed the family dog with her four-wheel drive Jeep. She’d blamed his dad for the dog being outdoors instead of shut in the backyard.

Next he recognized the sound of the screen to the front door opening. The cranking sound made by its rusty springs was unmistakable. In seconds, there was silence. Moments later, Little Noah flinched in the recliner at the distant sound of a car starting up. When he finally jumped out of his dad’s chair to see what was happening, there was no one anywhere in sight. His mom had vanished, presumably with the man with the deep voice. No, no. Come back, Mommy, he cried out. Come back, please!

Immediately Noah slipped into what his doctor would subsequently determine as a state of shock. He peed his pants, and he became extremely dizzy. He reached out with both hands and grabbed for the hallway wall in order to keep from falling. Again he tried crying out for his mommy, but this time, he couldn’t speak. Tears quickly streamed down his cheeks, triggering an onset of panic where his body began to tremble and then ultimately convulse.

***

Returning home from a successful business trip to the Pacific Northwest—Seattle and Tacoma—where he’d added two more Fit Nation workout centers to his growing empire and acquired another out-of-town lover, a stunning Microsoft corporate attorney who lived in Mercer Island, Aaron Epstein wasn’t surprised by his wife’s absence and wasn’t upset by it. He and Kate were in stage IV of the three stages of marital difficulties. I hope she’s on an airplane somewhere over Dubai, was his unspoken thought. He was, however, livid at finding their son lying prone on his bed, his face pale, the white’s of his eyes rusty red from crying, his underpants filled with pee stains, and his tender psyche incapable of communicating any details of what had happened to his mother.

Aaron Epstein immediately notified the Santa Cruz Police Department of his wife’s disappearance—her purse, cellphone, and all of their joint account checkbooks were missing as well. But he spent the majority of the next twenty-four hours seeking help for his inconsolable son. After a twenty-four-hour stay in the Kaiser Hospital emergency room for what the doctor on duty called acute psychological trauma, Noah was released. But the kid who was ushered out of the emergency center in a wheelchair by an attentive nurse was no longer the same kid who’d entered the facility.

***

It took Aaron Epstein six months and three different private eye companies to learn that his wife of ten years had run off to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic with her Pilates instructor. Nick Montero was a native of the island nation and the former lead singer of the popular Dominican rock band Kronk, a group that had once performed on The Today Show at a time producers were trying to expand the show’s Latino audience base.

During that time, little Noah had either refused or wasn’t able to speak, even to his father. According to the diagnoses of several child psychologists Aaron had sought out at considerable expense, his son had a cognitive deficiency—a condition more commonly reserved for the elderly. It wasn’t until the part-time nanny Aaron had hired, a fiftyish, earth mother type, who doubled as an assistant to the professor of human sexuality at Monterrey Peninsula College, tried to force the boy to eat broccoli that he finally spoke, uttering the words, I hate you! The nanny considered it a major breakthrough in Noah’s development and immediately asked Aaron for a fifteen percent pay hike.

I brought him out of his shell, she repeated several times in making her case to the father.

"And I pulled you away from channeling The Morton Downey Jr. Show, Aaron responded. That’s a rescue of humongous proportions, worth a lot more than money." He denied the nanny her raise but was thrilled that his son was speaking again and had returned to watching ALF, a sure sign, he hoped, that the boy was his old self again.

CHAPTER 1

T he sprawling, two-story, earth-toned Mediterranean house that Noah shared with Liz Falcone, his wife of two years, sat by its lonesome on a ridge just outside the town limits of Los Gatos, an upscale community where doctors, lawyers, and venture capitalists made up 25 percent of the population of thirty thousand and consumed 75 percent of its annual alcohol sales. The town was located just a thirty-minute drive from the beach town of Santa Cruz, where Noah grew up in a house on a cliff. From his childhood home, Noah could hear the endless sounds of the pounding surf at Steamer Lane and smell the cotton candy from the boardwalk, not to mention weed wafting up from the same beach opposite the wharf.

Never wander far from your roots, Noah was fond of espousing when the subject of his love for Santa Cruz came up for discussion. Those who share your beginnings are the ones who will be there for you in your time of need, which is more than likely at the end. That philosophy best explained his decades-long, often blind allegiance to his homegrown surfing buddies—Bobo Archer in particular. Los Gatos would always rank a distant second to Santa Cruz in both his heart and mind.

As an only child, Noah had inherited all his dad’s respectable fortune—$5 million in cash and half his gym properties—upon Aaron’s death three years earlier, following a short bout with pancreatic cancer. His mother, who’d converted to her maiden name of Thiebot after she had run off, had tried desperately through the courts to acquire a small portion of her ex-husband’s inheritance but failed, receiving not a dime from the man she left for the person Noah knew only as Nick. It didn’t help that Kate Thiebot had appeared before the family court judge in a revealing bathing suit top, cutoff jeans, and spiked sandals, looking like she’d just come from a Dominican banana boat ride. I supported him when he had nothing, she told the judge. Anybody can see by how well I’ve preserved my appearance that I represented him well in his business career. He had a hot wife, and everyone knew it. I just wouldn’t stroke his instrument after about five years of marriage, and that’s why he started taking stuff on the side. And then I said to myself. ‘You can do that too, honey.’ So I did, and now I’m living a happy life in Puerto Rico.

The judge wasn’t swayed by her argument.

Sensitive to the fact he’d turned thirty-five without accomplishing anything but being the son of a rich dad, Noah legally changed his last name to Epps shortly after his father’s death. He’d never been influenced to practice Judaism by his father, so the name change wasn’t a traumatic event. I feel like this giant cloud that’s been shadowing me for all my life was lifted by creating a new last name, he told the county clerk who did his paperwork. Throughout his high school years, he’d constantly had to answer to derogatory name-calling from his peers—Heeb being at the top of the favorite’s list among insensitive friends and classmates.

The Los Gatos house, which only recently had been featured in a three-page spread in Valley magazine, had an eight-foot wide balcony that stretched the entire circumference of the structure like a deck on a cruise ship. Great for parties and spying on neighbors having sex, was Noah’s repeated, unfiltered, off-the-wall public justification for the extravagant addition he’d made to the house that was built in 1958. We cruise the Silicon Valley from here, he was fond of telling their infrequent houseguests. He reinforced the notion that he wasn’t totally joking about the eavesdropping by placing high-powered telescopes on the east and west sides of the balcony.

From his position under a large, rust-colored umbrella on the balcony’s east side, Noah watched as his wife pulled her diamond-white Mercedes S-Class sedan into the driveway. He quickly rose to wave at her. You coming to see me? he shouted down to her as she got out of the car. The greeting was overly exuberant and contained a dose of sarcasm. He followed up with a wolf whistle that caused Liz to shake her head in mild disgust.

I can hardly wait to be in your embrace, Liz hollered up at him as she called upon her long, still shapely legs—her trademark—to negotiate the winding steps leading to the interior of the house.

Liz would have been welcome at almost any man’s house the way she was dressed—tight fitting orange and black stretch shorts, a black training bra, and orange and black Nike running shoes, all necessary for her two-hour workout that followed an exhausting day on the job. Even at forty-four, almost twenty years from her days as an elite-level bodybuilder, Liz maintained a shape that wasn’t far from competition-ready. In her midtwenties, she’d been a three-time Ms. Olympia runner-up. She’d grown to hate the term runner-up and still carried some psychological baggage over what the word represented. She just wasn’t able to get past the perennial champion Lenda Murray and her top rival, Kim Chizevsky-Nichols.

Liz only quit the sport over her paranoia that she was developing a deeper voice and a man face from experimenting with performance-enhancing drugs. She feared her father, Giancarlo Falcone, would discover she had a steady supplier and was dirty. If he were to have found out she was a cheater, she was certain it would have devastated him. My daughter all natural, he was proud of telling friends and acquaintances. She no cheat like all the other women. I raise her to respect the rules. Liz Falcone is, how you say, squeaky clean.

Ten years ago, Liz was inducted into the Santa Clara County Sports Hall of Fame. Giancarlo was so proud of her that he took out a full-page ad in the San Jose Mercury News. It featured a head-to-toe photo of Liz, posing onstage at her last Ms. Olympia completion. The text read, This is what a real athlete looks like, strong and clean.

Liz’s six-pack abs and twenty-four-inch thighs were now features of the past, but her lean muscle mass remained impressive, as did her still silky skin. Keeping fit was a promise to her dad, as the Falcone family had a long history of heart issues. It was Giancarlo who’d first gotten her interested in bodybuilding before she entered high school. He was a longtime subscriber to Ripped magazine—the bodybuilder’s bible—and kept back copies in his office for the occasional customer who stopped in. He had a particular fetish for muscle-bound men and women. His heroes were Franco Columbu, Lou Ferrigno, and Rachel McLish. The magazine was his porn. Giancarlo had always wanted a son, but when his wife could no longer have kids after Liz was born, he decided to make his daughter into the image of a man—the man he’d always wanted to be—big, bold, and buffed.

Under Liz’s left arm, she carried her wadded-up gray overalls—a modified hazmat suit—that Noah readily recognized as her work uniform. She’d spent the afternoon working at a crime scene in neighboring Saratoga. Liz ran The Perfect Crime Scene Cleaners, a company her dad took over ten years after his arrival in the States from Sicily. Giancarlo had started working for the company’s original owner after struggling for six months to attain his bio-specialist certification. He’d had to overcome poor English to pass the test. When the original owner had retired, Giancarlo had been ready to take over. His business was headquartered in what had once been a taco joint on Santa Clara Street, in downtown San Jose, right next to a pair of rundown but still operable businesses, Rita’s Nail Salon and Monique’s Massage Parlor. An office presence, however, wasn’t important to his business.

After twenty-five years of cleaning up after murders and suicides, Giancarlo retired and turned the business over to his daughter, telling her, I no can stomach anymore bloody messes. Need to relax and read books, fish, and maybe look up pretty women’s skirts.

Under Liz, the business had flourished beyond all Giancarlo’s expectations. Annually, the company did the most jobs of any crime scene cleaner upper in the Valley, which of late had become a bone of contention with Noah. How is it that you seem to get every job out there? he asked over one too many gin and tonics. There are a dozen or more companies like yours in this area. I Googled crime scene cleanup. Either the other guys must be starving, or the murder-suicide rate in Santa Clara County has grown to epic proportions.

Liz had let Noah’s observation pass without justification, saying, Once again, you’ve had too much to drink. It was her go-to reason for explaining all her husband’s unqualified remarks, and she used it at home and in public.

Rough one today. Liz sighed as she tossed her blood-soiled work pants at Noah’s feet just as he entered the laundry room. Because he’d adopted the role of work-at-home husband—he’d only recently started his Internet company—Noah, much to Liz’s surprise, had readily assumed all household chores, including the laundry. Liz had no reason at the time to question his motives. She considered it a thoughtful gesture.

Can you wash these for me tonight? she asked, holding up her uniform. I can’t bear to look at it anymore. It represents an unbelievably horrible way to die. Sadness penetrated her angular face, which was characterized by deep-seated hazel eyes; full, non-Botox lips; a forehead even she acknowledged was steep enough to ski down; and a curved nose that gave her a sharp, Streisand-like profile. Her body more than made up for her less-than-movie star facial attributes.

Murder? Noah asked.

OJ style, from the way the coroner described it. It took Raul and me six and a half hours to finish. Blood everywhere—three rooms. She was a beautiful Latina woman. Gloria Marquez. Such a loss.

Ugh!

The only positive is that it was a $3,000 job. I earned it though. I had to act as counselor to the woman’s parents, who arrived on scene just as we were wrapping up. I’m really not good at that. I just held the mother’s hand for the longest time. I felt so bad for her. She couldn’t stop weeping. It was her only child. The mother told me Gloria was involved in online dating and that she had warned her about getting involved with the wrong person. You should check and see if she was one of your clients.

Was there a white Bronco involved? Noah, who was dressed in his everyday attire of khaki shorts, hoodie, and white Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers, broke out a smile like he thought he’d cracked a funny.

Liz didn’t respond to her husband’s remark. Her icy stare spoke for her. Listen, Liz said, pressing her right index finger on her husband’s chest. I need a shower and a drink—in that order. Make the drink something that will go down smoothly and is spiked with lots of vodka. Tons. She walked off in the direction of their bedroom but stopped just short of the door. And don’t say anything about my hair.

Noah had already decided to let any conversation about the freshly dyed pink stripe down the middle of her shoulder-length, naturally dirty blond hair wait until she was in a more relaxed state. Too many times he’d seen his wife transform herself into a high-intensity drama queen when she’d become overly stressed.

Liz took a step back in Noah’s direction. It’s a peer group thing, if you’re wondering. My Roller Rascals teammates shamed me into it. They all did the same thing. We look like skunks on skates. Liz laughed at the thought. Missy the Migraine Maker was the one behind it. She’s our best blocker. She’s this ginger-haired, cute-as-cat-videos, black chick—only four foot nine—but if she gets her booty, which she calls her almond joys, into a hip check she’s going to put someone over the rail like a wild pig on a BBQ spit. When she added a yellow stripe to her hair, one of our girls said she looked like a highway don’t pass line. You should come out one night and watch us girls in action. We’re awesome.

This Missy sounds like she’d make a great date for some guy. Noah laughed, sarcasm dripping out of his voice. She could clear out a restaurant waiting line in a heartbeat.

And wouldn’t you know, she’s a mild-mannered first grade teacher in the real world. Talk about your contrasts.

Noah smirked. Aren’t you taking this roller derby thing a little too far?

Liz disappeared into the bedroom but allowed a biting remark to filter back to where Noah was standing. It’s the only physical contact I get anymore, Cupcake.

Noah shook his head. Liz’s recurring snide remarks about their ever-decreasing sexual activity were beginning to take a toll on Noah’s feelings about his masculinity.

Before she stepped into her spacious, open-door shower, Liz, as she often did, took a second to flex the muscles of her upper body and cast a pose in the bathroom mirror. A smile crossed her lips as she appeared to like what she was seeing, a still-tight body, richly tanned, which she knew was still attractive to the right man. Her pecks were no longer as firm as she would have liked, but the trade-off was fleshier breasts—all the better for fondling, she reasoned. Only the purple and yellow bruises showing above her ribs spoiled her narcissistic moment. This was the price she paid, for being the best jammer on her team—in the whole damn league for that matter.

Before turning on the water to her shower, Liz made a mental note to check back issues of The Mercury News for the story of another murdered woman. More importantly, she would be sure to contact Santa Clara County Coroner Harley Justice to see if that job had been awarded to another cleanup company. She shook her head, thinking to herself, If I’m trading him sex for jobs, I want all the jobs.

CHAPTER 2

S ex had never been an issue for Bobo Archer. He got it most any time he wanted it—had ever since his junior year at Santa Cruz High School when he took the JV football team’s lead cheerleader to a drive-in movie. You wouldn’t believe Maggie Whitman, he bragged to friends. She’s got bigger tits than Anna Nicole Smith. Bobo was even more successful at attracting females than his lifelong buddy Noah Epps. His light chocolate skin—his father was black, his mother, Costa Rican—ocean-blue eyes, dimpled chin, and dreadlocks made him what girls called the whole package. Plus, he was smart and athletic. He only missed out on a football scholarship to San Jose State as a graduating high school, all-conference outside linebacker because of a rare pelvic bone fracture he’d suffered while