A Flower in the Desert (10 page)

Once I'd loaded the cassette into Chuck Arthur's minirecorder and turned it on, the first thing that Arthur and I heard was Melissa's outgoing message. I glanced across the table at Arthur. He was staring down at the machine, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his head slightly cocked. Suddenly, as the message ended, he reached out, lifted the machine from the table, and hit the Stop button.

I looked at him. “Why?”

“This is a patent invasion of privacy.” He held the recorder tightly in his hand—his tanned knuckles were white. Beneath his mustache, his mouth was set.

“You're her attorney,” I said.

“Yes, but you're not.”

“Come on, Arthur. We both want the same thing. We both want Melissa and Winona safe and sound. The cops can't find her, the FBI can't find her. Your private detective couldn't find her. Did he think to check the tape?”

He frowned.

“No,” I said, “he didn't. So already we're ahead of the game, the two of us.” Bonding.

“The police must've checked it.”

“Maybe they did. And maybe they didn't—I don't think they put a real high priority on finding Melissa. You were here when Stamworth searched the house?”

He nodded. “He listened to the machine. I watched him. But he didn't take out the tape.”

Penalty against Stamworth. Five yards. Stupidity.

“When was this?” I asked him.

“Two weeks ago. He said he was investigating a connection between Melissa and illegal aliens.”

“Melissa's sister was killed last week. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

He frowned, probably wondering where I was going with this. “Once. At court. Afterward. Just for a moment. I got the impression that she felt she wasn't supposed to be there. She was nervous. Worried that someone might see her talking to Melissa.”

“Who?”

He shrugged. “The press. And then it would get back to their parents. Melissa was the black sheep in her family. Her father's a stubborn old goat. He was furious about the court case, and he'd disinherited Melissa. Cathryn wasn't supposed to contact her.”

“Did Cathryn ever contact you, let you know that she'd heard from Melissa?”

“No.” He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “You're suggesting that Cathryn's death
is
connected to Melissa somehow.”

“No one else seems to think so. And maybe they're right. But what if they're wrong? Wouldn't that suggest to you that Melissa and Winona might be in danger themselves?”

He said nothing. He looked down at the recorder in his hand.

“Look,” I said. “I'm good at what I do. I don't have the resources that the cops and the feds have, but I don't have their bureaucracies either. And I'm a stubborn bastard. I'm going to find Melissa and I'm going to make sure that she and her daughter are okay, whether you help me or not. But if you do help me, I just might be able to find her a little faster.”

It was a good speech, and I believed most of it.

So did Arthur, apparently. He took another deep breath, frowned again, and then, without a word, he leaned forward, set the machine on the metal table, and pushed the Play button.

The two of us listened to what I'd heard before—the two blank spots on the tape in which someone, or two someones, had hung up after Melissa's outgoing message. They were followed by a faint metallic click, and then three more hang-ups separated by beeps. The faint click came again, then a man's voice, one I thought I recognized:

“…
check in with you later. Bye.
”

I reached out, hit the Stop button. “That's you?” I asked Arthur. “That's your message?”

“Yes.”

“Any way of telling when you left it?”

He shook his head. “I generally left the same message whenever I got her machine. Is it important?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. When was the last time you left a message?”

“On the twenty-third,” he said. “The day she was supposed to come to my office.”

I hit the Play button. The machine beeped and then a woman's voice said, “
Mel? Hi, this is Deirdre. Give me a call when you get a chance.
”

I turned off the machine. I asked Arthur, “You know a Deirdre?”

He shook his head.

I hit the Start button. Another beep, then a different woman's voice, in Spanish, urgent, and trembling with something like fear. “
This is Juanita. I have just heard, Melissa. Call me right away.
”

I stopped the machine, looked at Arthur. “What about Juanita?”

Frowning, he shook his head. “That was Spanish?”

“Yeah.” I translated it for him.

He was still frowning. “Did she sound frightened to you?”

“Maybe. Hard to tell. Did anyone take Melissa's messages while she was in El Salvador?”

“I don't know. She had a woman come in, but I don't know what kind of arrangement they had.”

“Do you know the woman's name?”

“Not offhand. It's a Spanish name. Not Juanita. I can find it. My secretary makes out her checks.”

“You're paying Melissa's bills?”

“It's only temporary,” he said, a bit defensive. “I'm billing her account.”

“At her request?”

“Someone had to take care of it. She can settle when she comes back.”

I nodded. The electricity was still on, so presumably he was paying that, too. And probably some kind of maintenance fee to keep Melissa in good standing with the Colony. He had to know that he had no legal obligation to pay anything, and that Melissa had no legal obligation to pay anything back, when she returned. If she returned.

“The woman's still cleaning the house?” I asked him.

“Once a week.”

“Could you get in touch with her? Find out if she's checking the messages now, and if she checked them while Melissa was in El Salvador?”

He nodded. “I'll call her tonight.”

“Thanks.” I hit the Start button. We heard a beep, and then a deep, rumbling actor's baritone, angry. “
Where the hell are you, Melissa?
”

I turned off the tape player. “That's Roy Alonzo.”

Arthur nodded.

“The beeps,” I said, “mean a separation between a set of messages. That little click means that we're moving from one set of messages to another. An earlier set.”

“So this set may be from the twenty-third. Alonzo and I were still trying to reach her here.”

“Yeah.” I hit the button. Another beep, and then:

“
Melissa, are you back yet? This is your mother, dear. Call me, would you?
”

A beep, a pause, another beep, then the metallic click. Then:

“
Call me, dear.
” Melissa's mother again.

A beep. Then: “
Hi, Mel. This is Deirdre. I just got your message. I'm back home, and I'll be here all night, so give me a call if you can.
”

A beep. Then: “
Melissa, this is Chuck Arthur. Would you call me sometime tomorrow morning? I'd like to talk to you before we go to court. Bye.
”

I shut off the machine. “Can you remember when you left that?”

“Well, obviously,” he said, “it had to be during one of the trials. The divorce or the child abuse case.”

“Usually, when you left a message, did you call yourself Chuck or Chuck Arthur?”

“Chuck Arthur.” He frowned. “I may've given you the wrong impression. What we had, Melissa and I, was only a professional relationship.”

However much he might have wanted it otherwise. I nodded. I hit the Play button. A beep sounded. Then Roy Alonzo's voice came racketing out of the tiny speaker, higher in register now, and shredded with anguish:

“
How can you
do
this, Mel? How can you do it to
me,
how can you do it to
Winona?
How can you tell all these
lies
you're telling!
”

Nine

A
ND WHAT DID ARTHUR SAY TO
that?” Rita asked me over the phone.

“He wasn't very concerned,” I told her. “He pointed out that Alonzo was an actor. And also that there was no way of determining exactly when the message was left. Roy might've left it back in the beginning of all this, when he still thought he could persuade Melissa she was wrong.”

“And what do you say?”

“About Roy abusing Winona? I can't say anything yet, Rita. So far, everyone I've talked to is in Melissa's camp, more or less.”

“Arthur's planning to get back to you about the cleaning woman? The one who might've written down Melissa's messages?”

“He already has. He called me tonight. She checked the machine twice, she says. Once on the fifth, once on the fifteenth. No messages. Everyone must've known that Melissa was out of the country. The woman, a Carlotta Garcia, still goes in to clean once a week, and there haven't been any messages since August.”

“Did Melissa return to her house before she disappeared from Los Angeles?”

“Apparently. Arthur got a locksmith to open up the place. The police came along with them. She'd left a bunch of clothes on the closet floor. The cleaning woman says they weren't there on the fifteenth. Presumably Melissa grabbed some new clothes and took off.”

“Were there any messages on the machine when Arthur and the police went in?”

“No. According to Arthur.”

“So. Melissa probably checked her machine when she returned from El Salvador on the seventeenth. Arthur's right. The calls from him and Deirdre and Juanita probably came in on the twenty-third of August.”

“What it looks like.”

“And Melissa was gone by then.”

“Right.”

“You'll have to find Deirdre and Juanita.”

“No shit, Rita.”

“You'll find them. Have you checked her phone records for August?”

“Arthur has the bills. He'll fax them to the service tomorrow.”

“We need our own fax machine, Joshua.”

“Right. We'll talk about it later.” And perhaps we'd talk about a few other things, too.

“You always say that, Joshua.”

“A creature of habit.”

“A creature of bad habit.”

“But nonetheless charming.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I thought I'd just lie here on the bed and pine for you.”

“That sounds very productive.”

“It's a very nice bed, Rita. Maybe you could fly out here and examine it. It might contain clues. It might contain me.”

“I'm sure it's a wonderful bed. It's too bad you'll have to get out of it to meet with Ed Norman in half an hour.”

“Ah. So you talked to Ed.” Learning that she'd talked to him only underscored what I felt, had been feeling all day, about Rita and her secrets.

“Briefly,” she said. “He called to say hello.”

“If you already knew I was meeting him, then why ask what I'm doing tonight?”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “Just checking to see if your level of invention was up to par. When are you talking to Elizabeth Drewer?” Trust Rita to get back to business.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Good. Who else are you seeing?”

“Guy named Hatfield. He's the chairman for the group Melissa was involved with. Sanctuary. And Melissa's parents, if I can get in touch with them. They haven't returned my calls.”

“You're still planning to fly back tomorrow night?”

“Unless something turns up.”

“But right now your feeling is that Melissa disappeared somewhere along the Underground Railroad.”

“Yeah. That's the impression I get, talking to Carpenter and Arthur. She didn't want Alonzo anywhere near her daughter, and that may've looked like the only way out.”

“There
is
another possibility.”

With Rita, there usually was. “And what's that?”

“We're assuming that she's running from Roy Alonzo. But she was down in El Salvador just before she disappeared. It's still a politically volatile country. Perhaps something happened to her down there. And perhaps that's what she's running from. You said that Arthur was surprised when she disappeared without contacting him. If you're right, and Melissa had already discussed the Railroad with him, why wouldn't she talk to him before she used it?”

“I don't know.”

“And why did she return early from El Salvador?”

“Beats me.”

“Didn't you say that Carpenter had received a card from some Salvadoran town?”

“Santa Isabel.”

“Santa Isabel. I'll look into it.”

“On the database?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” I said. “Good luck.” I didn't put much conviction into the words. I didn't think Rita would learn anything important, no matter how well she maneuvered through her databases. Or perhaps I didn't want her to.

“Thank you,” she said. She didn't put much conviction in her words, either. “I'll see you on Thursday. Give my regards to Ed.”

I wanted to ask her why she hadn't told me about her being an internationally famous computer wizard. I wanted to ask her if she was planning to leave the agency and set up a business of her own.

I didn't. I said, “I will,” and I said, “Goodbye,” and I hung up.