No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (33 page)

“Five grand.”

“Five
grand
? To steal a car that was worth barely twelve hundred? Didn’t you think that was a little strange?”

“Hey, man, I don’t worry about whether it’s strange or not. I just worry about if the money is good.”

Which apparently it had been, considering that the unknown Jerome had paid Rigo five thousand bucks and Rigo had given Tony only a grand to actually steal the car.

Ortiz decided to try another tack. “Can you describe this Jerome character?”

Rigo shrugged. “Just some gringo, man. Nice set of wheels, though. New Range Rover, custom rims, loaded. That shit’s worth a lot.”

Ortiz made a note on his pad. “So you don’t remember anything about the man? Age? Hair?”

“Maybe late thirties, something like that. Brown hair—not dark, though. Couldn’t see his eyes—he was wearing sunglasses.”

Late thirties, brown hair. That description probably could be applied to a million men in the greater Los Angeles area, but it still tripped Ortiz’s alarms. “Would you say he was athletic-looking?”

Rigo didn’t even pause to think it over. “Yeah, he looked pretty tough for a rich guy. At first I thought he was maybe a cop or something. Don’t know why—just the way he looked around at things. Like he was sizing up threats.” Another shrug. “But once he pulled out the cash I figured he was okay. And he was. Sweet deal, over in five. He never came back. Called once, to make sure we got the car all right.”

It could just be a coincidence, but somehow Ortiz doubted it. Whoever this Jerome was, he sounded very much like the stalker Christine had spotted on campus and who Meg herself had described to Ortiz. Whether there was any connection between him and the reclusive Erik Deitrich was another thing.

“Did you happen to catch his license plate number?”

At that Rigo grinned, revealing a gold canine. “You’re lucky that I notice shit like that. I wrote it down.” He lifted a clipboard off a nearby workbench and started rifling through the pages. “I like to be careful—figured it couldn’t hurt to have some info on him in case he tried to rat me out later.”

Ortiz was trying like anything to keep from grinning. Goddamn—an actual license plate number. Surely it couldn’t be that easy—

“Yeah, here it is. 6GBH271.” Rigo squinted at Ortiz. “You’re gonna help out Tony now, right?”

“I’ll throw him a goddamn party if this works out. But yeah, he’s been very cooperative. And so have you.”

Rigo spread his hands, dark eyes gleaming. “Hey, just doing my part, man, like any other law-abiding citizen.”

Law-abiding my ass
. At this point, though, Ortiz really couldn’t care less whether Rigo was chopping up the Popemobile or Air Force One. This was what he had been looking for—a real lead, a tangible piece of evidence.

He thanked Rigo and headed back to his car, its hubcaps blessedly still intact. Probably Rigo had warned the neighborhood thugs away, telling them they didn’t want to screw things up for Tony Vasquez.
 

Before Ortiz had even cleared the cul-de-sac and headed out onto Peck Road, he’d picked up the radio and called in the license plate number. By the time he was back in the office, he should have a nice fat file on this Jerome character that he could look over at his leisure.

And after that
, he thought, weaving in and out of the thickening afternoon traffic,
your ass is mine
.
 

Chapter 24

I know this man
, Ortiz thought, staring down at the open file in front of him. Crazy as it might sound, the owner of the much-admired Range Rover was someone Ortiz had contact with back during the time when he still worked for the LAPD. Oh, he hadn’t known the man well—met him at a crime scene once, talked with him on the phone a few more times when the LAPD was coordinating with the FBI on a well-publicized case where the perpetrator had car-jacked his victim in Arizona but messily murdered her in a back alley only a few blocks from skid row in downtown Los Angeles. But Ortiz never forgot a face, and he remembered Special Agent Jerome Manning.
Ex
-special agent, he reminded himself, leafing through the dossier. Apparently Manning had quit the Bureau seven or eight years ago and gone into business for himself. But what the hell he was doing tangled up in the Daly case, Ortiz couldn’t begin to imagine.
 

Manning’s photo stared up at him from the file, impassive, just this side of handsome. It was not the sort of face to reveal any secrets.
 

According to the file, his current address was on Los Robles, in one of those pricey mixed-use condo/shopping developments clustered around the Paseo Colorado mall. He had a fictitious business name on file with the county: Manning Security Consulting. The address associated with the business was a Mailbox Plus mail drop only a few blocks away from the condo. The Range Rover had been purchased with cash a little over six months ago. Ortiz let out a low whistle. Apparently the security consulting business was doing well for Jerome Manning.

No wonder Rigo thought he was a cop
. Ortiz flipped through the meager pages of the file, hoping he would see some kind of pattern, some kind of clue that would make sense of his connection to Christine Daly’s disappearance. Unfortunately, it would take a court order for the police to investigate Manning’s bank records and tax statements, and Ortiz wasn’t sure he had enough evidence yet to make a strong case for that kind of invasion of privacy.

There wasn’t much here. The paperwork indicated that Manning had left the FBI voluntarily and with sterling recommendations. He certainly wasn’t a disgruntled ex-Bureau officer with a hate on for law enforcement in general. Obviously he had decided he could make more money working in the private sector, and apparently he had been correct. And he certainly did not seem the type to develop an obsessive interest in a local college student, no matter how beautiful and talented she might be. He was still single at forty, which was a little unusual, but not much, considering his line of work. A lot of men in that field found it easier to pursue their careers unencumbered by a family. Hell, he could even be gay, although Ortiz had definitely not gotten that vibe from him.

All of which left Ortiz with basically nothing to go on. There was also the possibility that Jerome was just the go-between, someone who had been hired to handle the kidnapping of Christine Daly. Maybe it was really Erik Deitrich who paid the bills, although Ortiz wasn’t sure how he’d ever be able to prove that. Even if he had access to Manning’s bank records, Ortiz was pretty sure that that sort of transaction would have been handled on a cash-only basis—possibly with funds changing hands through offshore accounts. People with that kind of money had access to all sorts of ingenious methods of subverting the government, and he’d been around long enough to know that they were hardly ever caught. The general public would probably be staggered to know how much illegal financial activity went unpunished.

It seemed the direct route would be the best here. All he could do was put an APB out on Manning’s vehicle, stake out a few officers near his condo, and then wait. Manning obviously spent a good deal of time in Pasadena and its environs; hell, his condo was only a few blocks from the police station itself. Sooner or later someone would be able to tag him and bring him in for questioning. Not that Ortiz pinned all of his hopes on that, either. Interrogating an ex-FBI agent would be anything but easy.

He ran his hands through his thinning hair and sighed.
Just once
, he thought,
I’d like something about this case to be simple. Just once.

Long experience, however, told him that his wishes weren’t very likely to be granted.

Jerome put down the phone receiver and turned to face Erik. “The hospital wants to keep Ennis for another night.”

“Did they say why?” Erik laid aside his newspaper and looked at Jerome with some concern. Part of him was still so buoyed up by the events of the night before that a setback like this was only mildly worrisome, but on the other hand, he did want Ennis home and safe as soon as possible.

“His blood pressure isn’t quite where they want it to be, so they’re keeping him another twenty-four hours just to be safe. But I’ll be able to pick him up tomorrow afternoon around two.”

“Well, I suppose we can survive another night without him if we must,” Erik replied, but inwardly he was a little pleased. He would have another night alone with Christine at least. Now if he could just get rid of Jerome—

“I noticed that you didn’t lock Christine’s door last night,” Jerome said, his tone somewhat ominous.
 

“Not necessary.” In answer to Jerome’s continued frown, Erik added, “We seem to have worked out our…issues. There’s no need to fear another escape attempt.”

For a moment it looked as if Jerome wanted to argue the point further, but then he just lifted his shoulders. “So now what?”

“So now you get the rest of the day off. I’d like to be alone with Christine.”
 

“What about Anna and Consuelo?”

For a second Erik looked at Jerome blankly, then realized he must be talking about the maids. “Oh, give them the day off as well. With pay, of course.”

“Of course. And Michel?”

He definitely needed the cook here, if only until dinner was ready. Then he, too, could get out. Erik wanted champagne tonight, to celebrate his and Christine’s blossoming relationship, but which? The delicate and lovely ’97 Perrier-Jouet Belle Époque, or the magnificent ’90 Veuve Clicquot rosé? After a moment’s deliberation, he thought he would go with the rosé. He doubted whether Christine had ever had anything like the Veuve Clicquot, and he wanted the evening to be as memorable as he could possibly make it. And to go with it? Lobster perhaps, although the rosé could stand up to a delicately roasted duck if Michel had a gentle hand with the sauce....

He realized that Jerome was still watching him, waiting for an answer. “Michel, of course. Tell him we’ll be having the ’90 Veuve Clicquot, and that I was thinking duck. He can take it from there.”

“Very good, Mr. Deitrich. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. After you’ve spoken with Michel, you can go. If I need anything, I can call you on your cell.”

Jerome nodded and went out, this time leaving the office doors open behind him. He probably thought there was no need to keep everything closed up, now that Christine apparently had the run of the house.

No need for secrets any longer
, he thought, and he looked around his office with some wonder. Only last night they had stood by the now-cold hearth, and Christine had taken his scarred face in her hands and kissed him, healing him with her embraces. Only last night she had whispered “I love you” and smiled to hear him say it in return.
 

Even now he wasn’t sure whether it had all been a dream, some lovely vision that would surely melt with the return of day. But no—he knew it to be true. Earlier he had heard her singing a few bars from Marguerite’s aria as she went down the stairs to find herself some breakfast. Never an early riser, he had still been in bed when she went by, but just hearing her, just knowing that she was in the house and singing joyfully the morning after their declarations of love, had been enough for him. The thought that this was but the first of many such mornings filled him with such happiness he thought it might be more than he could bear. All through his wretched, lonely life he had never imagined what the love of such a woman could mean—and now that he actually had achieved it, even through all his wrongdoing and selfishness, all he could do was endeavor to make himself worthy of her—now and forever.

It had been a lovely, idyllic day. Clouds chased themselves across a deep blue sky that spoke more of March than December; although many of the trees on the property were bare, they were still elegant in their nakedness, and the grass was almost supernaturally green following all the rain. I followed Erik as he took me over the house, showing me all the rooms I hadn’t yet explored—the library, the sumptuous spare bedrooms and salons, the greenhouse where apparently Ennis liked to putter with the orchids. It was if he had to put on display everything he had to offer me—as if he didn’t think he was worthy enough on his own.

I didn’t try to disabuse him of the notion. It would come in time—eventually he would learn that, magnificent as it was, the house and all the wealth it represented meant very little to me, compared to the strength of my feelings for him. It was enough now to be with him, to listen to the marvelous timber of his voice and see the warmth in his eyes every time he looked at me. Our love was still new and a little fragile, and I only wanted to reassure him with every glance and touch how much I really cared for him.

Perhaps I was myself a little surprised by the depth of my feelings for Erik. Only a few days ago I had tried so hard to hate him, to hate what he had done to me, but now I could not imagine what my life would be without him.
 

Who can say, really, what it is that causes two people to come together? Sometimes the matches that seem logical are the ones that flicker out and die quickly, while the improbable pairings endure. Although on the surface we seemed to have very little in common, save our love of music, I knew that in some ways we were both broken—he by the deformity that had shaped his very existence, I by crippling losses and the grief and isolation that had inevitably followed. We had both known despair. Was it so surprising that we had reached out to one another, hoping for some warmth in the darkness?

At the end of the afternoon, he told me that he had planned a special dinner and would like me to dress for it.

“That sounds so decadent,” I replied. Who in this day and age dressed for dinner? Especially here in Southern California, where I’d actually seen people wearing jeans to the opera.
 

“Indulge me,” he’d said, running one finger down my arm.

“For you, anything.” And the words had been truer than even he could have guessed.