He got up, inhaled, stretched and cracked more joints.
“The great thinkers,” I said.
“Always something to learn from them,” he answered, as
if we were reciting responsively.
“I still don’t understand the note, Bill.”
He came up to me, moving into my personal space the way
he had with Dennis. A big, clumsy, intrusive bird. I felt
as if I was about to be pecked and had to control myself from
retreating.
“The note,” he said. “Actually, you did very well with
the note, son. Bon voyage.”
Chapter
31
The rain came just before Milo called.
Robin and I were reading in bed when I felt the air turn
suddenly heavy and saw the sky crack.
The windows were open and a burnt smell drifted through
the screen. For one knife-stab moment, I thought of fire,
but as I looked out, the water began dropping.
Panes of plate glass, filming the view. The burnt smell
turned sweet—gardenias and old roses and cloves. Spike
began barking and circling and the room got dimmer and
warmer. I shut the windows, blocking out some but not all of
the sound.
Robin got up and stared through a now filmy pane.
The phone rang.
“How’s everything?” said Milo.
“Bad and getting worse.” I told him about my
experiences in the village. “But we’re booked for home.”
“Smart move. You can always stop over in Hawaii for a
real vacation.”
“Maybe,” I said, but I knew we’d be jetting back to L.A.
as quickly as possible.
“Robin there? Got some house stuff to tell her.”
I handed over the phone and Robin listened. Her smile
told me things were going well.
When I got back on, he said, “Now
your
stuff, though now
that you’re leaving, who cares?”
“Tell me anyway.”
“First of all, both Maryland cannibals are still locked
up. The asshole who only cut the victim is eligible for
parole but has been refused. The asshole who cut
and
dined
isn’t going anywhere. Thank God it wasn’t an L.A. jury,
right? L.A. jury couldn’t convict Adolf Hitler. What’s that
sound? Static on your end?”
“Rain,” I said. “Think of a shower on high and triple
it.”
“Typhoon?”
“No, just rain. Supposedly they don’t get typhoons
here.”
“Supposedly they didn’t get crime, either.”
I moved closer to the window. Only the tops of the
trees were visible through the downpour. Above the rain
clouds, the sky was milk-white and peaceful.
“Nope, no wind. Just lots of water. I hope it lets up
in time for the boats to come get us.”
“Daylight come and you wanna go home, huh? Well, when
you hear the rest, you’ll wish it were sooner. Guess who
covered the cannibal case for a local rag?”
“Creedman.”
“Didn’t even have to look for him, his name was right
there on the articles. Then someone else
took over mid-case and that made me a little curious, so I
dug deeper. No one at the paper remembers Creedman
specifically, but I found out there’d been some hassle with
the local police around the same time he got pulled off the
story: officers leaking information to his paper and others
for money. A bunch of cops got fired.”
“Did reporters get fired, too?”
“Couldn’t find that out, but it’s a good bet. Anyway,
Creedman’s next gig of record was at a D.C. cable station,
some kind of business show, but he only lasted three
months before getting hired by Stasher-Layman Construction’s
D.C. office. Communications officer. The company issued a
press release describing major balance-sheet problems. Their
stock went way down and the owners bought it all up and went
private. Next year profits went way, way higher.”
“Manipulation?”
“Maybe the owners are just a couple of lucky guys. And
maybe lawyers go to heaven.”
“Who are the owners?”
“Two brothers from Oregon, inherited it from their
daddy, moved to Texas. Big liberals on paper—funding
ecology research, humane solutions to crime.”
“Oregon,” I said. “Hoffman’s constituents. Was he part
of the buyout?”
“If he was, it didn’t hit the news, but they did
contribute big to his last reelection.”
“How big?”
“Three hundred thou—what they call soft money, gets
around the spending limits. Seeing as Hoffman didn’t have to
put out much—he was a shoo-in—that’s very sweet. So it
wouldn’t surprise me if he’s backing them on some island
project. He chairs a committee that considers big federal
development grants, has the power to let things through or
hold them up. But I can’t find anything smelly.”
“The cops who got fired,” I said. “Were the leaks
directly related to the cannibal murder?”
“I had trouble getting details. The press doesn’t
believe in full disclosure when it comes to the press. But
the firings took place right after the arrest.”
“Did you get any names of fired cops?”
I heard paper rustling. “White, Tagg, Johnson, Haygood,
Ceru—”
“Anders Haygood?”
“That’s what it says.”
“He lives here. One of the guys who likes to cut things
up. His buddy’s been whipping the crowd up against Ben.
Likes to pee when women are watching.”
“Wonderful.”
“So he and Creedman got booted at the same time—they
know each other. Ten to one they’re both on Stasher-Layman’s
payroll. Same for my next-door neighbor. She claims to be a
scientist, but both she and Creedman are carrying guns that
they picked up in Guam.”
“Jesus, Alex. Just sit tight till the boat comes in.
Don’t try to find out any more.”
“All right,” I said. “But now I’m starting to think
Moreland
could
be right about Ben being innocent. Not that
he’s got much of a story.”
“ ’I wuz framed’?”
“Ten points for the detective.”
“It’s always “I wuz framed’ unless it’s “I blacked out’
or “He started it.”’
“Ben’s two for three, claims he was choked out, the rest is blank.”
“Brilliant.”
I told him the rest of Ben’s account.
“Beyond lame,” he said. “Needs a four-prong walker. You know,
Alex, a
real
bad smell’s coming through the line. Even with
Creedman and Haygood in cahoots over some development deal, that
doesn’t get Benjy off the hook—hell, for all you know
he’s
on Stasher’s payroll, too. You watch your back.”
“What should I do about the info on Creedman and
Haygood?”
“Nothing. If the lawyer Moreland hired is really so
sharp, let
him
do something with it. I’ll tell him, not you.
Name?”
“Alfred Landau. Honolulu.”
“When’s he getting over there?”
“Two or three days.”
“Perfect timing. I’ll wait till you’ve left.”
“Meanwhile Ben sits there rotting?”
“Ben ain’t going anywhere no matter what anyone says or
does. They found him
lying
on the goddamn body.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
“Or stupid,” he said. “But that just makes it typical.
I had an idiot last month carjacked and killed some citizen,
then drove the car for a couple of days before taking it to
the dealer to complain about the fucking brakes. Funny,
except the citizen’s just as dead. Don’t deal with it, Alex.
I’ll call Landau as soon as you’re off the island. And don’t
feel bad about Ben. From what you’re telling me, that jail
cell may well be the safest place for him right now.”
“I’m not sure of that. We’re not talking maximum
security, just a hole at the back of the building. The
victim’s family visited the police station today. I saw the
look in their eyes. It wouldn’t take much of a mob to pull
him out.”
“Sorry about that, but where else can he go? How’s
security at the estate?”
“Nonexistent.”
“Just stay
put,
Alex. Stay in your goddamn
room—pretend it’s a second honeymoon and you don’t even
want
to come out.”
“Okay.”
“You definitely have your passage booked?”
“Definitely.” If the storm didn’t stall things.
“See you soon. Enough of this paradise shit.”
Cheryl brought dinner up to our room and we picked at
it. Darkness made its entrance virtually unnoticed. The
rain got stronger, relentless, slapping the sides of
the house.
But still warm. No lightning. The air was flat, deenergized.
As I sat there and did nothing, time’s edges melted.
Time
. . . Einstein a
magician . . . bending reality.
Relativity—
Moreland, a
moral
relativist?
Trying to
excuse
himself for something?
“Guilt’s a great motivator.”
All these years—all his accomplishments—propelled
by a troubled conscience?
Milo was right. It wasn’t my battle.
Robin smiled from across the room. I’d told her what
Milo had learned and she’d said, “So it’s good we’re
leaving.”
She was curled up now with some old magazines that had
come with the suite. Spike snored at her feet. Peaceful
scene, damned domestic. Pretending was fun.
I pointed to a wet window. “Listen to it.”
She let her hand drop to Spike’s head. “It was a dark
and stormy night.”
I laughed, went over, and kissed her hair.
She put the
Vogue
on her lap and reached up to stroke
my face. “This isn’t so bad, huh? When you get down to it,
making the best of a bad situation is the heart of
creativity.”
She teased my tongue with hers. Our mouths collided.
All the electricity, here.
We were slow-dancing toward the bed, fumbling with
buttons, when the knocks on the door added thunder.
Chapter
32
Pam’s voice on the other side: “Is anyone in there?”
We opened the door.
“Is Dad with you?” She stood, dripping, in a khaki
raincoat drenched black, face shiny-wet under a snarl of running
makeup.
“No,” said Robin.
“I can’t find him anywhere! All the cars are here, but
he isn’t. We were supposed to get together an hour ago.”
“Maybe Dennis or one of the deputies picked him up,” I
said.
“No, I called Dennis. Dad’s not in town. I’ve searched
the outbuildings and every square inch of the house
except your room and Jo’s.”
She hurried next door. Jo answered her knock quickly.
She had on a bathrobe but looked wide awake.
“Is Dad with you?”
“No.”
“Have you seen him at all this evening?”
“Sorry. Been in all day—touch of the stomach bug.”
She placed a hand on her abdomen. Her hair was combed out
and her color was still good. When she noticed me studying
her, she stared back hard.
“Oh God,” said Pam. “This weather. What if he’s outside and fell?”
“Older people do tend to spill,” said Jo. “I’ll help you look.”
She went inside and returned
wearing a tentlike transparent slicker over a black shirt and black
jeans, matching hat, rubber boots.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” she said. I followed
her eyes down to the entry. Water had pooled there. Gladys
and Cheryl were standing next to it, looking helpless.
“Around five,” said Pam. “He was in his office, said he
just had a little work, would be in soon. We were supposed
to have dinner together at seven and it’s already eight-thirty.”
“I spoke to him just before that,” I said, thinking of
Moreland’s tumble in the lab.
“Hmm,” said Jo. “Well, I’m sorry, haven’t noticed a
thing. Been out of commission since noon.”
“Bad stomach,” I said.
She gave me another challenging look. “Could
he have gone off the grounds?”
“No,” said Pam, wringing her hands. “He must be out
there—Gladys, get me a flashlight. A big powerful one.”
She started for the stairs.
“Let’s look for him in a group,” I said. “Is anyone
else here?”
“No, Dad sent the staff home early so they wouldn’t get
caught in the rain.” To the maids: “Did anyone stay
behind?”
Gladys shook her head. Cheryl watched her mother, then
imitated the gesture. Her usual stoicism was replaced
by a rabbity restlessness: sniffing, rubbing her fingers
together, tapping a foot.
A sharp glance from Gladys stilled her.
“Okay,” said Jo, “let’s do it logically—”
“Did you check the insectarium?” I said.
“I tried to get in,” said Pam, “but couldn’t. The new
locks—do
you
have the keys, Alex?”
“No.”
“The lights were out and I pounded hard on the door, no
answer.”
“Doesn’t he work in the dark sometimes?” said Jo.
“Doesn’t he keep things dark for the bugs?”
“I guess so,” said Pam. Panic stretched her sad eyes.
“You’re right, he could
be
in there, couldn’t he? What if
he’s lying there hurt? Gladys, any idea where we can find a
duplicate key?”
“I checked all the ones on the rack, ma’am, and it’s not
there.”
Cheryl grunted, then lowered her head.
Gladys turned to her. “What?”
“Nothing, momma.”
“Do
you
know where Dr. Bill is, Cheryl?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Just in the morning.”
“When?”
“Before lunchtime.”
“Did he say anything to you about going somewhere
tonight?”
“No, momma.”
Gladys lifted her daughter’s chin. “Cheryl?”
“Nothin’, momma. I was in the kitchen. Cleaning the
oven. Then I made lemonade. You said it had too much sugar,
remember?”
Gladys’s face tightened with irritation, then resignation
set in. “Yes, I remember, Cher.”
“Damn, damn,” said Pam. “You’re sure about the keys on
the rack.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He probably forgot. As usual.”
“He gave it to Ben,” said Cheryl. “I saw it. Shiny.”
“Lot of good that does,” said Pam. “All right, I’m
going back over to the insectarium and try to get in through
one of those windows.”
“The windows are high,” said Jo. “You’ll need a
ladder.”
“Gladys?” said Pam. Her voice was so tight the word was
a squeak.
“In the garage, ma’am. I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Jo. “I can hold the ladder
or climb it myself.”
“You’re sick,” I said. “Let me.”
She closed her door and positioned herself between Pam
and me. “I’m fine. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing.”
“Still—”
“No problem,” she said firmly. “You probably don’t
have rainclothes, right? I do. Come on, let’s not waste any
more time.”
She and Pam hurried down, picked up Gladys, and headed
toward the kitchen.
Cheryl remained alone in the entry. Fidgeting again.
Looking everywhere but up at us.
Then right up at us.
At me.
“What is it, Cheryl?” I said.
“Um . . . can I get you something?
Lemonade—no, too sweet . . . coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
She nodded as if expecting the answer. Kept bobbing her
head.
“Is everything okay, Cheryl?” said Robin.
The young woman jumped. Forced herself to stand still.
Robin went down to her. “What’s the matter, hon?”
Cheryl kept looking up at me.
“It’s pretty scary,” I said. “Dr. Bill disappearing
like this.”
She began rubbing her thighs, over and over. I
followed Robin down.
“What is it, Cheryl?” said Robin.
Cheryl looked at her guiltily. Turned to me. One hand
kept rubbing her leg. The other patted a pocket.
“I need
you,
” she said, on the verge of tears.
I looked at Robin and she went to
the far end of the front room. The rain was beating out a
two-two rhythm, smearing the picture windows.
Cheryl’s rubbing had intensified and her face was
compressed with anxiety.
Sweating.
Conflict.
Then I remembered that Moreland had used her to deliver
Milo’s phone message.
“Did Dr. Bill give you something for me, Cheryl?”
Running her eyes in all directions, she took a folded
white card out of her pants pocket and thrust it at me.
Stapled shut on all four corners.
I started to pull it open.
“
No!
He said it’s for
secret
!”
“Okay, I’ll look at it in secret.” I palmed the card.
She started to leave, but I held her back.
“When did Dr. Bill give it to you?”
“This morning.”
“To deliver tonight?”
“If he didn’t come to the kitchen.”
“If he didn’t come to the kitchen by a certain time?”
She looked confused.
“Why would he come to the kitchen, Cheryl?”
“Tea. I fix the tea.”
“You fix tea for him every night at a special time?”
“No!”
Distraught, she tried to pull loose again.
Staring at my pocket, as if expecting the paper to burst
through.
“Gotta go!”
“One second. Tell me what he told you.”
“
Give
it to you.”
“If he didn’t want tea.”
Nod.
“When do you usually make him tea?”
“When he
tells
me.”
She started to whimper. Looked down at my hand on her
arm.
I let go. “Okay, thanks, Cheryl.”
Instead of running off, she held back. “Don’t tell
momma?”
Moreland’s trusty courier. He’d figured her limited
intelligence would keep her on track, eliminate moral
dilemmas.
Wrong.
“All right,” I said.
“Momma will be
mad.
”
“I won’t tell her, Cheryl. I promise. Go on now, you
did the right thing.”
She hurried away and I took the card to Robin. It was
too dark to read and I didn’t want to put on the lights.
Hurrying back up to our suite, I popped the staples.
Moreland’s familiar handwriting:
DISR. 184: 18
“What?” said Robin. “A library catalogue number?”
“Some kind of reference—probably a volume or page
number. He’s been leaving cards since we got here. Quotes
from great writers and thinkers: Stevenson, Auden,
Einstein—the last one was something about time and
justice. The only great thinker I can come up with who matches
“DISR’ is Disraeli. Did you notice a book by him up here?”
“No, only magazines. Maybe there’s an article on
Disraeli.”
“
Architectural Digest
?” I said. “
House and
Garden
?”
“Sometimes they run features on ancestral homes of
famous people.”
She divided the magazines and we started scanning tables
of contents.
“French
Vogue,
” I muttered. “Yeah, that’ll be it.
What Disraeli wore when addressing parliament. Now available at
Armani Boutique. What the hell’s he getting at? Even at his
darkest hour the old coot’s playing games.”
She discarded an
Elle,
started scrutinizing a
Town&Country.
“Using poor Cheryl as a messenger,” I said. “If he had
something to tell me, why couldn’t he just come out and say
it?”
“Maybe he feels it’s too dangerous.”
“Or maybe he’s just going off the deep end.” I
picked up a six-year-old
Esquire.
“Everything
he does is calculated. I feel like a character in a play.
His
script. Even this disappearance. Middle of the night,
so damned
theatrical.
”
“You think he faked it?”
“Who knows what goes on in that big, bald head? I
sympathize with the fact that his life’s falling apart, but
the logical thing would have been to beef up security and
wait until Ben’s lawyer arrives. Instead, he lets the staff
go home early and puts his daughter through this.”
Rain hit the window so hard it shook the casement.
I ran my finger down another contents page, tossed it.
“Why choose
me
to play Clue with?”
“He obviously trusts you.”
“Lucky me. It makes no sense, Rob. He knows we’re
leaving. I told him this afternoon. Unless in his own nutty
way he thinks this’ll keep us here.”
“Maybe that or something else spurred him to action.
But he could also be in real trouble. Knew he was in danger
and left a message for you because you’re the only one he’s
got left.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Someone could have gotten in here and abducted
him.”
“Or he fell, like he did in the lab.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve noticed he loses his balance a
lot. And the absentmindedness. Maybe he’s sick, Alex.”
“Or just an old man pushing himself too
hard.”
“Either way, his being out there on a night like this
isn’t a pleasant thought.”
The rain kept sloshing. Spike listened, tense and
fascinated.
We finished the magazines. Nothing on Disraeli.
“There are books in your office,” she said. “In back,
where the files are.”
“But they’re not categorized,” I said. “Thousands of
volumes, no system. Not too efficient if he’s really trying
to tell me something.”
“Then what about that library off the dining room?” she
said. “The one he told us wouldn’t interest us. Maybe he
said that because he was hiding something.”
“A book on or by Disraeli? What is this, Nancy Drew and
Joe Hardy’s blind date?”
“Let’s at least check. What could it hurt, Alex? All
we’ve got is time.”
We went downstairs again. The house was
a scramble of streaks and shadows, hidden angles and
blind corners, ripe with charged air.
We passed through the front room and the dining room.
The library door was closed but unlocked.
Once inside, I turned on a crystal lamp. Dim light;
the salmon moiré walls looked brown, the dark furniture muddy. Very
few books. Maybe a hundred volumes
housed in the pair of cases.
Unlike the big library, this one
was
alphabetized:
fiction to the left, nonfiction to the right, the former
mostly
Reader’s Digest
condensed editions of best-sellers,
the latter art books and biographies.
I found the Disraeli quickly: an old British edition of
a novel called
Tancred.
Inside was a rose-pink, lace-edged
bookplate that said
EX LIBRIS:
Barbara Steehoven
Moreland.
The name inscribed in a calligraphic hand, much more elegant
than Moreland’s.
I turned hurriedly to page 184.
No distinguishing marks or messages.
Nothing noteworthy about line eighteen or word eighteen or
letter eighteen.
Nothing noteworthy about anything in the book.
I read the page again, then a third time, handed it to
Robin.
She scanned it and gave it back. “So maybe “DISR’ stands for
something else. Could it be something medical?”
Shrugging, I flipped through the book again. No
inscriptions anywhere. The pages were yellowed but crisp at
the edges, as if never handled.
I put it back, pulled out another volume at random.
Gone with the Wind.
Then
Forever Amber.
A couple
of Irving Wallaces. All with Barbara Moreland’s bookplate.
“Her room,” said Robin. “So he probably thinks of the
big one as his. Leaving something there makes more sense—it’s
right behind your office. Maybe he pulled something out and
left it for you.”
“This isn’t exactly strolling weather.”
She wagged a finger at me. “And someone forgot to bring
his
rain
slicker!”
“Unlike the always-prepared Dr.
Picker.
Wonder if she
packed her little gun under that giant condom. I should have
insisted on going with her and Pam. Maybe
I should go over to the bug zoo and see what the two of them
are up to.”