Liar Page 10

  He shrugged, and took out a stick of cinnamon gum. The only time I ever see Pete chewing gum is before he gets on a plane.

  “Ha qualcosa contro il mal d’aria?” Rachel asked in a low voice.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve got the pills. But it isn’t really air sickness that bothers me, you know?”

  From that point on, there was a concerted effort to distract him from his fear of flying.

  It was probably a good strategy where Frank and I were concerned as well. Distracting Pete kept our thoughts away from the last time Frank had gone to interview a witness. That time, he ended up a hostage. This trip was coming too soon after that ordeal. Neither of us had been able to sleep well—his nightmare had awakened both of us at about three in the morning. Knowing the alarm would be going off in a couple of hours, we lay there in a too-tired-and-too-wired state, worried minds continually snatching our weary bodies back from the brink of sleep.

  At the airport we behaved in a perfectly respectable fashion, focusing our efforts on having a pleasant conversation until the flight was called. Frank gave me a brief hug, a kiss and a smile, then said, “I’ll call you tonight,” in the same way anybody else might have said it to a spouse. Said it as if he were going to Idaho to talk someone into buying a copier rather than to convince some weasel-faced, scared-ass, hiding-out known associate of a criminal to admit under oath that he had seen said associate kill a man in cold blood.

  I understood, took my cues and ignored the knot in my stomach. It would be an ordinary day with an ordinary good-bye, and no one would question anyone’s ability to face it, no one would say aloud that there were damned good reasons for nightmares that woke everybody up, that there was no shame in it, that it was too soon, too soon—because that would be akin to saying the aftermath of his captivity still had legs to run on. Which it did. Trauma runs the marathon, not the fifty-yard dash.

  I thought he might go all the way down the jetway bantering with Pete, might get on the plane without glancing back, so I relaxed my guard and failed to have the correct devil-may-care expression on my face when he looked over his shoulder. But he wasn’t wearing a smile either, not until I tried to come up with one. I hoped mine didn’t look as forced as his did, and raised my hand to wave—or beckon him back, I’m not certain—but he didn’t see the gesture, because Pete said something to him just then. They took another step and were past the point where Rachel and I could watch them.

  Rachel didn’t object when, instead of leaving the nearly empty waiting area, I moved to the wall of tall windows, squinting in the bright morning sun, watching until the plane was pushed back from the gate. There was nothing to be done now, I told myself. Once again, being on my best behavior had proved damned unsatisfying.

  I turned in my story on campaign contributions and left the office. I had a council meeting to cover that night, so I took a few hours off in the early afternoon. I went home and spent some time with Cody and the dogs, then stretched the phone out onto the back patio. It was a warm day, bright and breezy. Frank’s garden lay before me, the dogs plopped down at my feet, and Cody settled on my lap and purred his approval of the arrangements.

  I opened my notebook and resumed my search for my cousin.

  I decided to make my first calls to the El Cajon, Mission Viejo and Lake Arrowhead libraries, the ones Briana has spoken to on her longer calls. I tried Mission Viejo first, since it was the closest to Las Piernas. I thumbed through my notes while waiting for the call to go through, and found the name of the children’s librarian.

  “Sophia Longworth, please,” I said, and was transferred to her desk.

  At the risk of being immediately identified as someone as cheerfully annoying as a gnat in a nostril, I told her my name and reminded her of my previous call.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, but nothing more.

  “I have more information now. Do you know anything about a storyteller named Cosmo?”

  “Yes, yes, of course! He was here about three weeks ago.”

  “Ms. Longworth, did a woman call to talk to you about him at about that same time?”

  There was a brief pause. “Oh! So this is what you were asking about. Well, I’m not sure I should go into this with you. It was a personal call.”

  If it was a personal call, I decided, Cosmo and Travis were likely one and the same. “The woman who called said she was Cosmo’s mother, right? Trying to leave a message for him at your library.”

  There was a little more hesitation, then, “As I said—”

  “I’m his cousin. It was my aunt who called. She probably just asked him to call her”—I thought of the phrase my mother might have used— “on an urgent family matter.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, that was the call. His mother. But I’m sure she can tell you why she was calling. I think that would be best, so—”

  “Wait,” I said, sensing that she was about to hang up. “Ms. Longworth, I can’t ask my aunt. She—she passed away recently.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes. Now you know why I want to reach my cousin.”

  “Oh, yes, of course! Oh, I’m so sorry. I wonder if—your aunt seemed quite distraught, but she didn’t mention that she was ill…”

  I didn’t say anything to dispel that notion. “I guess she had a hard time reaching him,” I said.

  “Yes. Cosmo—your cousin—travels constantly.”

  “Did he receive the message my aunt left for him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did he call her back?”

  “Immediately? No, but he was about to give a performance. I’m sure he must have called her later.”

  “Exactly what is it he does?”

  “Oh, he’s wonderful!” she said. “I’m surprised your aunt didn’t brag on him to you.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “He tells stories,” she went on, a little less enthusiastically. “The kids love him. He doesn’t just entertain them, he encourages them to read. And as you know, he’s bilingual—he can tell stories in Spanish and English.”

  I didn’t know any such thing, but I said, “Any idea where he is now?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you have an address for him?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not sure he has a permanent address—”

  “Would someone in your accounting office have one for him?”

  “Accounting? Why?”

  “Surely someone will be mailing a check to him?”

  “Didn’t your aunt tell you? He donates his time. It’s so good of him. In libraries that are facing severe budget cutbacks—and most California libraries are—children’s programs often suffer. He helps us to keep the kids interested in reading without sacrificing book budgets. We’re very grateful to him.”

  While trying to absorb that piece of information, I pressed on. “Ms. Longworth, as you’ve probably figured out, my cousin and I haven’t been in touch lately.” I paused. Lately. The past quarter century or so. I shook that off. “I just want to let him know what has happened to his mother. How did the library get in touch with him?”

  “Well, I was going to suggest this a moment ago. Are you on-line?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then you could send him e-mail.”

  “He’s on the Internet?”

  “Yes. That’s how we put in our request and verified all the arrangements. Let me look it up.” I heard her tapping on a keyboard. “Here it is.” She spelled it out for me. “Cosmo, with a capital c, o-s-m-o, at g-e-o-k-e-r-b-y dot com.”

  I wrote it as she spoke. Cosmo@geokerby.com.

  I had thought of Cosmo as a magician’s name, or something sort of New Age, until I saw it coupled with that Internet domain name. “George Kerby?” I asked. “As in George and Marion Kerby?”

  “Yes, the ghosts in the film Topper. Remember it? Cary Grant played George Kerby. Lord, he was handsome. I love that film, don’t you?”

  “Yes…” But I was distracted, t
hinking not of Cary Grant, but of Roland Young’s role as Cosmo Topper, a meek businessman beleaguered by the Kerbys’ ghosts.

  She went on to say that she had learned of him through the recommendations of other librarians on a children’s librarians’ Internet list, and would post a message to that list to ask if Cosmo was booked to appear at other libraries anytime soon.

  I thanked her and gave her my phone number and e-mail address at the Express.

  So my cousin managed to travel all over the state and donate his time to libraries while my aunt lived a spartan existence in San Pedro. He had taken on the name of a character in a movie, a rather bumbling businessman pestered by two mischievous phantoms who couldn’t quite get used to the idea of being dead.

  Who had Travis become?

  I left the house a little earlier than planned, stopped by the paper to send an e-mail message to him. As I passed the security desk, Geoff, the guard, motioned to me to wait as he finished a call. Nobody at the Express has ever been able to tell me Geoff’s age, and he only smiles and shakes his head if he’s asked directly. He’s probably well over seventy years old, and while I wouldn’t expect him to wrestle anyone to the ground, he’s got plenty of good sense—which means he does just fine at his job.

  “Something happened while you were out,” he said, “and you’ve got to know about it, but I hope to heaven you won’t blame it on me.”

  I waited.

  “I took my lunch break,” he said, “and someone from the mailroom watched the desk while I was gone. Supposedly watched, I should say. Well, you know how careless those boys can be.”

  Since Geoff was liable to refer to any other male as a boy, I did not assume that some youngster had been left to guard the foyer of the Express. “I suppose you checked the tape?”

  I wasn’t sticking my neck out there. Geoff was famous for reviewing security tapes made during his breaks. He was seldom satisfied with the work done by those sent to relieve him.

  “Yes, I sure did,” he said. “And I saw something that made me ask that boy a few questions. Look here.”

  He pointed to one of his video screens, one that was dark. He pressed a button, and the screen lit up as a tape played. A grainy black-and-white image of the lobby appeared, with the security desk near the bottom of the frame. I smiled to notice that the “boy” from the mailroom staff was in his forties. Today’s date appeared in small white letters in the lower left corner; the time marker showed that this segment had been taped at just after one o’clock.

  “What’s he reading?” I asked Geoff.

  “He claimed it was something called a manga” Geoff said, with an expression of disdain. “But it was really some Japanese comic book. Now watch here—see that?”

  On the screen, a tall, well-built man wearing jeans and a windbreaker entered. His dark baseball cap was pulled down low, but he also kept his head down and turned slightly to one side. I could see why Geoff found this worth noting.

  “Doesn’t want his face to be seen by the camera,” I said.

  “Sure doesn’t. Look where he stands.”

  At the security desk, the man turned his back to the camera, standing slightly to the side of the desk, not approaching it at the front as most would do. He did not slouch or lean against it; the man’s posture was— although not rigid—somehow reminiscent of those who were more used to giving than receiving orders.

  Another person came gliding into the frame. I recognized this one. Our society columnist. “Margot Martin,” I said.

  Geoff nodded.

  The camera saw Margot clearly assessing the man while he apparently spoke to the temporary guard—who barely glanced up from his comic book. Although there was no soundtrack on the tape, actions spoke as plainly as words—if not more so. Margot said something and the man turned his attention to her, still keeping his face from the camera. Margot moved closer and the guard seemed to enter the conversation.

  “Now watch,” Geoff said, narrating. “Margot gives the mailroom boy a sour look. And there—see? She takes the other fellow’s arm and walks outta here practically licking her whiskers.”

  I smiled. “Geoff, if Margot is meeting men in the lobby, that’s her business.”

  “Oh, no. Not this time. I asked my comic-book-reading friend who this fellow was, especially since the fellow was acting a little suspicious. He says he don’t know, he didn’t even get the fellow’s name.” Geoff sighed, then went on. “The boy says the fellow in the cap came in here asking if you were in.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Were you expecting anybody?”

  “No.” I looked at the monitor again.

  “It didn’t look like Frank to me,” Geoff said. “Besides, he wouldn’t have gone off with Margot.”

  “Frank’s in Idaho,” I said absently. I couldn’t identify the man who appeared on the tape.

  “Oh, well, I knew it wasn’t Frank. I asked this old boy what had happened. He said the fellow come in asking for you, and before he can even ask the fellow for his name, Margot Martin lays her peepers on him and says, ”Miss Kelly is gone for the day, is there something I can help you with?“”

  “What?!”

  He nodded. “Flabbergasting, ain’t it?”

  Maybe not, I thought. “I suppose he was good-looking?”

  Geoff rubbed his hand over his face and said, “Well—I didn’t get much of a description out of my so-called helper, but I suppose the fellow probably was, because Margot is durned man-hungry, but she’s not without refinement. She wouldn’t just walk out of here with anybody.”

  “The man seemed perfectly willing to go with her.”

  “Yes, my replacement said that the fellow was smiling, seemed happy to make her acquaintance. I guess Mr. Funny Papers finally figured out that your guests ought to be directed to you and he tried to stop Margot, but old Margot just gave him that sour look and then told the gent she’d take him to you personal.”

  “Take him to me?” Once again, it was, as Geoff had said, flabbergasting.

  “The mail clerk said he figured if she could take him to you, you and Margot were friends. I told him you weren’t enemies, but you weren’t great pals, either.”

  “I hardly give her a daily schedule. But almost everyone knows where I’ll be on a Tuesday evening.” I shrugged. “So Margot’s probably going to be at the city council meeting.”

  “That’s what I figured. No other way she’d know where you’d be. I don’t imagine she even knows where you live.”

  “No, we haven’t thrown any debutante balls lately, so there’s been no need to invite her over.”

  “Count your blessings. But the fellow worries me more than Margot. There’s no real harm in Margot, but I tell you, the fellow’s up to something sneaky.”

  “Hmm. You said the mail clerk gave you a description?”

  “Sort of. He said he’s tall, maybe in his fifties, maybe older. Close-cropped gray hair. Thought his eyes were blue or green, some light color.” He paused, pointing at a frozen frame on the tape. “See the design on the door? From where he hits it, I’d guess he stands over six-foot, maybe six-two or more. Big build.”

  “Could I look at the tape again, Geoff?”

  He replayed the segment for me. As we watched the man first approach the desk, I noted again how straight his back and shoulders were. Except for keeping his head down, his posture was perfect. “Carries himself like an athlete or a military man.”

  “Hmm, yes. So he does,” Geoff said. “But I can’t like him hiding his face like that.” He looked up and said, “Watch yourself tonight, Irene.”

  “Thanks for letting me know about him, Geoff, but I wonder if he’ll be able to escape from Margot long enough to show up?”

  “You’ve got a point there,” he said.

  I glanced at my watch, saw that I didn’t have much time left before the meeting, and hurried up to the newsroom. I logged onto the computer, went to the mail program and got as far as the subject line before I st
alled. Subject? I settled for “Urgent family matter.”

  I moved the cursor to the message section and stalled again. What to say? “Dear Travis, how are you after all these decades? And by the way…” No. All I could do was ask him to make a phone call.

  To: Cosmo@geokerby.com

  Subject: Urgent family matter

  Dear Travis,

  Urgent that you contact me. Please call as soon as possible.

  Your cousin,

  Irene Kelly

  I added my home and work numbers and, although not perfectly satisfied with it, sent the message off into cyberspace.