Bloodlines ik-9 Page 15

  “That’s… that’s wonderful, Mitch. I’m happy for Estelle.”

  “Sorry, now’s not the time to be talking to you about babies, either, is it? I’m a bas — Uh, I’m a fool. Forgive me. I would have talked to Harold but the butler said he isn’t around.”

  “No, he hasn’t returned yet. He’s away on business.”

  “But he knows, of course.”

  “Yes. We reached him early this afternoon.”

  “Is there going to be some kind of memorial or something?”

  She held on to her temper by the thinnest of threads. “If we make any plans, Mitch, I’m sure Harold will tell you of them.”

  “Aw, I’ve upset you again. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive. Good-bye, Mitch.”

  She hung up, and sat back down on the sofa before the fire. Oddly, she reflected, Mitch’s phone call had helped her. Getting angry helped.

  Mitch Yeager seemed to forget how well she once knew him. Still knew him, though not at all in the same way. Knew him well enough to doubt that he was sorry for anything he had ever said or done. She also doubted that the phone call was intended to be an act of kindness. Whether because Katy had angered Mitch just two days ago, or because Lillian had refused to marry him more than twenty years ago, she was sure he had intended to hurt her. Mitch Yeager never forgot a slight.

  She told herself that she must call Estelle soon. She had so little to do with the Yeagers these days, she hated the thought of doing anything to encourage them to renew the friendship that had been forced upon her by Harold’s business relationship with Mitch. To hell with Harold, she thought. If she overlooked Mitch’s cruelty, it would be for Estelle’s sake.

  Perhaps Estelle would be happier, caring for a child. She had seemed so withdrawn in recent years. Lillian found herself wondering if Mitch beat his wife.

  Lillian knew that Mitch wouldn’t allow any harm to come to the child he had adopted. He’d want to show the world that he took care of his family. He would, in fact, raise the child like a prince.

  She found that she could move her self-pity and grief aside enough to feel sorry for that little boy.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Warren Ducane drove up the long drive to Auburn’s Stand, the hilltop home of Auburn Sheffield. The other Sheffields made a fortune in the ice cream business. Auburn, who had long ago broken off communication with the rest of the family, made a fortune in money.

  This displeased his late father, an overbearing man who had wanted him to be the next emperor of ice cream. Auburn’s Stand was named so by locals who saw him take his stand against his family. He heard of it, was pleased, and adopted the name for his home.

  Auburn made more money in the stock market and other investments than anyone Warren could think of. Rumor had it that he did this to spite his father. After Warren became acquainted with Auburn and spent time listening to him talk about the joys of investing, Warren believed Auburn made money because he just couldn’t stop himself. No more than Warren seemed to be able to stop himself from losing money.

  He had called Auburn this morning, and Auburn, with ready sympathy, had invited him to come up to the Stand. Auburn, who disliked Warren’s parents and their friends, had applauded Warren’s independence from the Ducanes and said that he would always be willing to advise him.

  Auburn was bidding good-bye to another guest, but introduced him to Warren as Zeke Brennan, a young attorney who had been doing work for Auburn. Warren asked for Brennan’s card before he left.

  Auburn poured Warren a glass of fine scotch and spent some time expressing further sympathy. After the two men had made small talk for some minutes more, Auburn said, “You came to me for a reason. What can I do for you, Warren?”

  “Take all my money.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, it’s not mine yet, but it will be at some point. Maybe not for a while, because they have to be declared dead. My parents’ attorney called not long after the yacht was found. If Todd is dead, too, everything comes to me. I — I keep hoping that’s not the case, and that someone finds them, but they tell me it isn’t likely.”

  Auburn studied him for a moment, then said, “Yes, I suppose you will eventually inherit a large fortune.”

  “I’ll pay you to keep me from turning it into a small one. Stop me from spending it all, Auburn. Help me to tie it up somehow so that I can’t run myself into the red in a year or so. I do want to learn about money, Auburn, but I can’t do that overnight. I’d be happy to just be able to live comfortably — not like a king, or buying things just for pleasure, but comfortably. I want to save the rest. And I’ll tell you why.”

  “The child.”

  “Yes. My nephew. Mostly that, yes. But that’s not the only reason.” He stood up and paced. He had rehearsed how he would explain this, but now he found he had difficulty actually saying it. “There are those,” he began, and stopped. “There are those who might ask me for money, and I don’t want to be able to give it to them.”

  Auburn studied him, then said, “I noticed that a police patrol car is parked at the bottom of the hill. The guard tells me it followed you here. Are you in trouble with the law, Warren?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s just that they think someone might try to harm me. Because of the murder at Todd’s house.”

  Auburn was silent for a moment, then said, “These people who might ask you for money — do you owe money to them?”

  “No, not a dime.”

  “But they might extort it from you?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want them to be able to do it if they try.”

  Auburn moved to a window and stood at it for some moments. Warren watched him anxiously.

  “I provided you with quite an alibi, didn’t I, Warren?” Auburn asked.

  “Have the police bothered you? I’m sorry. I never intended to cause trouble for you.”

  Auburn smiled to himself, but said nothing in response.

  “You believe that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But I doubt your intentions mattered much this weekend.”

  Warren winced, then said, “I’m sorry. I’m so damned sorry about — about everything. I never should have come here today. I’ll go.”

  “No,” Auburn said, relenting, “have a seat.”

  “I wish I were dead,” Warren whispered.

  “And what good would that do your nephew, if someone wants a ransom?”

  Warren looked up at him. “That’s the only thing … Look, the truth is, I hardly paid any attention to the kid. I mean, it was great for Todd and Katy and everything, but—”

  Auburn smiled. “But he’s an infant.”

  “Yes. A baby, that’s all. I thought I’d get to know him when he was a little older. But now—” He drew a ragged breath. “Now this is the only thing I can do for Todd. Take care of Max. I might not be able to do anything at all for Max, he might… he might not even be alive. But I have to try.”

  “I’m going to ask you a very rude and direct question, Warren. I promise you I will keep your answer confidential. But I must know this before I agree to help you. Did you pay someone to have your parents killed?”

  “No. I — I hated them. But I didn’t hire a killer.”

  Auburn paced again.

  “I’m not saying I’m without blame,” Warren added.

  Auburn looked at him, but Warren didn’t see condemnation in the look. It was almost as if Auburn had been hoping he would say that. Warren couldn’t meet his gaze, and looked away.

  “Well, you have that business card Zeke Brennan gave you before he left,” Auburn said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to continue to use the Ducane family attorney?”

  “No. I don’t want anything to do with my father’s cronies.” He paused, then added with some vehemence, “None of them.”

  “Sensible. Then call Brennan. Tell him everything you’ve told me. More if you like. He’ll know how to proceed. When the t
ime comes for me to help you with my own expertise, I’ll do so.”

  “You can charge a fee—”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage — further advantage — of you.”

  “You won’t be. Let’s not worry about that now.”

  Later, as they walked toward the front door, Warren asked, “Why did you decide to help me?”

  “Oh, a number of reasons. When I look back on how angry I was with my own father at your age… the things I considered doing to find some relief from his control … but no, it’s not entirely that. Let’s just say I hate to see lives wasted, and that atonement interests me more than punishment.”

  Warren wasn’t sure he understood what Auburn meant, but he thanked him, and when Auburn made him promise to call him the next day, on Wednesday, he agreed to it. As he was about to go, Auburn said, “And promise me you won’t kill yourself.”

  Warren shook his head and said, “I can’t promise that,” even as something within him eased, just to hear this spoken of so directly.

  “All right then, promise me you won’t kill yourself before Thursday.”

  He smiled a little. “All right. I won’t kill myself before Thursday.”

  As Warren drove down the hill, he saw the ocean stretching out to the horizon from the shore. The sun was setting. On any other day, he might have thought it beautiful. Now, he could only think of darkness, and endless, cold, deep water.

  “Todd,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  Then he saw the patrol car waiting to follow him home. He wondered how long this hell would last.

  Until Thursday, at least.

  17

  IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES OF SEARCHING, BUT FINALLY O’CONNOR SAW A public phone sign on a restaurant on the edge of town and pulled into its lot. He fished a handful of coins from his glove compartment, found the phone booth, went into it, sat down, and shut the glass door. He found his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and deposited a dime, listening to the small bell chime twice as the dime rolled through the mechanism.

  The operator would have put him through to the police department without charge, but he had decided to call Norton directly. Dan said it would take him about forty-five minutes to make some calls and get out there, but O’Connor should go back and wait for him at the scene.

  O’Connor called Wrigley next.

  “I thought I told you to sleep,” Wrigley said, but when O’Connor told him why he had called, there was a long silence. Then he said, “You mean to tell me Jack killed the man who fought him?”

  “No. The man was shot. Jack doesn’t carry a gun. And he didn’t fight Jack, he beat him. There’s a difference.”

  “Agreed. You sure he’s the guy?”

  “No, but how many blond, crewcut giants might have died not far from where Jack was found?”

  “Right. Listen, I’m not sure I’ve got anyone I can spare at the moment. What a damnable few days this has been. To make matters worse, Harvey quit.”

  Harvey was one of their best. He had been a top war correspondent who, when he was wounded overseas, recuperated in Las Piernas and decided he wanted to stay. Wrigley had always considered his hiring a coup.

  “Harvey? Why?”

  “Some newsroom joker pulled the old cap gun prank today.”

  O’Connor knew the trick. There were a couple of typewriters with the usual sandwich layers of paper and carbon paper already loaded in, ready to go for a man on a hot story. You didn’t sit at that typewriter unless you were under pressure to begin with. If someone also placed a layer of caps from a cap gun just behind that first sheet of paper, the hapless reporter who rushed to write his lead had the caps explode with a bang as he typed.

  “Harvey thought he was back on Guam?”

  “Exactly. Wouldn’t admit that, of course. Really shook him up and then he was embarrassed. Think you can talk him into coming back? He’s a friend of Jack’s, I know, but you get along with him, too, right?”

  “Sure, but don’t count on me to persuade him to do anything. I’ll call him but he’s his own man.”

  Harvey was reluctant to talk at first, but thawed a little as O’Connor told him how Jack was doing and moved on to tell him about finding the floating giant.

  Then O’Connor said, “Here’s the problem, Harv. You know how it works. I can’t be the guy who found the body and the guy who writes the story. Wrigley’s lost his best man for the job, because you quit — you had every right to, of course. But what that means is that this story gets lost. And if someone in town knows this man in the marsh, we might learn why this giant was paid to beat the living hell out of Jack.”

  “And why the giant was shot,” Harvey said slowly.

  Hooked, and O’Connor knew it. “And who paid for any and all of that.”

  There was a silence, then Harvey said, “Wrigley put you up to this?”

  “I told him you’d make up your own mind.”

  After another long silence, he said, “Tell me how to find this place in the marsh.”

  It was dark by the time O’Connor got back to the marsh, and for a few moments, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find the body again. He did, though, and waited in the cold darkness for Norton and the others to arrive.

  Once he had shown them the body, he was asked to wait in his car. He didn’t mind getting out of the cold and away from the stink. And he didn’t especially want to watch the poor bastards who’d have to fish the giant out of the muck and mire going about their business. So he went back to the Nash.

  Harvey had to tap on the car window to wake him up when he arrived. O’Connor talked to him a while, then Harvey talked to Norton. Eventually he got enough for a story and left quickly, hoping to get something in before deadline. Before he went he told O’Connor that the dead man was presumed to be one Bo Jergenson. “Ever hear of him?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Or something close to it. The Linworths’ slightly deaf butler told Lillian that a tall gent who showed up at her daughter’s birthday party was named Bob Gherkin. Close enough, wouldn’t you say? He’s the one who attacked Corrigan.”

  O’Connor hoped Harvey would check the typewriter before he sat down to write the story.

  After the coroner’s wagon left, Norton motioned O’Connor to come over to where he was talking to a crime lab worker. A second worker was trying to make a cast of one of the drier sections of tread marks.

  “You said Jack’s keys were missing?”

  “Yes. Did you find them?”

  “Describe them. Key chain, too.”

  O’Connor thought for a moment, then said, “Three keys on a plain metal key ring. Nickel-colored. A key to his front door — Yale lock, I think. A key to my place, and a key to the back entrance to the Wrigley Building.” He pulled out his own keys and showed them what those last two keys looked like. “Hardly ever use the one for the paper, because the door is rarely locked. He also had a little saint’s medal on the ring, brass or maybe even gold — yellow metal anyway. Gift from a priest he helped out once. It’s a little worse for wear, has a little nick in it, but Jack won’t be without it.”

  “Which saint?”

  “Patron saint of reporters — St. Francis of Sales.”

  Norton nodded to the crime scene investigator and the man held up a cellophane envelope. “Don’t touch it,” Norton warned O’Connor. “Take a look and tell me if that looks like it.”

  There was a gold-colored medal in the envelope, bent near the top, where it had apparently been pulled by force off the key ring. O’Connor saw a small nick near the bottom.

  “That’s Jack’s — not a doubt in my mind. He caught it in a metal desk drawer at work a few weeks ago and jammed the drawer. I can see the nick that was left on it when he finally worked it free. You found it on Jergenson?”

  “In his trousers pocket.”

  “No keys with it?”

  “No, and if they aren’t in the marsh, then
maybe someone is using them to try to get into Jack’s place. I’ve got an undercover car keeping an eye on it, just in case our friends stop by, but I won’t be able to do that for long. You think you can swing by there just to make sure the place hasn’t been turned upside down?”

  “Sure. But — listen, Dan, there are some things I want to talk to you about — about Katy.”

  “Tell you what. There’s a steak place not far from Jack’s. Let’s go by his house, take a quick look, grab his teddy bear or whatever the hell else he may need at the hospital — other than a bottle of rye — and leave. Then you can tell me all your troubles over dinner. And I can get the hell away from the stench of this place.”

  Jack’s house was locked up and showed no sign of disturbance. O’Connor called the hospital from the home of one of Jack’s neighbors and learned that Jack was awake — and that Helen had told him what had happened to Katy and the baby. O’Connor asked to talk to him, and asked him where the spare key was hidden, and if he minded if Dan Norton entered the house with him.

  Jack sounded listless, but he told O’Connor that the latest hiding place was in part of a window air conditioner at the back of the house, and that he didn’t care what Dan Norton did. But at the end of this dull recital, he said, “Come by later, if you get a minute, Conn.”

  “I’ll definitely be there,” O’Connor assured him.

  “For a drunk,” Norton said, looking around the tiny living room, “Corrigan leads an orderly existence.”

  O’Connor didn’t reply to him. Norton watched as he walked through the small home. In the bedroom, James Joyce’s The Dubliners was on the night-stand. O’Connor took it with him. As nearly as he could tell, nothing in the house had been disturbed.

  “Going to bring him a bottle?” Norton asked.

  “No. I don’t want to kill him.”

  “Kind of surprised you had to call him to find out where the spare key was. Surprised you don’t have a key to this place yourself. After all, he’s got one to your place, right?”