Bloodlines ik-9 Page 16

  “He looks after my place when I travel. Helen looks after Jack’s place when he goes somewhere. She lives nearer than I do, and I guess they got into the habit years ago. I didn’t know where the spare was because Jack never leaves it in one place all the time, but I’ve never known him to forget where he’s hidden it, drunk or sober.”

  “You finished here?”

  “Yes.”

  Over dinner, O’Connor told Norton his theories about the Sea Dreamer.

  “I don’t believe all hell just accidentally broke loose among four sets of people who were as connected to each other as were Katy and Todd, Katy’s in-laws, Katy’s child and his nurse, and Katy’s good friend Jack Corrigan. And for starters, I don’t think the Ducanes were ever on that yacht.” He went over all the points Lorenzo had made to him. “He’s not a homicide investigator, but he knows boats.”

  Norton didn’t say anything for a long while, then shrugged. “A possibility. Until I know what happened to the bodies, couldn’t say one way or another. I know the chief isn’t going to stand for anything other than the simplest explanation. He won’t want to hear about boats that didn’t really have anybody on them. But if the bodies are on land, we’ll find them easier than if they’re in the ocean.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the car, the one Jack saw the farmer bury.”

  “Maybe saw. Maybe didn’t. He’d had a skinful — as usual — and so many blows to his head, it’s a wonder it’s still attached to his neck.”

  “I believe him.” O’Connor told him about the leaf.

  “So the part about the eucalyptus grove could be real,” Norton acknowledged. “If you said to me, ‘Jack claims he was in a eucalyptus grove,’ that would be one thing. So many of those trees around, it wouldn’t be hard to believe. But seeing a farmer bury a car in the middle of the night? Makes no sense.”

  O’Connor brooded in silence.

  “Look, Conn, he’s my friend, too — but I have a job to do here, so I can’t let that count with me when I take a look at his story. What I can count is the number of times I’ve been around him lately when he was absolutely sober. I can do that without having to call Einstein to help me do the math.”

  “He remembers things, even when he’s been drinking. Like the key.”

  “This is bigger than a key, and in less familiar territory.”

  “I think he saw it,” O’Connor said, “if for no other reason than this: it’s too strange a thing for him to talk about, unless he did see it. You ever hear him talk about hallucinations before now?”

  “No,” Norton admitted. “But I’ve heard him talk when I knew he was confused by the booze. Add the whacks he took on his skull… he could easily be mixing up separate memories, combining them into one.” He held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “It would be hard for me to call this a lead.”

  O’Connor decided he might as well let it drop.

  Norton must have seen this in his face. He said, “All right, all right. Tell you what — if the bodies don’t wash ashore within the next week or so, I’ll get someone to canvass the farms near the marsh, ask if anyone has seen anything odd going on around there.”

  “Anything else going on in the investigation?”

  “We’re checking again for fingerprints at the Ducane house and in the boat and in the car that was left behind at the marina. We’ve got that new ninhydrin method now — we can sometimes find prints on paper.”

  O’Connor tried to appear as if he was encouraged by this news, but he knew that until a suspect was in custody, the likelihood of matching the prints to a criminal was not good. He had seen the rows and rows of metal cabinets that housed the department’s thousands of fingerprint cards. Although a fingerprint expert would be able to narrow the search somewhat, it was still a long and tedious task that would only bear fruit if the Las Piernas Police Department had at some point taken the criminal into custody.

  For the next two days, O’Connor was kept so busy between his work at the paper and keeping Jack’s spirits up, he had little time to look for answers to the many questions he had about the night Jack was injured. Jack’s fever subsided, but his memories of the attack did not grow clearer. Since he had learned about Katy and the others, and about the kidnapping, Jack hadn’t seemed to care about much of anything. O’Connor thought the news about Katy had damaged Jack more than the man who had used his fists on him.

  One of the worst moments came when Jack asked him to look in his coat pockets, to see if his keys were there. “I might have left them in my coat at Lillian’s.”

  “You probably had them taken from you. Remember? We found the saint’s medal on the giant. Besides, you told me the keys were still in your pocket when you woke up in the grove.”

  “I might have been mistaken.”

  “You have a cut and key-shaped bruise on your thigh.”

  “Maybe the giant cut me with his own.”

  O’Connor decided to humor him and searched his pockets. “Nothing, just this note.”

  “What note? Read it.”

  O’Connor opened it. “It says…”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nonsense, that’s all.”

  “Give it to me, Conn.”

  Reluctantly, O’Connor did as he was bid, but the injuries to Jack’s hands left his fingers too clumsy to open it. “It’s Katy’s handwriting. Must have slipped it to me at the party. Open it and tell me what it says,” he demanded impatiently.

  O’Connor took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It says, ‘Is it true that Mitch Yeager is my father? You’re the only one who will tell me the truth. Call me.’”

  “Damn it!” Jack said, covering his eyes with his hand. “Damn it!”

  O’Connor waited, and when Jack said nothing more, he put the note back into the coat and carefully hung it up again.

  Jack kept his eyes covered, his bruised and swollen fingers over the bandaged one, the palm of his hand covering the less injured one.

  “Oh God. She died thinking that son of a bitch might be her father,” he said. “Who the hell would put a sick idea like that into her head?”

  “The husband who was about to be divorced?”

  Jack let his hand fall and looked at O’Connor. “Probably.” He considered this grimly for a moment, then said, “That bastard wouldn’t let her talk alone with me for five minutes, and that’s probably why. God damn it! What a cruel damned thing to tell her.”

  Worried that getting this upset would harm him, O’Connor said, “Jack, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I think of her being out there… lost in the sea, in darkness. Of her being cold. And alone. And afraid.”

  “No, Jack. Katy wasn’t ever afraid of anything.”

  Jack smiled a little. “No, she wasn’t.”

  They sat in silence for a time. Jack said, “Don’t tell anyone about that note, Conn.”

  “If you’re going to insult me, Jack Corrigan, I’ll leave.”

  Jack laughed softly and said, “I was wondering what it would take to get you to leave me the hell alone.”

  “Just for that, I’ll stay.” And then he thought to tell Jack the story of Harv and the caps, and Jack laughed and immediately guessed who had done the trick, and the two of them considered various ways in which Harvey could be avenged.

  On Wednesday evening, as he made his way across the hospital parking lot, O’Connor felt the sensation of being watched. He turned and looked behind him, but saw no one. He scanned the lot, but saw only one familiar car — Norton’s T-Bird. Norton wasn’t in it. Shrugging, he went into the building.

  As he stepped out of the elevator, he saw Norton leaving Jack’s room.

  “Hiya, Conn,” Dan said wearily.

  “Hello, Dan. You look beat. Have you slept since Sunday?”

  “Not much. Thought I’d stop by to see how Jack was doing, though.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen worse, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see a friend in that kind of
shape.”

  “I keep thinking that if a guy delivering some eggs hadn’t come along and helped him, you and I might be at Jack’s funeral right now. If he doesn’t cheer up, we may be yet.”

  Dan looked uneasy. “Listen — I didn’t realize how down he was feeling. If I had known, I wouldn’t have said anything to him about it at all.”

  “About what?”

  “They found the Ducanes.”

  Although he had known it might come to this, O’Connor now realized that in some corner of his mind he had harbored hope that they would be found alive. He felt the grief well up in him, and close on its heels, a fear for Jack’s recovery.

  “Not all of them,” Dan quickly amended.

  “Who, then?”

  “This is off the record — and not really official yet, anyway. Thelma and Barrett. Not exactly together. Her body washed up south of here. Clothing and jewelry told them who it was, because … well, you know how it is with floaters.”

  O’Connor nodded.

  “Barrett was in worse shape. Ruined the romantic stroll taken by the couple who discovered him.”

  “But no sign of Todd or Katy?”

  “No. Conn, we’re lucky to get two of them, and you know it.”

  “You’ve told Warren?”

  “Yes. He asked about Todd and Katy, too.”

  “So you’re sure they drowned?”

  “Nothing’s certain until the coroner does the autopsy — not even the identifications. But we really don’t have any reason to doubt that they drowned at this point.”

  “Any word on the child?”

  “Not a peep. Not a good sign.”

  O’Connor looked down the hallway.

  “Go on,” Dan said, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  O’Connor entered the room quietly. Jack was staring out the window. When Jack turned to him, he was surprised to see not grief, but a look of calm resolution on his face.

  “Get out your notebook,” Jack ordered. “I’m going to give you a list of lowlifes. You’ve met most of them. I’ll tell you where you’re most likely to find the others. You’ve got to go looking for them tonight. By daylight, most of them will be back under their rocks.”

  “Why?” O’Connor asked. “You think they might know who did this to you?”

  “Who gives a rat’s ass about that? I want to narrow down the list of thugs who know how to sail.”

  18

  AS HE DROVE OUT OF THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT, O’CONNOR SAW A beat-up old Ford leave as well. Before long, he was convinced the gray car was following him. The driver was a white male, but he couldn’t tell much more than that.

  Instead of going home, he turned onto Pacific Coast Highway. At a light at the edge of downtown Las Piernas, a couple of hot rodders idled behind him, then peeled out as the signal changed, racing past the Nash. The Ford continued to follow at a distance. He considered losing his tail, then decided he’d rather learn who it was.

  He drove to Gabriel’s, a bar near the beach, and took the only open spot at the curb in front of it. He walked in quickly, pausing at the doorway just long enough to see the Ford pulling into the bar’s small parking lot. On a Wednesday night, he knew, there was little chance the driver would find a parking space there.

  Wednesday night was poetry night. The place would be packed.

  Gabe, the owner and bartender, was doing his best to cater to the Beat Generation these days.

  The interior was dark, save for a few candles on tables, and a spotlight on a small stage near the back — a young, bearded man dressed in black was reading poetry while someone else played a set of bongo drums. Layered within a haze of cigarette smoke, the air in the bar carried an odd mixture of other scents: strong coffee, spilled booze, and faux bohemians. There weren’t too many of the genuine articles in Las Piernas, O’Connor thought, at least not on a permanent basis. He wondered if poetry night at Gabriel’s might change that.

  O’Connor saw Gabe, who nodded toward him.

  O’Connor made his way toward the back door, where a redhead named Nancy, who had moved up in the world of Gabriel’s from cigarette girl to waitress, stepped into his path. She was drenched in Evening in Paris perfume. “What’s your hurry, Conn?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I’ve got company coming,” he said softly, slipping her a five. “And I don’t want to disturb the poet. Delay my shadow a little, then let me back in?”

  She sighed. “Don’t get hurt out there. You aren’t the first one to leave by this door tonight. Probably smoking reefers out there.”

  He smiled. “We who are strictly squaresville have certain advantages over the cool.”

  “You’re crazy. And I don’t mean that in a good way.”

  He watched as a skinny man entered the bar. The man seemed familiar to O’Connor, but between the smoke and the poor lighting, he couldn’t make out his features. He seemed frail, not up to whatever job he had taken on. It made O’Connor feel more wary, not less — if the man wasn’t strong, he might be carrying a weapon to even the odds.

  No use delaying, though, he thought.

  When he was sure the man had seen him, he stepped outside and stood so that the door itself would hide his presence when it opened again. He was now in the alley behind the bar. There was a strange scent that he had smelled only a few times before, but recognized nonetheless — Nancy was right, someone was smoking marijuana nearby. He heard giggling and the sound of voices, then a young man knocked over a metal trash can as he and his girlfriend stumbled away. O’Connor ignored them, concentrating on the door. A single lightbulb burned beneath a green metal shade over the door — otherwise, the alley was in darkness. He had to stop the man as he came outside.

  A moment later the door opened cautiously. He waited until the man had stepped into the alley, then tackled him from behind.

  The man fell hard. An “umphh” of breath came out of him as he hit the ground. He lay so still that for a moment O’Connor wondered if he had been knocked unconscious. Pinning the man’s arms, he said, “If you wanted to see me, all you had to do was come by the newspaper.”

  “No I couldn’t,” rasped a familiar voice.

  “Ames?” O’Connor said, startled.

  “Yes. For God’s sake, Conn, you’re crushing me. Get off.”

  O’Connor stood and helped Ames Hart to his feet, apologizing as he brushed off Ames’s clothing. Hart stood on shaky legs, his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath in the way a runner might after a hard sprint. Thank God, O’Connor thought, that he hadn’t thrown a punch at him or hit him over the head or taken any of the other measures he had considered.

  O’Connor hadn’t seen Ames Hart for some time. Known to the staff of the Express as Red Hart — though seldom to his face — Ames had covered the follow-up story of the little girl in the well, the legislation that required abandoned wells to be capped. That was less than ten years ago, but Hart looked as if he had aged thirty years since then.

  Hart had been one of their best reporters, a muckraker who turned in one daring story after another — until Old Man Wrigley heard a rumor that Hart had once been a member of the Communist Party and asked Hart to deny it. Hart told Wrigley he had no right to ask the question, and Wrigley fired him, saying that when he had an answer — the correct answer — he could have a job.

  Hart had remained stubbornly silent on the matter. Jack had argued with Wrigley on Hart’s behalf — and nearly lost his own job.

  It wasn’t a good time to lose a job, but for Hart, matters got worse. He had been blacklisted. No other paper would touch him. He lost his home and barely managed to keep himself clothed and fed. Jack had become worried — not long before, a friend on one of the L.A. papers had committed suicide after being blacklisted. Jack eventually found a job for Hart with a small radio station in Los Angeles, where Ames worked off-air and under a different name. It required all Jack’s charm to talk Hart’s widowed sister into letting her “pinko” brother sleep in a spare
room until he got back on his feet, but once Ames was under her roof, she became fiercely protective of him. Hart had managed to get a place of his own since then, but seeing the condition of his suit and the wear on his shoes, O’Connor thought he must still be struggling to get by.

  “Why the hell were you following me?” O’Connor asked, his guilt making his tone abrupt.

  “Trying to see you in private,” Ames said, wheezing breaths between each word. “You know what would happen if anyone saw you talking to me?”

  “It’s not like that anymore,” O’Connor said. “You saw the crowd in the bar. This generation won’t follow in Old Man Wrigley’s footsteps. I’ll bet his son would hire you.”

  Ames gave a small laugh. “O’Connor, I don’t know which is more charming, your naïveté or your optimism.” He sniffed the air and frowned. “Perhaps not so naïve … were you out here smoking tea?”

  “No, a pair of lovebirds before me, but thanks for thinking so highly of me.”

  “I do think highly of you, and Jack as well. You know I’m doing news writing for the station I work for?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’ve built up some sources. And I’ve heard something that might be of interest to you.”

  “Go on.” O’Connor shifted on his feet, feeling impatient with Hart’s drama.

  “I’ve heard that a thug with connections in my neighborhood in Los Angeles was hired to beat up a newspaper reporter on the Express. Thug’s name is—”

  “—Jergenson. Bo Jergenson.”

  “Yeah,” Hart said, and looked so dejected O’Connor regretted interrupting his act.

  “Ames, look—”

  “I guess you don’t need me.”

  “Jergenson’s dead, Ames, and not from natural causes. Someone put a bullet through his forehead and left him not far from where Jack was found. That’s the only reason I know his name.”

  “No fooling?” He became animated again. “A bullet, huh? Well, I guess it could still be the dame, right?”