Bloodlines ik-9 Read online

  “The State Attorney General’s office,” she said.

  “Yes, the State Attorney General’s office, and asking for an independent investigation.”

  “Sounds like a newspaper story to me,” Irene said.

  “Oh, it is,” O’Connor said. “And if anyone on the County Board of Supervisors reads the Sunday morning edition of the Express, then they just might finally decide it’s time to replace Old Sheep Dip.”

  “Have you thought about the possibility,” Lefebvre said, “that he could be right, that those bones are the baby’s?”

  “I consider that slim, knowing who was visiting him,” O’Connor said.

  “And what reason would Mitch Yeager have to influence him?”

  “I can tell you that,” Irene said. “He hoped to ruin Max’s chances of living independently of him. Mr. Yeager didn’t know the terms of the trust and figured Max would have to give up all his money and become dependent on him again. He’s had big plans for Max.”

  “Does that possibility seem likely to you, Max?” Lefebvre asked.

  “Absolutely. He wanted me to manage his businesses. Now I don’t have to. He’s furious with me.”

  “This will take tact,” Lefebvre said.

  “You’re screwed then, aren’t you?” Irene said, and he laughed.

  “I don’t mean to get you in trouble,” Max said, “but—”

  “Mr. Ducane,” Lefebvre said, putting the photos back into the envelope, “a homicide detective who is at war with the coroner might as well stay home. Give me a day to try to find a way past Dr. Woolsey’s defenses. If I can’t manage it, then I’ll let you know.”

  “The crime scene photos,” Irene said.

  “What about them?”

  “I saw your photographer at work. He took photos of everything — every step of the way. If we’re on to something here, then he probably has a photo of some bone that will give it away. A pug must have… oh, a jawbone, for example, or a nose cavity or some other bones or teeth that are very different in shape from a baby’s, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  She held up her camera. “Tell him that before the police had a chance to secure the scene, that nosy broad from the Express took a bunch of photos of the contents of the trunk of that car, and that today I started asking you questions about dog bones.”

  “Irene…” O’Connor warned.

  “I’m not making news here, O’Connor. That’s the truth. I took a lot of photos. I asked questions about dog bones. I wondered about a killer who would keep a baby alive, just to kill him later in a car trunk. That’s all.”

  “Do you know what, O’Connor?” Lefebvre said, touching his chest. “I think I feel a little something here. What is it?” He feigned a look of concentration.

  “In a human, it would be a heart. In a jackass, indigestion. But what do you feel?”

  “Oh yes, now I know. Sympathy for you.”

  39

  WHEN WE LEFT THE DUCANE HOUSE, O’CONNOR FOLLOWED ME HOME again. It wasn’t that late, about nine o’clock. The lights were on, so I figured Mary and my dad were still up. I invited O’Connor in. He declined. I felt noble for offering.

  Once inside, though, I was glad he had declined, not because my dad was in bad shape, but because he and Mary were laughing. Recently, Dad hadn’t laughed all that often.

  “Glad to see you’re having a good time here,” I said.

  “I was remembering the camping trip.”

  We had gone camping together a lot, but “the camping trip” always referred to one adventure in Joshua Tree National Park. On that trip, I was about ten, Barbara fourteen. Barbara and I had caught a bad case of contagious giggles, and infected my parents with them. After three warnings from the ranger, the whole family got kicked out of the campground for laughing too loudly after curfew. Just as we were getting in the car, the ranger asked in a pleading voice, “What was so darn funny?”

  It broke us up again. In fact, for some time after that, all you had to do was say “Joshua Tree,” and we’d lose it.

  The truth is, I don’t have the slightest idea what the original joke was, or even if there was one. If there was and I heard it again, I suspect I wouldn’t be more than mildly amused. The laughter itself wasn’t really what mattered. What mattered was that all our lives, from that moment on, there was that time in our memories of our family so closely drawn together, a one-of-a-kind something that happened over nothing.

  My father looked at me now and took my hand. “Call Barbara,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “No, tomorrow. Arrange to have lunch with her. Something. Just the two of you. Don’t mention me. Don’t ask her to come here.”

  If he hadn’t mentioned Joshua Tree just before he asked, I probably would have made excuses. But I knew what he was remembering, what he wanted of me, and so I agreed that I would.

  So I left a message for Barbara. I specified that I wouldn’t be asking her to talk about or take care of Dad. Sister time.

  I walked Mary out to her car and thanked her again. After she left, I had an odd sensation of being watched. I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone.

  I went back inside and called Barbara again.

  I didn’t hear from her.

  It didn’t bother me much, because the next few days were wild ones.

  40

  WHEN SHE FIRST SAW THE PHOTOGRAPHS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THIS morning’s Express, the woman who had once been known as Betty Bradford became so alarmed, she threw the paper in the kitchen trash. Her husband came downstairs as she did and teased her as he retrieved it, telling her she was becoming absent-minded. “Just because it’s Saturday doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep up with the world,” he said.

  She laughed it off, told him she didn’t know what she had been thinking. She was a convincing actress. All the world had been her stage for fifteen years.

  She had become the woman in the part she played. A respectable woman.

  How she loved that word, respectable.

  She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast at all. From the moment he took the newspaper in hand until the moment he left to take the boys to Little League, she worried that he would see her photograph and ask questions. Twenty years, a few pounds, and a change in hair color — was that enough to keep a man from recognizing a photo of his wife?

  Now, several hours later, while he took the boys to their swimming lessons, she stood stock still at the kitchen sink, staring out through her greenhouse window, her hands in yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. The warmth of the sudsy water came through the gloves, and she enjoyed the plain, everyday feel of that.

  She looked out at the front lawn, looked out at her neighborhood. A good neighborhood. One where they thought the problem kid was the long-haired boy who played in a band. He wasn’t a problem. He smoked a little dope with his friends once in a while and played his guitar too loud, but he was a sweet kid at heart. He wasn’t going to do anyone any real harm. They should all keep an eye on the quiet, sullen boy who lived three doors down.

  She knew how to spot a troublemaker.

  She had been one.

  She didn’t like to think of it, but there it was, right in the paper. She glanced over at the place where it lay on the counter, stained by coffee grounds that had been in the trash, and quickly looked away from it, looked back to the sunny day just beyond the window. She thought about a little box that held something she had stolen from a powerful man, something she had nearly thrown away a half a dozen times. Maybe, she thought, she should throw it away now.

  She told herself that even if he learned the truth, her husband would love her, would stand by her.

  She didn’t really believe it, though.

  She had known only one man who had stood by her, accepted her as she was. A tough man who was, all the same, gentle with women, gentle with her. Who had helped her to find her way from being a wild and restless thing into being a woman. Not some silly mimicry of womanhood, but somethin
g real. Just by respecting her.

  But that man had died in Mexico. His name was Luis — she had stopped calling him Lew, the anglicized version of his name, not long after they had become lovers.

  “Luis,” she whispered now, “what am I going to do?”

  41

  ON SATURDAY, THE CORONER MADE A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. HE WAS placed in the embarrassing position of admitting that further examination of the bones had shown them to be those of a small dog believed to be Katy Ducane’s pet. Lefebvre later told me that he had talked his partner, Matt Arden, into being the bearer of bad news. I had a feeling Arden was often the ambassador for Lefebvre.

  Woolsey blamed an assistant for the error. The Express and the rest of the fourth estate did not go easy on Woolsey, but it would have been worse if he had tried a cover-up.

  Max stayed in touch over the weekend, calling me a couple of times each day, usually just to ask if I had learned anything new. I gave him my home number, and he called me there a few times, too, always careful not to call too late. More than once, I got the feeling that it was more difficult for him to be “possibly-the-kidnapped-one” than “not-the-kidnapped-one.”

  The reward was published. Lots of calls came in, both to the paper and to the police. I didn’t see a lot of promise in those made to the Express.

  One call, from a woman, might have been an exception. Within a moment after she asked if I was Irene Kelly, something made me believe she knew something. Exactly why I was so sure she wasn’t another crank, I can’t say. Maybe it was her nervousness, when other callers had been cocky, more eager to know about the conditions attached to the reward than to tell me anything. She said she didn’t want the reward money. She just wanted to talk to me. Just me, not the police. She sounded upset. I found myself praying I could keep her on the line long enough to get her to tell me her phone number. But she hung up before I could respond with more than, “I’d love to hear whatever it is you have to say…”

  I stayed off my phone for two hours, hoping she’d call back. I pissed off everyone near me because I used their phones instead. That was all I got out of that.

  On Monday, I learned that the Baer house was sold — apparently over the weekend — but the real estate agent would not reveal the name of the buyer to me. Telling her I would eventually see it on county property records did not make the least impression on her.

  I talked O’Connor into going over more of his notes from 1958 with me. We talked about the property records for the area near the cabin where Gus Ronden’s body had been found. He mentioned that Katy Ducane, Lillian and Harold Linworth, and Thelma and Barrett Ducane owned cabins not far from Baer’s. Katy’s was then bequeathed to Jack Corrigan. Helen owned it now.

  I gave her a call and asked her if she remembered a guy named Griffin Baer living near her mountain cabin. She said no. I asked about the enclave of folks from Las Piernas; she said the Vanderveers had owned two or three cabins and a lodge up there for as long as anyone could remember, and the Ducanes were merely trying to keep up with them. A few members of Lillian’s social circle had bought cabins after visiting hers. “And naturally, there were friends of friends, too.”

  “Why did Katy give her cabin to Jack?”

  There was a long pause before she answered. “To be honest, I was surprised about that. Jack and Katy were very close. She called him ‘Uncle Jack,’ but the truth is, Jack was more of a father to her than Harold. Harold Linworth wasn’t home more than two days out of seven, and he never paid much attention to Katy. Jack spent a lot of time with her. She probably realized that he’d never have enough money of his own to afford a second home. She was a generous girl. Jack loved to go up there, although at first, I think it was hard on him — he missed her.”

  “O’Connor said she made the will just a day or two before she died. Do you know why?”

  She seemed to weigh her words carefully. “No one knows what was on her mind with any certainty, of course. I believe Mitch Yeager said something to upset her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She tried to talk to Jack about it at the party. Gave him a note. Didn’t O’Connor tell you about it?”

  “No,” I said, looking over to his desk, where he was typing a story.

  “I’m sure it just slipped his mind.”

  “Helen, I can handle it if he lies to me, but not if you do, too.”

  There was a brief silence. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “So tell me about this note.”

  “Katy worried that Mitch might be her father.”

  “What?”

  “Irene, it was a lie. I will never forgive Mitch for upsetting her. She should have had a happier birthday. She should have…” She broke off.

  She was crying. I felt terrible. “I don’t mean to upset you, Helen—”

  “I know, I know. I’ll be all right. I thought I had accepted the fact of her death years ago. I guess I didn’t.”

  “It hasn’t been so long since you lost Jack,” I said. “That can’t make this any easier.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said. I heard her take a steadying breath. “You were asking about Mitch and Katy.”

  “Mitch said that to her at her birthday party?”

  “No. Mitch wasn’t at the party. You should call Lillian. She may be able to tell you more about it.”

  “I will,” I said.

  She seemed to be doing better by the end of the call, but I felt so bad, I almost forgot to be angry with O’Connor for not telling me important facts.

  Almost.

  I asked him to go to lunch with me. We told Geoff where we could be found and went to a little café that was about half a block from the paper. We talked over the weird and basically useless calls we had received from people trying to collect the reward. We ate our sandwiches. I waited until we were done with all of that before I confronted him.

  He wasn’t bothered in the least. “Mitch lied to her. Why am I obliged to repeat his lies?”

  “Gee, because maybe it’s important information all the same?”

  He shrugged. “How could it be?”

  “For God’s sake, O’Connor—”

  “I talked to Wrigley again. He said if your friend really wants to lose an editorial position to work news side, it’s up to her. But he wants thirty days to find a new food editor. And he wants to be the one to tell her.”

  I stared at him a moment. “You are trying to change the subject.”

  “I am trying to make amends.”

  Before he could say more, a man walked up to us and said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The remark was directed to O’Connor.

  This guy was a little older than me, tanned, muscular — and handsome, I suppose, but there was something about him that I disliked immediately. He was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. He knew exactly how good he looked in them. Maybe he overestimated on that score. Spoiled brat, I thought.

  “Irene,” O’Connor was saying, “this is my son, Kenny.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, holding out a hand he glanced at, but didn’t shake.

  He returned his attention to his dad. “Look, about that car loan—”

  “Let’s not discuss that here,” O’Connor said, folding his arms across his chest.

  Kenny opened his mouth to protest, then seemed distracted. He was looking toward the entrance of the café. I was seated facing the other way, but at the radical change in his expression, I turned around — just in time to see disaster approaching.

  Kenny was staring in adoration at a tall, good-looking redhead with big green eyes. I was looking at my sister, thinking that she always did have shitty timing.

  I introduced her to everyone. Kenny suddenly found his manners and shook her hand — holding on to it a little longer than civility required. As for Barbara, I strongly suspect she hadn’t planned to be as polite to me as she was. O’Connor and I exchanged a glance.

  “Barbara,” I said, �
��we have to get back to the paper, but I’d like to talk to you. Want to walk with us?”

  “I haven’t had lunch yet,” she said, in a voice you might hear from a starving kitten, if starving kittens could talk.

  Kenny had the charm turned on full blast by then. “Hey — I need to talk to my dad, you need to talk to your sister. Let me buy you lunch, then I’ll walk with you over to the paper and we can talk to them there.”

  “How sweet of you!”

  O’Connor and I exchanged another glance, silently agreeing to pay up and leave before it got any worse.

  As we gained the sidewalk, O’Connor said, “I don’t mean to be disloyal to Kenny, but if you care about your sister, you’ll do anything you can to keep them apart. Let’s just say he doesn’t have a great track record.”

  “If I thought for one minute that anything I said to that mule-headed sister of mine would make an impression on her, I wouldn’t have left them alone together.” I sighed. “Her own track record isn’t so great, but then, neither is mine. I guess the only consolation is that if her history keeps repeating itself, it will all be over soon.”

  “Whatever happens to them, let’s promise each other we won’t let this get in the way of our own working relationship.”

  “Oh hell,” I said, “I was hoping one of us believed they’d just have lunch.”

  But it was good to know he thought we had a working relationship.

  During those days, I tried hard to manage the balancing act required with Lefebvre — to do my best to get information, but not to become such a pest that he shut down on me forever.

  On Monday afternoon, he gave me a little more information about what had been found in the lab’s search of the car. He let me know that he wasn’t giving me the complete list, that this was just what I could mention in the paper if I wanted to. These items included a gun believed to be the murder weapon; a large metal flashlight that had apparently been used as a club, because there were bloodstains and hair matted on it; other hairs and fibers; cigarettes and cigarette butts. Some of the hair on the flashlight seemed to be dog fur.