The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets)

by James, Harper

  He held the phone out to her. She looked at it. If she took it, there was no going back. Reluctantly she took it before he started shaking it in her face.

  ‘Now call daddy and tell him: silly billy, you drank so much wine, you left your phone behind.’

  Chapter 13

  EVAN LEANED BACK IN the cab and pulled his Zippo lighter out of his pocket, re-read the verse that he knew so well, the one engraved into the worn, pitted metal.

  We the unwilling

  Led by the unqualified

  To kill the unfortunate

  Die for the ungrateful

  Everything was pushing him down the same path. The constant reminders via email, text and hand-written note that Carl Hendricks’ army buddy was out there somewhere, somewhere close. And then Charlotte’s insane conclusion that he’d bought Destiny’s Corvette in order to further his hitherto non-existent sex life, now that he’d—according to her—moved on from Sarah. The time was fast approaching when he would go out to Hendricks’ farm. He couldn’t put it off much longer. Unless Floyd Gray made a move first, of course.

  The cab dropped him off and he made his way down into the bowels of the building housing the BDM section of the Register-Recorder’s Office, his heart heavy. Not for the first time, he wished they’d merge the Register-Recorder’s Office with the DMV so he could deal with Rizzo for all his inquiries. Every time he came here, it was just his luck to get this same unhelpful clerk. Today was no exception.

  He put on his best friendly face as he approached the counter, got a blank stare back for his trouble. The girl was about five feet five tall with an extra six inches of attitude on top.

  ‘Hi ...’

  He looked for a name badge. She wasn’t wearing one.

  ‘Yes?’

  Her tone was an unusual mix of petulance and boredom. He placed a slip of paper with the name Margarita Narvaez on the counter. The girl glanced down at it.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘She was born August 12, 1948—’

  ‘That’s a start.’

  She took the slip of paper, got as far as writing August.

  ‘But not in the U.S.’

  Her pen froze in mid-air, hung there a couple of seconds until she felt her point was made sufficiently, and then she drew a deliberate line through what she’d written. He reckoned when she took the paper away, there’d be a nasty score in the counter top.

  ‘I thought it might be useful anyway. I’m after a death record, sometime after June 1965. Or a marriage’—he tried to think, how likely would it be that a pregnant seventeen-year-old girl would get married while she was still heavily pregnant, given it wasn’t going to be to the father of her child—‘from say, early 1966 onwards.’

  From the look on her face, you’d think she misheard, thought he’d said 1866. He almost wished he had.

  ‘It won’t be on the database. I’ll have to check the microfilm.’

  The old hard-copy records had been transferred to microfilm sometime in the 1970s and then, years later, directly onto the computerized database, leaving a lot of records that never made the transition from microfilm to database. It was a pain in the neck and just his luck that he needed something from that period from this particular clerk. From the sound of her voice, microfilm was another word for stone tablets.

  Quick as you can then, you sour-faced cow.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to get some coffee while I wait. Can I get you anything?’

  He took the way she turned on her heel and trudged off as a no. He didn’t know why he bothered. He didn’t want another coffee anyway, he’d had more than enough at Charlotte’s. He took a seat and checked his phone. There was a text message from Guillory.

  How many speeding tickets you got in your new toy since you hung up on me the other day?

  He was tempted to tell her how Charlotte planned to give it an extra shine for her, then something made him hold back.

  Ha, ha. And I didn’t hang up on you.

  Then, before her reply came back, the clerk was standing at the counter, a spool of microfilm in her hand, a when-you’re-ready look on her face. He jumped up.

  ‘That was quick.’

  She gave him a tight smile. Her voice took on a patronizing tone, as if she was talking to a puppy.

  ‘Like you asked, I started looking for deaths from the beginning of 1966. It didn’t take long.’

  He was about to correct her—he’d said marriages from early 1966 onwards—then he stopped himself. Misunderstanding or not, she’d found something.

  ‘You found her death certificate?’

  The clerk nodded and handed the spool of microfilm to him.

  ‘You want record number 66-107. Microfilm machine’s over there.’

  Evan took the spool automatically as his mind processed what she’d said. Margarita’s death was the one hundred and seventh death in the county in 1966. It was a very low number, she must have died in the first few weeks or days of that year. He thought back to his first meeting with Hanna when they’d estimated that Margarita’s baby would have been born in late December 1965. It had only been an estimate, the actual date could have been early January 1966.

  ‘Did she die—’

  He’d been about to ask the clerk if she died in childbirth. Too late, the clerk was already trudging back to her desk. It would take something along the lines of a nuclear explosion to make her turn around again. He took the spool of microfilm to the machine and loaded it up, turned on the light. There was a button to feed the film through. He pressed it, just tapping it and stopping so he didn’t overshoot. It didn’t take long, as the clerk said. He found record 66-107 in the second week of January. The death certificate was dated January 12, 1966 and gave details of her age, seventeen, the next-of-kin, her father Hector Narvaez, and her address. He scrolled down to the section filled in by the doctor attending the death. The cause of death was listed as drowning.

  But it was the location of death that made him sit up straight. Margarita drowned at home. And as far as he could see, that could only mean one thing—she’d drowned in the bathtub.

  A feeling of immense sadness settled on him like a shroud. Margarita had died so young. Everything about her short life was surrounded by tragedy. He felt suddenly cold as if it were him lying dead in a tub of water as the last vestiges of warmth faded to a deathly chill.

  Her death raised more questions than it answered. Had she given birth by then or not? Or had she chosen to have the baby at home, in the bathtub—and drowned as a result of some terrible accident? Possibly her child too.

  And if it wasn’t an accident that left two possibilities—she’d taken her own life or she’d been assisted.

  ***

  GUILLORY HAD BEEN RIGHT. He’d found a way to get her to help without having to tell her anything. If Margarita’s death wasn’t an accident or suicide, it meant she’d been drowned by somebody else. There were three other people living with her at that time—her mother, who he ruled out, her father, Hector, and her brother, Jesús. He could ask Guillory to check whether either man had been arrested for the murder of Margarita Narvaez without having to mention her name.

  ‘Let me get my diary,’ Guillory said, when she answered the phone, a smile in her voice, ‘see when I’m free.’

  Evan couldn’t help smiling himself as he remembered his sister’s words.

  ‘It’s, uh, not exactly about dinner—’

  ‘Sorry, gotta go—’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m working on?’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t tell me.’

  There was a pause, then her throaty laugh came down the line. He loved the sound of her laugh, could have told her if she kept that up, maybe she’d get her way sooner than she thought.

  ‘I knew you’d manage to do it,’ she said.

  ‘Right, let me get my diary—’

  ‘Stop being an ass, Buckley. Somehow, you’ve managed to find a way for me to do yo
ur work for you, without having to tell me anything about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘Spit it out. What do you want?’

  ‘I need to know if either Hector or Jesús Narvaez’—he spelled the name out for her—‘was arrested or convicted of a homicide that took place in January 1966.’

  There was the silence he now expected every time he mentioned 1965 or ‘66. People had got so used to computers and computerized databases, they’d got lazy, that was the trouble.

  ‘1966.’

  ‘Yup. You thinking of applying for a job in the Register-Recorder’s Office?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I just thought you’d fit in well there. At least Narvaez isn’t a common name.’

  ‘I’ve had a great idea. While I’m rooting around in the bowels of the earth, you can get busy finding out the best place for dinner. And making a reservation. Get them to put some champagne on ice while you’re at it. Real champagne mind, not some cheap imitation.’

  The phone went dead in his ear.

  He had a better idea. He needed to get himself something to drive while he left the Corvette at Charlotte’s, so he called a cab to take him to the car rental office. Despite her protestations, he’d only just taken charge of a nondescript brownish-gray Honda, when she called him back.

  ‘Nothing on either of them.’

  It was a result in one way. He could rule out murder. It also eliminated what would have been the easiest answer. She was still talking.

  ‘Sorry, I missed that.’

  ‘I said, there was another hit for the same name—’

  ‘What, a homicide?’

  ‘No, there was an autopsy report’—he felt his breath catch in his throat as she said the words, silently mouthed the words he wanted to hear her say next—‘for a Margarita Narvaez. I don’t know if you’re interested—it’s not a common name and the date was right, so I pulled it anyway. Save myself another journey down into the dungeon. Save you the price of another dinner.’

  At that moment he’d have bought her dinner every day for a month.

  ‘So, do you want it?’

  He cleared his throat, put on his best take-it-or-leave-it voice.

  ‘Yeah, why not. It might be connected.’

  He was glad she was on the other end of the phone, couldn’t see his face, the stupid grin on it. He wished he could see hers. She wasn’t stupid. He’d asked about homicide reports and she’d found an autopsy report, all for the same name, all the same time frame. She was a detective after all, a proper one. It wasn’t much of a leap to put it all together.

  ‘I’ve scanned it already, I’ll email it over.’

  It occurred to him she hadn’t made any mention of what was in the autopsy report. She’d have read it, it was human nature. Drowning in the bathtub couldn’t be that common, you’d pass a remark of some sort. It could only be that she’d already worked it all out and didn’t want to put him into an awkward position.

  She was right, he owed her dinner.

  ‘Thanks Kate. You got your diary handy?’

  He wasn’t expecting the next sound that came down the line, the sound of air sucked in through teeth.

  ‘I’m pretty tied up at the moment, Evan, I’ll have to get back to you.’

  For once, he was speechless.

  ‘Tied up with what?’

  ‘Well, you know, work. What with doing your job as well as my own. I’m sure you can imagine. Why, what did you think?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Anyway, you’re going to be busy now with Hanna’s case, now you’ve got something to go on.’

  The email came through a couple of minutes after they disconnected. An involuntary bark of laughter slipped out when he opened it—not because there’s anything inherently amusing about an autopsy report—because of her comment accompanying it.

  You need to work on your take-it-or-leave-it voice.

  ***

  THERE WAS NO MENTION of Margarita being pregnant, quite the opposite. The report stated that the deceased had recently given birth, within the previous two weeks. Death was by drowning as he already knew, and in addition to her lungs being full of water, her stomach contained an estimated pint of Tequila, brand unspecified.

  Evan felt a deep sadness settle on him. Margarita had given birth to her baby and then, less than two weeks later, had drowned her sorrows with a pint of Tequila and drowned herself in a bathtub of warm water. She was seventeen years old at the time.

  Why had she killed herself?

  Her brother, Jesús Narvaez, knew what had happened. Who knows, maybe he was the one who found her lifeless body in the tub after somebody had to kick down the bathroom door. Was it any surprise he was bitter? No wonder he carried his hatred of Frank Hanna and his family with him for fifty years. His own disfigurement and then the suicide of his twin sister. It raised another question in Evan’s mind. Narvaez had repeatedly referred to we—when he threw George Hanna’s money at Evan, he’d said we don’t want it now. It was obvious now he wasn’t referring to Margarita, so who could it be? And did it matter?

  The biggest question was, what became of the baby?

  At least he had something concrete to work with. Margarita took her own life on January 12, 1966. The autopsy report stated that she gave birth within the previous two weeks, so her child—and Frank Hanna’s—was most likely born in the first ten days or so of 1966. He didn’t have a first name. He did have the mother’s name and an address which would narrow the scope of hospitals where the baby was born. How difficult could it be?

  He drove back to the Register-Recorder’s Office, an excited buzz in his stomach. He made his way back down to the BDM section, gave the details to the same sullen clerk. For a brief moment he thought she picked up on some of the anticipation radiating off him like a heat haze on a desert pavement. It didn’t last. She stomped off and he waited restlessly for her to come back with another spool of microfilm.

  He’d asked for the records from both 1965 and 1966 and started with the ‘66. He felt confident the baby would have been born then. Apart from anything else it formed the majority of the two-week time period leading up to Margarita’s death.

  It came up blank.

  A little surprised but still undeterred, he loaded the 1965 spool and fast-forwarded to Christmas Day 1965. That had to be early enough. He worked forward to the end of the year, came up with nothing again. Not a single child with the surname Narvaez was born during either period. He didn’t know how accurate the autopsy report was in its assessment of when Margarita had given birth, so he rewound to the beginning of December and worked his way forward. His heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t going to find anything.

  For some unaccountable reason, there was no record of the birth of Margarita Narvaez’ baby.

  He carried the spools back to the clerk, thinking maybe she might help solve the mystery, handed them back to her.

  ‘I couldn’t find any record of the birth I’m looking for.’

  She shrugged as if to say what do you expect if you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.

  ‘I know for sure the child was born during the period I’ve been looking.’

  ‘Maybe you missed it.’ She held out the spools towards him. ‘You want these back?’

  He hadn’t missed anything. She wasn’t about to offer any suggestions, another way to search maybe, basically be helpful in any way. He shook his head and she took the spools back to her desk, stacked them on top of a pile already waiting to be re-filed and got out her phone. He watched her for a minute, absorbed in whatever she was doing, and then it came to him.

  It’s not always intuitive when you’ve spent all day up to your ears in official records to try something as basic as an internet search, but that’s what he did now. He got out his own phone and typed no birth certificate on record into the search engine. He scanned the results that came back, liked the sound of the second one down—The Perversion of America
n Birth Certificates—opened it up and knew immediately he’d hit pay dirt.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he called to the girl as he headed towards the exit.

  She didn’t even look up.

  He sat in his car and read through the article, amazed at how little he knew about things that happen all around us every day of the week. He knew, of course, that when a child is born, a birth certificate is issued showing the date of birth, the time, parents’ names and other details. This document would have been given to Margarita.

  What he didn’t know was, when a child is adopted, along with all the other paperwork, an amended birth certificate is issued. On this document, Margarita’s name would have been replaced with the names of the adoptive parents, and the child’s name given at birth would be replaced with the new name, if it was changed. The original birth certificate would then have been placed with the other adoption records and the file sealed by the court—never again to see the light of day.

  It all made sense now. Margarita’s baby had been adopted and the new, amended birth certificate issued and placed on record. The baby’s last name would be different and perhaps the first name too. Even if the new parents hadn’t changed the name Margarita gave her child, it explained why he couldn’t find any record of a child born with the name Narvaez.

  The unhelpful clerk in the Register-Recorder’s Office would have known how the system worked. It should have been the first thing she suggested when he told her he couldn’t find a birth certificate for a child he knew had been born.

  He wound down the window to get some air, feeling like he wanted to clear his mind of the tragic story, because there was no doubt in his mind that he’d discovered the reason Margarita committed suicide. He didn’t know whether the decision to give the child up for adoption would have been hers or her parents’ due to her age. It was irrelevant. As far as Margarita was concerned, her child was taken away from her. Given to somebody else, a stranger. For no good reason other than the fact she was unmarried.

  To fall pregnant out of wedlock, incur the wrath and condemnation of her family, to be abandoned by the father of her child and threatened by the men his father sent, and then to have the only good thing to come from the whole affair, her baby, taken away from her—it was no surprise it was all too much to bear and she chose the path of least resistance.