The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets)
Page 65
‘Uh, yeah,’ he said, amazed she remembered, looking around to see if the whole thing was being filmed in secret.
She headed off towards the archives, swinging her hips as she went. He wasn’t imagining it. Yesterday, the word for her gait would have been slouched. A hint of perfume hung in the air after she’d gone. That was new too. He didn’t like it, didn’t like any perfume—that was one of the things he liked about Guillory, she didn’t wear any—but he wasn’t going to mention that to his new friend, Stella.
‘Did you manage to load up the machine okay yesterday?’ she asked when she got back with the two spools.
‘Uh, well, it was a little fiddly.’
Before he knew it, she was on his side of the counter. Perhaps she’d find him a comfy chair as well—not that he expected the search to take very long. The fact that Margarita gave her baby two names—Francisco Javier—made the likelihood of other children with the same names much smaller. There was still the chance the adoptive parents changed the name, although he hoped the double name would help there too—if they liked either one of them, they might leave the whole name unchanged.
‘What year do you want to start?’
It sounded like when shall we get married?
‘Sixty-six, I think.’
She loaded it up and he sat down. She wasn’t in a hurry to leave. There were no other customers this early in the morning.
‘You press this button to move it forward.’
He didn’t bother to point out he’d managed perfectly well on his own the day before.
She leaned across him and advanced the microfilm. Her perfume filled his nose and he felt her breath on the side of his face. He was very aware that if he turned his head to the left, he’d be looking straight down her blouse. One of the buttons seemed to have come undone in the archive room.
‘When do you want, roughly?’
He gave up a silent prayer that he hadn’t started with the 1965 spool and needed to fast forward all the way to December. He was going to sneeze soon if she didn’t move away.
‘First couple of weeks of the year.’
She’d already missed the first few days showing him how the button worked, so she rewound it. Then he heard a sound that made his heart leap. The sound of the door behind them opening—another customer, thank God.
Stella looked around and then straightened up at the exact moment he turned his head to say thank you. His cheek hit her squarely on the right breast.
‘Sorry.’
She giggled and smoothed her blouse, making it gape some more.
‘Thanks for all your help.’
The look in her eyes said don’t worry, I’ll be collecting payment later and then she was gone, off to help the other customer. He turned back to the machine, every second counting now. He sure hoped the other customer had a list as long as his arm. Behind him he heard Stella say Yes? in the exact tone he remembered from the previous day.
The new, helpful Stella with the perfume and makeup was for him and him alone.
It was a scary thought.
There was no time to lose. He advanced the microfilm as fast as possible without risking missing any records. Some of the names he recognized from the day before. The records went by, one by one, but the nearer he got to January 12, 1966, the day of Margarita’s death, the more convinced he became he’d chosen the wrong year to start with. Over his shoulder, he heard Stella returning with whatever the other customer needed from the archives. He didn’t want to think what might have happened to her blouse in there.
He was up to January 10, 1966 when he saw it. They hadn’t changed the name.
Francisco Javier Hernandez.
Seeing the name in black and white brought home to him something that hadn’t registered before, added one more layer of sadness to the whole story—despite everything that had happened, Margarita named her baby after its father. He couldn’t begin to imagine the reaction she got from her brother, Jesús. It was no wonder he didn’t want to talk about any of it.
The child was born two days before Margarita committed suicide. Was it too close? Would they have taken the baby away from its mother so soon? It was a Latino surname. Did that make it more likely it was Margarita’s child? He made a note of the record number and the name and kept on going, had to be thorough, all the way to the end. There was nothing else.
He glanced at the 1965 spool and knew he wasn’t finished. He had to check that one out too. He had a feeling in his gut he couldn’t explain that told him he would find something more on that spool. Something important.
He pressed the rewind button, held it down. A man pulled out the chair at the table next to him, dropped a single spool of microfilm on the table, nodded. Evan nodded back, his heart sinking, finger still on rewind. The counter flap behind them lifted and the sound of Stella’s heels approached. The man next to him was a big guy with large hands, his fingers thick.
‘It’s really fiddly loading these damn machines,’ Evan whispered, ‘I had to get the girl to do it for me.’
He was suddenly aware of Stella’s presence at his shoulder.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve got one name—’
‘Excuse me Miss, can you load this thing for me?’ the guy next to him said. ‘I’m all fingers.’
Evan bit his tongue to stifle his grin, imagined Stella thinking Yeah, and my finger’s gonna be in your eye, buddy. She moved across to help him nonetheless, her hand trailing Evan’s shoulder as she moved away.
The 1966 spool finished rewinding and Evan got it off and the 1965 loaded so fast he felt both Stella and the guy staring at him. He grinned at them.
‘Practice makes perfect.’
He held down fast forward and watched the records go by in a blur, stopped in early December, and then advanced more slowly to Christmas day. It seemed an auspicious day, he had a good feeling about it. What he was also feeling was the weight of Stella’s arm on his shoulder, having finished up with the other guy.
‘Would you be able to print this one off for me, Stella?’
He held up the slip of paper with the details for Francisco Javier Hernandez. She took it, stayed put.
‘Let’s wait and see if you find anything else.’
He advanced the film carefully towards the end of the year, his previous optimism fading as he got closer.
‘There!’ She pointed at the screen, her voice shrill and excited in his ear. ‘You want that one too?’
Evan nodded and she made a note of the details. Francisco Javier Fox, born December 31, 1965. He thought about the name—a Latino first name coupled with a non-Latino last name. Did that make it more or less likely this was Margarita’s baby and not the child born to, or adopted by, the Latino couple, Hernandez?
He finished the last few records and then rewound it. Stella headed off to print the two birth certificates for him. A sign on the wall told him each copy would cost him five dollars. He fished a ten out of his wallet, no need to wait for change.
‘So, what are you, some kind of private investigator?’ Stella said, after she handed over the copies and he paid her the ten dollars.
In contrast to how other people, like Frank Hanna, made private investigator sound, she made it sound very much like man of my dreams.
‘Something like that.’
She leaned on the counter towards him, so close he smelled the faintly apple smell of the shampoo in her hair.
‘That must be really exciting—’
He stuffed his hand in his pocket suddenly as if he’d just felt his phone vibrate, pulled it out and pretended to read the text.
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What?’
He shook his head, looked at his watch. He pushed his shoulders down into a slump.
‘They want me to check 1964 as well. As if I haven’t got enough to do today. I’m going to be late.’
She smiled at him.
‘I don’t mind. It won’t take long.’
Chapter 17
FRANK HANNA STARED AT his phone, his irritation growing. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with it. It had been acting up ever since he left it at Lisa’s. Somehow, he’d just taken a picture of the inside of his pocket. He didn’t need this sort of minor annoyance on top of everything else that was going on.
He also didn’t know what the hell was wrong with Lisa.
She was always a bit jumpy, got it from her mother. The other night, she’d been more nervous than usual. She was still seeing McIntyre, but he had the sense to leave the topic alone. At one point he could’ve sworn he heard a noise from her garage—most likely McIntyre skulking in there. So he’d had another glass of wine and taken his time over it. Whatever was going on with her, it made it even more imperative she didn’t find out about his illness until Buckley finished his investigation.
That was another thing. Buckley had obviously found something out from Narvaez, then pretended he hadn’t. The guy was a lousy liar. He’d have thought you needed to be a good liar in his line of work. At one point he was convinced he was going to give the job up. At least the guy was making progress even if he did want to choose his moments when to reveal what he’d discovered.
The question he’d asked about Thompson worried him, suggested that whatever Buckley had found out had to do with him. He’d never known the guy, only knew him by reputation. He shuddered, felt a wave of shame overcome him, even after fifty years, for not doing anything, not trying to stop his father from sending a man like that to Margarita’s house. It made it all the more important to make amends now.
‘Mr. Hanna?’
Hanna looked up at the pretty young receptionist.
‘Dr Frazier will see you now.’
***
‘HA. THE OLD BASTARD’S got cancer.’
‘Who?’
‘Your father—’
‘Don’t call him that. He’s still my father, however much you hate him.’
McIntyre held up his hands. This wasn’t a good time to get into a fight.
‘Sorry.’
The second half of what he said sank in. She was so irritated by what he called her father, the rest of it didn’t register. Until now. Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘Tell me what you heard.’
McIntyre recounted the gist of the conversation he’d overheard. The pancreatic cancer that Frank Hanna had been diagnosed with had taken an aggressive turn for the worse. The prognosis wasn’t good—he’d be dead within a year. Treatment would only make the last few months of his life a misery for no appreciable gain. It was not recommended.
Lisa dropped onto a kitchen chair, feeling numb. She’d known there was something wrong with her father, never suspected it was as bad as this. Less than a year to live. Why hadn’t he told her?
Despite his own feelings, McIntyre had the sense to go to her. She clamped her arms around his waist, buried her face in his shirt. He held her to him, stroked her hair with his good hand. His mind was a blur as his hand stroked rhythmically, soothing her. This changed everything.
Lisa pulled her head away, looked up at him.
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘I don’t know. He’s ...he’s been very secretive recently.’
Luckily, he caught himself before he said he’s up to something. The phrase was too inflammatory for the circumstances, even if it was more accurate. Despite his choice of words, she caught something in his tone of voice.
‘What else?’
He went to stroke her hair again and she knocked his hand away.
‘What else, Hugh?’
‘You’re upset. We’ll talk about it later.’
‘Don’t fucking patronize me.’
He stepped away from her. She got up from the chair, the upset of a minute ago a thing of the past.
‘I already told you. You weren’t listening. You thought I was imagining things.’
He waved his left hand angrily in her face, making it throb even more.
‘I didn’t imagine this, did I?’
She shrank away from him, shocked at the outburst.
‘When I told you Vasiliev was getting impatient, you pooh-poohed it, told me not to be so paranoid. You remember that?’
‘Okay, I was wrong. I’m sorry.’
He shook his head, his mouth a tight, hard line.
‘I get a six-inch nail through the hand, and she’s sorry.’
‘Hugh, please,’ she said in an encouraging tone, like she was offering him the last piece of pie. ‘Tell me again, what’s my father been doing?’
‘He went to see the investigator, Buckley. The route he took, it was obvious he didn’t want anybody to know where he was going. It was the same when I followed him to the doctor’s clinic. He didn’t want anyone to know he was going to see Buckley or the doctor.’
‘And now we know he’s been hiding his illness from me.’
‘Exactly. I think it’s fair to say he’s up to something.’
He enjoyed putting the emphasis on the last three words, even if it was childish. It was about time she took what he said seriously.
‘It’s obvious,’ she said. ‘He’s hired Buckley to do something for him before he dies. But what?’
McIntyre shrugged. He stuffed his good hand deep into his front pocket and leaned back on his heels. It didn’t fool her.
‘Hugh. Tell me.’
He hesitated. His vague suspicions seemed stupid now, he didn’t want to put them into words. But she’d never let it go.
‘I’ve been following Buckley. The last couple of days, he’s been as good as living at the Register-Recorder’s office. Either he’s got a crush on one of the clerks there, or he’s doing a hell of a lot of digging.’
‘Into what? Real estate records?’
McIntyre shook his head.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘What else do they keep there?’
‘I followed him inside one time—’
Momentarily, anxiety and anger tightened up her face.
‘What if he’d seen you? He’s not going to forget you after what you did.’
He shook his head angrily. She must think he was an idiot.
‘He didn’t see me. I didn’t go and sit next to him for Christ’s sake. I just wanted to see what section he went to. BDM. Births, deaths and marriages.’
Lisa’s forehead creased into a frown.
‘But—’
‘Let me think, will you. Just be quiet for two minutes for once in your life.’
He didn’t care how harshly it came out, she could pull that face all she liked. The answer was hovering, just out of reach. He couldn’t concentrate with her interrupting him all the time. He sorted everything he’d learned into two distinct piles in his mind.
In the first pile, the facts:
Frank Hanna was dying.
Lisa was all the family he had, she would inherit everything.
Hanna had refused to bail him out, accused him of being financially irresponsible.
Hanna knew he was still seeing Lisa.
Buckley was spending all his time searching births, deaths or marriages.
Although the second pile was all supposition, the logic flowed perfectly once he’d sorted the facts into order first:
Hanna would never willingly assist him financially.
He would not leave his money to Lisa while they were together.
If not Lisa, then somebody else.
Buckley was searching for a potential heir.
It made perfect sense. Lisa saw the change in his face, the scowl on her own face softening. She put her hand on his arm.
‘What is it?’
His voice failed him for a second, then came out as a whisper, hollow behind the blood in his ears.
‘Buckley’s searching
for an heir.’
She looked at him like he was making up words. He ran through his thought process openly, counting off the points on his fingers, her face hardening again as she listened.
‘That’s ridiculous. There isn’t an anyone else. My mother would have told me.’
‘What if she didn’t know.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
He tuned her voice out as she listed the reasons why it couldn’t be true, why she didn’t want it to be true. And the more she put up reasons to refute it, the more positive he became he was right. And if he was, his only chance of satisfying Vasiliev was about to go up in smoke.
‘How old was your father when he met your mother?’
‘Hugh. You haven’t listened to a word I said.’
‘How old?’
She shook her head and shrugged, an aggravated sigh on her lips.
‘I don’t know, twenty, I think.’
‘That would have been 1966. So, sometime before then.’
‘You’re being—’
He thrust his left hand into her face, a faint trace of blood visible through the bandage.
‘Being what, Lisa? Being thorough? Not just telling myself no, no, no, daddy wouldn’t do that to me. Because, if I’m right, and he leaves it all to some stranger ...’
He had to find out if he was right—and put an end to it. He smiled despite the implications, surprising himself. There was one small consolation in the midst of all the shit he was drowning in. What better way to put an end to what Buckley was doing than put an end to Buckley himself.
Chapter 18
‘I HOPE YOU’RE NOT thinking of taking me to dinner in that.’
Evan slid in opposite Guillory and looked out the window at the rental.
‘Something with a small engine so you can’t do too much damage, I hope. I believe those were your exact words.’
She went back to her breakfast. He nabbed a couple of home fries, almost got a fork in the back of his hand.
‘And when was the last time you took any notice of a word I say?’
‘All the time. Fancy another beer, Evan? I always listen up when you say that. Can’t remember the last—’
‘You haven’t trashed the Corvette already, have you?’