But in reality, I was trying to get far enough back where I could see 254 as well. Maybe I acted overly cautious, but after all that happened, I thought it for the best. When I had backed up enough, I looked to my right, in the direction of 254.
An ugly brown house with zero personality. Trees surrounded the property and you couldn’t see much of it. While most houses lay flush on the street itself, this one branched away from Oakland Avenue and you could only see sections of the home. That gave it an ominous feel, no doubt heightened by my uneasiness.
A blue Chevy Silverado sat out front, and in the back I could see a dark-colored van with no windows. A “rape van,” as my father used to call them. Hey, it was a different time and surely wouldn’t be called that now.
I told myself to snap out of it.
I was jumping to way too many conclusions. I let my imagination get ahead of my rationality.
All my father had written was that potentially Mason Anderson had been abused. Potentially. And I was jumping to rape vans and sinister things going on in the house I now looked at.
I needed to pump the brakes.
Still, my inner rebel wanted to approach the house. But my logical, sound-minded side won out. I decided to find out a little more about Mason Anderson’s parents first.
All the same, I’d be back to 254 Oakland Avenue sooner rather than later.
There was no doubt about that.
I called my mother that night.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, Quint. It’s good to hear from you, honey.”
“Went through those things of Dad’s. There’s some great pictures of you two from before I was born.”
“Don’t tell me I was wearing bell bottoms…”
“You want the truth?”
“Heaven forbid,” she said and I heard her laughing on the other end.
“I think you’ll really like them. Dad looks like he’s got an afro in one.”
“No judging. We were crazy kids back then.”
“I wasn’t judging, I was entertained.”
“Well, I’m glad your father and I could do that.”
“There wasn’t much else. Some old clothes, some Christmas lights.”
“Toss those.”
I had to tread lightly with what I said next. “Yeah, I will. Did Dad ever mention a student named Mason Anderson?”
“No, not that I can think of.”
“He lived in Oakland. That’s kind of odd, isn’t it?”
“Not these days. I don’t think Oakland has the best educational system, so a lot of students come further east to high schools out here. It’s easy to get exemptions, use other relatives’ addresses, etc. Happens more than you think.”
“Okay, thanks. And he never mentioned a student he was worried about?”
“He was worried about all his students, Quint. Drugs, the internet, spending their lives on their phones. He worried daily.”
I decided I’d asked her enough questions. My mother didn’t know anything and I saw no reason to include her in the crazy conclusions my mind was jumping to.
“Great, thanks, Mom. I’ll bring the pictures by when we have lunch next week.”
“Keep a few for yourself as well.”
“I will. There’s this one with you two on roller skates at a disco.”
“There is not!” my mom yelled.
We both laughed.
“Okay, maybe not. But there easily could be.”
“I’ll see you next week.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, Quint.”
11.
Mason Anderson didn’t return for his senior year at Northgate High School, where my father had taught. He had transferred after his junior year, which, judging by my father’s note, he may not even have finished.
I’d driven to Northgate itself and told them I was the son of Arthur Adler and wanted to look at some of their recent yearbooks. They happily obliged after expressing their condolences to me. I’d dealt with two people in the main office and then the librarian. They all had glowing things to say about my father.
I’d occasionally come meet him at work, and he’d usually bring me to the library. I’m sure me being a writer had something to do with it. We’d always sit in the Classics section, looking up at books by Joyce, Hemingway, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky. This was probably his way of telling me I had that type of book in me. Not just throwaway articles for the Walnut Creek Times.
I intentionally sat in the Classics section as I read thorough the yearbooks.
It appeared Mason Anderson was a shy kid. I only found two pictures of him. One yearbook photo and one of him studying with a few classmates. He wasn’t smiling in either picture, and the only extracurricular activity he listed was Chess Club.
He looked diminutive and his expression in the photos would best be characterized as quizzical. It was a terrible leap to make, but I didn’t think he looked all that intelligent. He looked spaced out, not quite sure of himself. And possibly not all there.
If my father’s suspicions were correct, there would certainly be good reasons for that.
I tried to find if they listed birthdays anywhere in the yearbooks, but I couldn’t find them. He’d likely be eighteen by now, but I couldn’t be sure.
If Mason Anderson had been of legal age, then I’d be well within my rights to approach him and ask a few questions. Asking a minor some unsolicited questions was definitely a gray area. Not that I was ruling it out.
I had to decide if I was willing to drop further into the abyss for this case.
I returned the yearbooks to the librarian and headed to my car. I left the school thinking it was less likely that my father’s suspicions were related to his death. After all, Mason Anderson had already transferred from Northgate at the time my father was killed in June. It didn’t make any sense.
Still, the coincidence of the address was too much for me to toss the possibility out entirely.
When I arrived back at the Walnut Creek Times, I took a couple of minutes in my car to look on Facebook for Mason Anderson. Several Mason Andersons lived across the Bay Area, but I couldn’t find the right one.
It’s very possible that someone his age didn’t have Facebook, relying instead on Instagram or Snapchat. Another possibility was a more sinister one. If someone had a shitty home life, he could be less inclined to have social media for the world to see.
I put away my phone and walked into work.
“Quint!” Crystal said as I made my way past her cubicle space. “Always out of the office on some taciturn mission these days.”
“I’ve got a secret to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a secret agent!”
“Oh yeah,” she said, playing along. “What branch?”
“FBI. CIA. ATF. WTF.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think WTF is one. Nice try, though.”
We’d been co-workers for nine years and I’d always enjoyed Crystal’s company. Tom Butler had made the right decision by telling me she was off limits early on, and that allowed us to have a nice professional relationship all these years. It never grew awkward like it would have if we’d gotten together.
“It’s the Whiskey, Tobacco, and Firearms division. WTF.”
Greg and Trent heard the banter and walked over.
“There’s absolutely a WTF division. And do you know how it got its name?”
“No, how’s that, Greg?” Crystal asked.
“Because you say ‘What the fuck?’ the morning of a whiskey hangover.”
Trent didn’t want to be left out. “It’s a sister branch to OMG. Old Fashioneds, Margaritas, and Gin and Tonics!”
“Wouldn’t that be OFMGT?” Crystal said.
“Hey, I don’t make the rules.”
It was nice to share a laugh, even over something so silly. We all worked within thirty feet of each other, but it was usually a very businesslike setting.
“This is a sign,” Crystal said
. “We need to all get together for a night of drinks. It’s been too long since we’ve all done that. We’ll have a bunch of WTFs and OMGs.”
We looked at each other and realized everyone loved the idea.
“Brilliant idea, Crystal,” Greg said. “Do we invite the aristocracy upstairs?”
“Of course. After we give them a few drinks, they’ll start behaving like proletariats,” Crystal said.
We shared another hearty laugh at that.
“Hey, the aristocracy can hear you?” Tom Butler’s voice came from above.
We looked up to see him gathering Krissy and Jan. They walked down the stairs to join us.
“One big happy family,” I said.
“I heard something about a party,” Tom said.
Crystal took the lead. “This Friday. In two days. I’ll bring some mixers to the office and then we’ll all hit a bar for Happy Hour.”
Tom looked over at Krissy.
“You know I’m in!” she said.
“Jan?” Trent asked.
“I used to enjoy a good strawberry daiquiri back in the day.”
I’d always assumed Jan was the biggest square in the office, and mentioning a strawberry daiquiri only furthered that opinion.
“I’ll bring a blender,” Crystal said.
“And I’ll bring stories about the time Quint had one too many tequila shots at our house,” Tom said.
“The aristocracy is turning on us. Don’t believe a word he says,” I warned.
“And I’ll tell the story of when my husband had five too many tequila shots in Mexico,” Krissy added.
“Oh, shit. They might never look at me the same again.”
“I know I haven’t,” she went back at him.
Tom turned to us. “She’s right. Now she looks at me with even more awe.”
“Yeah, but it’s ‘Ahhhh, shit,’” Crystal said.
“Crystal for the win!” Krissy said.
“I’m glad Krissy and Crystal are on different floors. I’d be screwing up their names daily,” Jan said.
“Don’t worry, we’d love to be able to correct you for a change,” Greg said.
We all enjoyed that funny jab at our editor.
It was the best office moment we’d had in weeks. Everyone was smiling and having a good time, like some non-existent alcohol had already kicked in. Crystal said she’d be in charge and all we had to do was show up on Friday. After a little more ball busting, we slowly returned to our stations, looking forward to the upcoming party.
Before she went upstairs, Krissy took me out of earshot of everyone else.
“You’ve got another letter,” she said.
“I’ll follow you upstairs,” I said.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
I couldn’t blame her. Three letters, obviously from the same person, were a bit suspicious.
“It’s nothing, Krissy.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Maybe I’ll get the truth out of you after a few shots on Friday.”
I laughed. “Maybe…”
I walked the stairs with her and she gave me the letter. I tucked it under my arm and put it in my backpack when I made my way back down.
I waited until I got home that night to read it.
I’d like to have seen the look on your face when Paddy Roark confronted you. He’s a peach, isn’t he? And I told you I’d find out. Think of me as the eye in the sky. It’s time you alluded to McCarthy or Roark in one of your articles. Once I see that, I’ll send you the information that will change your life. Take care, new friend.
I took the piece of paper, crumbled it up, and threw it at my wall.
Why the hell had I been burdened with the hospital bed next to Griff Bauer? It had created nothing but trouble. And was only getting worse.
And yet, I knew I couldn’t turn back. I was fully immersed.
For the two hundred and ninety-seventh time in the last two weeks, I considered my options. I narrowed them down to two. Go to the cops or go all-in on my investigating, even if it put me in harm’s way.
“Well, fuck, I’m already in harm’s way, so why the fuck not?”
Dropping two F-bombs in a single sentence wasn’t like me. Neither was talking aloud to myself.
So I guess you could say my decision had been made.
12.
Paddy Roark and Mason Anderson. One I wanted to talk to and one I hoped to never see again.
The problem was I knew where to find the one I didn’t want to see. But not the other.
Well, that’s not entirely true. But I couldn’t just sit outside of the Andersons’ house and “randomly” start up a conversation with their son.
Maybe I’d have to start with his parents.
Through some easy Google searches, I’d found that his mother was named Pam and his father Doug. Two short, nice-sounding names. Hardly ones that jumped out as potential monsters. Then again, which do? Maybe Charlie in the ‘70s, Ted in the ‘80s, and Jeffrey in the ‘90s. And that was merely because one wacko fucked up that name for everybody else.
Names, like books, couldn’t be judged by their covers.
I wanted to get more information on the Andersons before I met them. I needed to be prepared ahead of my return to Oakland Avenue.
And I decided to push the envelope further.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
A pleasant-looking woman in a green tracksuit and with silver hair answered the door. She lived in the house between the Andersons and the house where Aubrey Durban and James Neil had been killed.
“Hello, my name is Quint and I’m a reporter for the Walnut Creek Times.”
On the off chance this got back to the Andersons, I decided not to use my last name. Nothing to tie me to my father. If there was even a possibility his death was related.
Off chances. Possibilities. I was certainly grasping at straws.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Annie Ivers.”
“My pleasure, Annie. I’m doing some more research on the murder next door.”
“It’s just been terrible. The police told us they think the young couple was targeted. As if that’s supposed to make us feel safer.”
Because she said “young couple” instead of Aubrey and James, I quickly assumed they weren’t that close.
“I understand. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve worked with the police and they don’t think the general public is in any danger.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m the general public. I’m the next-door neighbor.”
“Your point is taken,” I said. “Did you know Aubrey Durban and James Neil well?”
“Not all that well,” she said, confirming my suspicions. “They were pretty quiet and kept to themselves. I baked them some cookies when they moved in earlier this year, but saw them only sporadically since.”
I saw a little wiggle room into the real reason I was there.
“Is this a pretty tight-knit neighborhood overall?”
“I’d say cordial, but not exactly tight-knit.”
“So I’m guessing you don’t know your neighbors to the left all that well either.”
“The Andersons? Well, yeah, they’ve lived here many years. So I know them a little better.”
I wanted to get information, but had to tread lightly.
“What are they like? I knocked earlier and swear I heard someone in the house, but no one answered.”
That was a lie, but a push in the right direction. Especially if she wanted to vent about the neighborhood. Or hopefully, the Andersons specifically.
“They can be a little standoffish, but they are polite people. If someone was home, I’m sure they would have answered the door.”
“I was probably just hearing things. It can be creepy being in the neighborhood where people were killed.”
“Imagine living here.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Is there anything else you want to know? There’s not much to tell. I’ve talked
to the police a few times already.”
“I’m just trying to get a feel for the deceased and the neighborhood itself. I’m not trying to find the killer,” I said.
One more lie to add to the pile.
“Well, like I said, the neighbors are nice enough. After the Andersons, you have the Elliots and on the other side of them are the Craigholms. I could probably name a few more.”
“Thanks, Annie, but that’s not necessary. I’m only concerned with the neighbors who were close in vicinity to Aubrey and James. Probably just you and the Andersons. Think I may go try them again. Do they have children? In my history, sometimes kids will remember important things several days after the fact.”
We were still standing outside of Annie’s house. She was very cordial, but obviously didn’t want to invite me in. Considering what had happened next door, I couldn’t say I blamed her.
“They’ve got two children. Maddy and Mason. I believe Mason will be a senior in high school. Maddy graduated a couple of years ago. They said she went off to college, but I can’t remember which one.”
I realized this was becoming too Anderson-centric. I preferred to end the conversation on something else.
“And do you have kids?” I asked.
“Not around here. But you’re sweet in assuming they’d still be at home. I’ve been an empty nester for a long, long time.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said, hoping to earn some brownie points.
“You’re a good ass-kisser, Quint.”
“That’s what my mother always tells me,” I said.
“She’s a smart lady.”
I laughed. I considered giving her my card, but still didn’t like the idea of my last name circulating around the neighborhood.
“And you never saw anything suspicious around the time of the murders?”
“I didn’t see anything on that Saturday. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time, Annie.”
“You’re welcome.”
She started shutting her front door, slowly. I had a feeling she secretly wanted to keep the conversation going. I couldn’t tell if it was because she had more to tell or she was just a bored empty nester.
But it was over. The door shut and I heard a deadbolt lock behind it.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 9