“Raise a flag, shave your snout, and lose the beer,” I said.
“Not a problem. There’s a flag here in the foyer, would you mind? I’m going to go get pretty. Beer?”
“No.”
“Come on, Freddie,” he said to the dog. “Let’s go get ready for the show.”
While Dalton prettified upstairs, I carried a well-weathered United States flag to the front-yard pole. The pole had a clothesline, three pulleys, and a tie-down. As I hoisted the flag I noted the top ornament, a toilet bowl float painted gold. I wondered if Dalton was more patriot or scoundrel.
I sat in the living room and waited. Heard voices upstairs, three, male and argumentative. Freddie barked briefly. The living room was oddly dated for someone Dalton’s age: Berber carpet, matronly overstuffed sofa and chairs, a black-lacquer-and-glass coffee table with untouched magazines and a faux Pueblan vase of artificial flowers. On the walls, framed floral paintings, mass-produced and mall-marketed, painful to look at. I wondered why the Straits’ eye-popping credit card charges for the finer things in life hadn’t included one item for their own living room.
I heard loud thumping on the landing upstairs, then a tall, beefy boy came pounding down. Lee, I knew from Dalton’s phone photos, a college junior at San Diego State and part of the Navy/Marine ROTC program. He wore a lacrosse jersey, shorts, and cleats, and carried a red helmet in one hand and a defender’s long stick in the other. Lee had short blond hair and an open, carefree face like his father’s.
“Hey,” he said, clomping to a stop on the Berber. “You find Mom yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Any ideas where she went?”
“We never know with her,” he said. “I’m going to practice.”
He trotted past the plump sofa and recliner to the foyer tile, then out the front door. I saw the van waiting in the driveway.
When I looked back, another young man had already come down the stairs and stood at the landing, looking at me. The USC Trojan, I thought, younger, a freshman. Terrell. Shorter than his older brother, with something of his mother’s engaging face. Dark hair and blue eyes. A Seinfeld T-shirt and lounge pants and the nubby rubber spa slippers oddly favored by the young.
“I’m a PI working for your dad,” I said.
“I’m Terrell.”
“How do you like USC?”
“It’s okay. I’m thinking about moving back home to help find Mom.”
“I respect that,” I said.
“Dad told me to hang around and make a good impression at this press conference.”
“You’ll make a good impression.”
He looked at me for a beat, uncertainty on his handsome face. “Do you think this was a psychotic episode? Another break?”
“I wish I could give you one bit of useful information, Terrell.”
“So you have nothing, or nothing you can tell me?”
Nothing but a cry for help written in lipstick, I thought. And a lot of eye-witnessed hugger-mugger up near Valley Center and out by the Tourmaline Casino one Tuesday that by now must feel like a hundred years ago to this boy.
I saw the tension on Terrell’s face, so unlike the annoyance on his older brother’s.
“Are you close to her?” I asked.
He looked at me again with something of his mother’s bright expression on the TV commercials. If Lee was Dalton’s son, Terrell was clearly Natalie’s.
“Well, she’s my mom.”
“People think highly of her,” I said. “It’s my job to ask around when things like this happen.”
“Like an abduction?”
“We’re not sure of that, Terrell.”
“Why wouldn’t they think highly of her?”
I considered this a good question. One of the several things that had been bothering me about Natalie Strait’s disappearance was how lost in the shuffle she seemed to those who should be the most anxious to have her safe and back home. Such as her husband. And, apparently, Lee. We never know with her.
“People talk about this quality she has,” I said, eager to get a clearer picture of the boy. “They describe it in different ways. How would you describe her?”
He looked down and slipped his hands into his pockets. Toed the carpet with his spa slippers. “I don’t know. Um, I’m not that verbal or anything. I’m studying film. I’m going to be a moviemaker.”
He vetted me again with Natalie’s open charm, in absentia. “I made a movie that helped me get into school. It’s about her. A Day in a Life. I’m into music, too, so the Beatles reference.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“Probably a hundred. Right back.”
He took the stairs two at a time. I heard banging, then some back and forth, across-the-house yelling with his father. The dog barking again. A moment later he handed me two plastic jewel cases and a brad-bound script.
“One disc is Blu-ray if you got it, and there’s outtakes before the credits so don’t miss those. Mom is much more interesting when she doesn’t think the camera is on. And funnier. Like most people are. The script, too, if you want.”
“I look forward to this, Terrell.”
“Maybe it holds a clue.”
I waited for the ironic smile and didn’t get one.
“I’ll do anything on earth to get her back,” he said. “You need me, you call me. My numbers are on the script.”
Half an hour later, Dalton, freshly shaven and golf-shirted, came down the stairs and gave me a brief salute. Then swung himself around the well-worn banister finial and limped into the kitchen. Heard him ordering his son to get him a beer before the vultures got here. A moment later he walked in with a fresh cold one.
“How do I look?”
“I’d almost believe you.”
“I’ll take almost.”
“You’ll need more than that,” I said. “I read the DOJ indictment. They’re throwing the book at you, Dalton.”
“Um-hmm,” he managed, upping the bottle for a long swallow. He wiped his mouth like a saloon gunslinger. “Thing is, they can’t prove any of it.”
I thought of Burt’s non-grand-jury investigation, which had yielded plenty of damning evidence. “And what if they already have?”
“I mean in a courtroom, Roland. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“What are you going to say about Natalie’s absence?”
“I don’t know. Hit at the plate. What do you think?”
“Our chances of finding her go up if people know she’s missing.”
He gave me an assessing stare. “More than one way to play it.”
“This isn’t play, my friend.”
It wasn’t play for me, either. The idea of being caught and displayed through scores of media outlets did not sit well. Sometimes you need anonymity. You need a handful of aliases with business cards, websites, and phone numbers to back them up. You need to get yourself where you need to be with a story, a wig, a mustache, and a change of clothes. Even a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. A little can do a lot. But you can’t do that if everybody knows you. Especially through the eyes of the media—social, news, whatever. Illogically, you’re twice as memorable on a screen.
I settled on a Padres cap and windbreaker from the toolbox in my truck, and a pair of aviator sunglasses.
TWENTY
I stood behind Dalton on his front patio as he faced his questioners. There were more of them than I’d expected after the nearby carnage: network, cable, PBS, NPR, Local Live!, ProPublica, Politico, HuffPost. Print, led by Howard Wilkin from the Union-Tribune, who gave me an unthankful nod. I looked out to the street and saw their vehicles stacked back nearly to the intersection. Terrell stood beside me, hands folded in front of him, back straight, staring blankly ahead.
&
nbsp; Dalton started with last night’s bombing, the governor’s state of emergency for San Diego County—which Dalton “absolutely” agreed with—and which would bring National Guardsmen and possibly federal money to “wage war on The Chaos Committee.” He raised his fist: “We’re going to hit them with everything we’ve got! The Chaos Committee will pay the full measure.”
ABC: “But what about the federal charges against you, Mr. Strait?”
“I haven’t read all the charges yet, but I don’t have to. None of them are true. I am innocent on all counts. The indictment is a political move to keep me from being reelected. Questions?”
NBC: “Is it true that you and your wife spent over two hundred and eighty thousand dollars in campaign donations on personal expenses over the last three years?”
Dalton: “Absolutely not. This is the new DOJ bringing these charges. This is the deep state, hard at work. They’re doing the same thing to the president.”
CBS: “Why is your campaign treasurer reporting a current balance of only five hundred and thirty-five dollars when your reelection committee has taken in over three hundred and seventeen thousand dollars this year alone?”
Dalton: “We spent it. We’re running a tough campaign. The question you should be asking is why my opponent in November almost certainly has terrorist blood relatives in the Middle East.”
ABC: “Can you explain why campaign donations were used to pay for a golfing junket to Hawaii, a family vacation to Greece, and first-class airfare for Natalie’s parents to fly from Los Angeles to Paris?”
Dalton: “Because we couldn’t get a nonstop from San Diego? That was just a joke, Bethany. I repaid that airfare out of my own salary. Same with the Greece trip.”
Fox: “Not according to prosecutors.”
Dalton: “They are absolutely wrong. It’s all political.”
ABC: “But you told the Federal Election Commission that the golf junkets were charity events when, apparently, they were simply trips with friends.”
Dalton: “War vets and donors—therefore legal all the way.”
A murmur rose from the media, a collective rebuttal to Dalton’s specious reasoning.
Howard Wilkin: “The Strait Reelection Committee claimed nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of new golf balls were donated to the Wounded Warrior Project, but they have no records of such a donation.”
Dalton: “Well, their bad.”
Howard Wilkin: “Mr. Strait, the prosecution has released copies of Strait Reelection Committee credit card statements, with charges paid to various airlines, restaurants, and resorts for dates that you, friends, and family were present.”
Dalton: “As I said, these charges are made up. Fake news. Why not focus on Ammna Safar’s relatives? The DNA evidence? DNA is never fake.”
Another ripple of protest from the reporters.
Politico: “Mr. Strait, why is Natalie not here to help defend herself?”
Dalton: “What was the question?”
Politico: “Why isn’t Natalie here?”
I looked at the back of Dalton’s nodding head, hoping he wouldn’t look back at me or Terrell. Which he did. I saw the confusion on his face, gradually replaced by a cool, focused calm before he turned back to the crowd.
Dalton: “She’s been missing for nine days. Foul play has not been ruled out. I had been advised by the police to keep this a secret but I honestly think you should know. Maybe you can help me find her.”
The reporters blitzed forward behind their mics and cameras, and their voices rose as if a volume knob had suddenly been cranked. A hundred flashes, a thousand blinking indicators. Facing the storm, Dalton raised his arms wide and waved his hands for order.
CBS: “Where was she last —”
Politico: “When did you last —”
ABC: “What is the evidence of —”
Dalton: “Two Tuesdays ago she didn’t report to work at the dealership. They found her car out in Pala, where someone said he saw her with two men, being transferred from her car to another. No word from her. No ransom demand. My boys and I don’t know what to do. We can’t help but think something bad has happened. We’re being eaten alive by worry. Please, all of you, look for her. She gets carried away sometimes.”
ABC: “What do you mean by ‘carried away’?”
Dalton: “It’s just a saying.”
Politico: “Hasn’t she gone missing before, Mr. Strait? Approximately a year and a half ago? Before surfacing in Las Vegas?”
Dalton: “Affirmative. She suffered a psychotic break with reality. A mental glitch. Nats has been on medication since then, though sometimes she forgets or neglects to take it.”
Terrell groaned softly.
NBC: “What’s her diagnosis?”
Fox: “Which medication?”
Dalton: “Bipolar something or other. Not sure of the drug. I should also say that all of the Strait reelection donation books are kept by my wife, Natalie, as well as access to the checking account and campaign committee credit card. All campaign donations come through her and any expenditures are either made by or approved by her.”
Howard Wilkin: “Are you saying your wife made these questionable purchases without your knowing?”
Dalton: “Very possibly. I can’t speak for her. That’s something we’ll have to get to the bottom of when Natalie is safely returned. The most important thing is that she comes home and we win this election. Baby? Natalie? If you’re watching this, only God knows how much I love you and miss you. And the boys, too.”
Terrell turned an astonished face to me, and mine might have looked the same to him.
The noise of the twenty reporters and videographers rose even louder, a layered chorus aimed at Dalton. Dalton turned around again, smiling faintly, then back to the media.
ABC: “What is the evidence of foul play?”
Politico: “What is your relationship to Sacramento lobbyists McKenzie Doyle of Asclepia Pharmaceutical and Heath Overdale of Kimmel, Overdale and Schmitz?”
“Absolutely none of your business!” Dalton yelled out. “Don’t throw me under the bus until all the facts are known. Talk to the San Diego sheriffs. Or here, talk to this guy—Roland Ford. He’s the PI I’ve hired!”
Dalton pivoted on his good leg and swung back inside, artificial foot banging hard on the wooden porch.
Questions frayed behind me as I took Terrell by the arm, guided him inside and slammed the door.
“How’d I do?” Dalton blurted out, headed for the kitchen. Terrell pounded upstairs without a word and I followed Dalton. From a bottle in the freezer he poured a generous vodka into a coffee mug, downed it and poured another. Then led the way back into his living room.
“You just blamed your wife for twenty-two counts of fraud, misuse of funds, and conspiracy,” I said.
“I didn’t mean to, exactly. But it’ll help them find her, right? It’ll get the suspicion off of me so I can win this damned reelection, right?”
Terrell flew into the kitchen, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and headed—I guessed—for the garage. “Fuck you, Dad,” he called back.
I heard a car door slam, a vehicle start, and the rolling thunder of an old garage door motoring up. Then the shouted questions and shouted answers from Terrell, followed by a screeching of tires and shrieks of alarm.
Dalton stared at the kitchen, from which his son’s curse seemed to echo.
“Did I screw up, Roland?”
“Did HerediLink really get a sample of Ammna Safar’s DNA?” I asked. “Or is that some fake news of your own?”
His boy smile. “One of my people went through her trash can at the curb early one morning. Tissues of God knows what, and wads of used dental floss. Red, the cinnamon flavored. Scout’s honor.”
Dalton set his mug on the coffee table, lowered heavily into the couch
and rubbed his bad knee. I stood by the fireplace, looking at him while I considered walking off the job. In order to escape a devious child in a hero’s costume betraying his wife and the public trust. While sucking down its money. More important, I wasn’t sure he much missed his wife beyond her value in helping him win an election. Which in his mind might include her taking the brunt of blame for their shared foolishness and criminal dishonesty. I could see him making photo ops out of visiting her in prison.
“Dalton, you’re disgusting.”
“Oh, sit down.”
“I’m good right here.”
“Lee and me see eye to eye,” he said. “But it’s rough times for me and Terrell. He’s a mama’s boy, that’s for sure. I suppose he gave you his movie?”
I nodded.
“It’s really good. He adores his mother.”
“Do you?”
“Sure I do,” he said, rubbing his knee again and not looking at me. “What’s that supposed to mean? Everybody does.”
* * *
On my way home, Harris Broadman called.
“I had no real idea how much mischief Dalton has gotten himself into,” he said. “But I watched his press conference on his Facebook. Is there anything I can do?”
I thought it was strange that Dalton’s recent calamities were enough to draw his old war buddy out of sixteen years of silence. But then, I can sometimes be a hard and unseeing man. I reconsidered Broadman in light of the press conference, imagining how it would affect him. I imagined that these last sixteen years could have been as hard on Broadman as on his failed rescuer—not as a man burned by fire but as a man burning with a resentment he wouldn’t admit. And couldn’t put out. Maybe Broadman needed to forgive Dalton for what he had failed to accomplish in Fallujah the day their Humvee hit the bomb. Every bit as much as Dalton needed that forgiveness.
“You two should talk,” I said.
“Yes, I believe we should.”
TWENTY-ONE
That night I drove to the Tourmaline Resort Casino to see Strait Reelection Committee volunteer Brock Weld, who had pricked enough worry in Natalie for her to tell her sister about him. His alibi for missing work on the day Natalie disappeared had left some of the other committee workers, and Burt, unconvinced.
Then She Vanished Page 12