by Jan Burke
When we reached his car, he said, “About this story we’re working on now — what would you like me to do next?”
“What would I…? You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It’s still yours.”
I didn’t answer right away. I had a feeling my answer wouldn’t just determine what happened on this one story. I could have some really fine payback out of this, make him miserable, and test his sincerity about working together. Or I could let him know what I had meant to tell him all along, if we had managed to get off to a better start.
“I want to work together,” I said, “but not as equals.”
“As I said, you’re the boss.”
“No. I mean, work together, but you help me to do this right. I covered crime in Bakersfield, but never a murder — just small-time police blotter stuff. Auto thefts and burglaries. Things like that. Never a high-profile case. And I’ve only been on the job for two years, and you’ve been on it for…”
“I’ve worked for the Express for forty-two years.”
“Forty-two! You aren’t that old!”
He smiled. “I started at eight, as a paperboy.” He glanced down at the box, then gazed out at something beyond the windshield. I looked, but there was no view to speak of, just an empty side street and the cinder-block wall of a suburban housing tract, edging up to the fields that would soon become a shopping mall. I watched his face, saw him wince as if some ache troubled him. He turned toward me again and said, “I was a copyboy after that. I didn’t sell a story until I was fourteen.”
“Gee, so you’ve only been a reporter for a lousy thirty-six years … I’ve been one for two. So for the good of the story, I think we’d be better off if you called the shots.”
“Wrigley wouldn’t hear of it.”
“That’s right, he won’t.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Don’t be afraid to give this a try. I promise I’ll speak my mind if I think you’ve missed something or gone in a wrong direction.”
I glanced at my watch. “We haven’t got time to argue.”
“As a first decision, that’s a good one.”
Have it your way, I thought. “Tell me what’s in the box.”
“Notes and a few photos I took years ago. Nothing that will need to go into the story today, but I’ll go over them with you after we get this first one in.”
“All right. When you get to the paper, talk to Lydia Ames.”
“The food editor?” he asked, raising his brows.
“You know exactly who she is, because you’ve been pumping her for information about me. Wrigley’s wasting her talent in features, but never mind that now. She’s been looking up the history of the ownership of the mall property — the farm. Is the name Griffin Baer familiar to you?”
“No… I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe she’ll find out that the owner in 1958 was someone else. You’re more likely than I am to recognize that name.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“The back story on the disappearance of the Ducanes. Can you write about that?”
“Sure.”
He got out of the car, taking his box with him. He closed the door, then leaned his big frame down and spoke through the open window. “Maybe it would be better if I went to the coroner’s office, Irene. It’s not… pleasant.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid of the dead.”
“You should be. They sometimes cause more trouble than the living,” he said, and walked away.
29
I WAS LOCKING UP THE KARMANN GHIA IN THE CORONER’S OFFICE PARKING lot when my attention was drawn to a long black car. One of the tinted back windows was rolled down a few inches. At first glance, I thought it was a hearse, but hearses don’t pull up to the front parking lot of a coroner’s office, and in general, the occupant of the back half of a hearse doesn’t need fresh air. As I looked closer, I saw that it was a limo. One big enough to spit in the eye of the energy crisis, sitting there with its engine running.
A big, well-dressed man I guessed to be in his late thirties or early forties came out of the coroner’s office and headed for the limo. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his muscular build stretched the fabric of his suit. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. He had dark hair except for a white streak near his forehead — not so prominent that he couldn’t have hidden it, but he had apparently parted his hair in such a way as to make sure that it showed.
The tinted window slid down, and a silver-haired man looked out, and they exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear. The tinted window rolled up, and the big man went around to the other side of the car and stepped in. As it drove off, I caught a glimpse of its blue and gold vanity plates: YEAGER.
It dawned on me that the old man must be Kyle’s adoptive father: Mitch Yeager.
I walked into the coroner’s office with a dozen new questions in mind.
The dragon at the front desk did not believe that the Express would hire a woman reporter, even after I produced my press credentials. If Lefebvre hadn’t walked into the building around that time, she might have sold me to a circus before I had a chance to talk to the coroner.
He took in the situation at once and said, “It’s all right. Ms. Kelly can come back with me.”
Something in his voice or demeanor subdued her. Still, she made him wait until she had pinned a visitor’s badge on me.
“Thanks, Phil,” I said to him when we were on the other side of a door leading into a wide hallway.
“She’s a pain in the ass. But she’s a favorite with the coroner, Dr. Woolsey. And I should warn you — unlike most people in his profession, he has absolutely no sense of humor.”
I noticed Lefebvre was carrying a big envelope. “The case file on the Ducanes?” I asked.
“No, just their dental X rays. We’ve had them since just after they disappeared.”
“You found that old file pretty fast.”
He smiled. “I knew where to look.”
I made an educated guess. “Norton had it at home.”
He gave a soft laugh. “And how would you know something like that?”
“In Bakersfield, I got to know a few of the guys on the PD. I heard stories of things like this happening — not just there, but in lots of departments. A detective gets haunted by a case, latches on to it in a personal way. He takes things home. Sometimes, the files end up in an attic or a storage locker.”
“Yes. If we’re lucky, we get the files back before his widow throws them out. You dated someone in that department?”
“No,” I said, surprised into answering. I started to say more, thought better of it, and kept my mouth shut. A simple “no” was the truth, after all.
Lefebvre didn’t comment. I didn’t fool myself into thinking he hadn’t read something in my body language or on my face.
“About the file,” I said, trying to steer the conversation to safer topics. “This case bothered Norton?”
“Oh yes. Just like it bothered O’Connor. Norton said O’Connor and Corrigan never let up on him about this one. Luckily for me, the stories about Max Ducane — the recent ones — had spurred Dan’s interest, and he had already pulled the old file out again.”
Matt Arden stepped into the hallway. He didn’t hide his surprise when he saw us together, but came forward. “You have the X rays?” he asked Lefebvre.
“Yes.”
Matt held a hand out, but Lefebvre didn’t give the envelope to him.
“Ms. Kelly would like to speak with Dr. Woolsey,” Lefebvre told him.
“I’m sure she would,” Arden said irritably. “But he’s busy checking up on the guy doing the X rays on the remains.”
“Really, Detective Arden?” I said. “I thought he was busy talking to Mr. Yeager.”
I had the satisfaction of seeing that I had now surprised Matt Arden twice in less than five minutes.
Lefebvre frowned. “Mitch Yeager is here?”
�
��No, just one of his nephews,” Arden said. “Was. He left a few minutes ago. The younger one.”
“Ian,” Lefebvre said.
“You two know his kids by name?” I asked.
Lefebvre hesitated, then said, “Neither of them has criminal records, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not what I’m asking—”
“Well, that’s all I’m telling.”
“Whatever,” Arden said impatiently. “But how Miss Kelly knows he was here—”
“Mitch Yeager was here, too,” I said. “I saw him out front. He waited in his limo while his nephew came in.”
“What were they doing here?” Lefebvre asked.
“You think Woolsey told me?” Arden snapped. “You know what he’s like.”
Lefebvre’s gaze became distant, as if he was puzzling out a problem.
“I don’t like it, either,” said Arden. “But I can’t keep the coroner from meeting with a citizen.”
“If the child’s remains you found in that blanket are those of Max Ducane,” I asked, “the supposedly kidnapped baby, I mean — does that change what happens to Kyle Yeager?”
“That will depend on the terms of the trust,” Lefebvre said.
A door opened and a gray-haired man wearing a dark blue suit stepped into the hallway.
Lefebvre turned toward him. “Dr. Woolsey, let me introduce you to—”
“Yes, Irene Kelly,” he said abruptly. “My receptionist tracked me down to say you were bringing a reporter back here.”
“I suspect she said he was bringing a woman reporter back here,” I said, extending a hand.
Despite Lefebvre’s warning about his sense of humor, he smiled and shook my hand. “Yes, but she didn’t mention that he’d be bringing such a pretty one. What can I do for you, Miss Kelly?”
I inwardly cringed, but I’m fairly sure I kept my reaction to the comment on my looks to myself. I smiled back at him and said, “I’m hoping to learn whatever I can about the remains that were found in the car today. I was there when they were found, so—”
“Ahh. What a relief. I’m pleased to know Detective Lefebvre hasn’t lost all sense of what we ought to be revealing to the press.”
“Without Ms. Kelly’s help, we wouldn’t have suspected that these might be the Ducanes,” Lefebvre said.
“Detective Lefebvre hasn’t discussed anything I didn’t see for myself,” I said quickly. “I’m hoping you can tell me more.”
Woolsey smiled at me again. “We’re in the early stages of our proceedings, I’m afraid. I really have nothing definite to say about the three individuals at this point.”
“You’re sure there are three?”
“Oh yes — well, that much I can say. An adult female, an adult male, and an infant. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with the detectives—”
“Just one other question,” I said. “What is the interest of the Yeager family in this matter?”
He shot an angry look at Matt Arden, who said, “Don’t blame me. She saw Mitch Yeager outside.”
Woolsey glanced uneasily at Lefebvre, then studied me for a moment before saying, “I suppose I should simply ask you to talk to Mr. Yeager himself. His visit was out of concern for his adopted son, Kyle. But I was unable to give the Yeager family any more information than I’ve given you.”
I thought about the lack of rapport between Woolsey and O’Connor, whose nickname for the coroner was Old Sheep Dip, and decided this was not the time to play hardball. One of us needed to be able to talk to him. “When will more information be available?”
“I have the Ducanes’ dental records for you,” Lefebvre said.
“In that case…” Woolsey took out a card and handed it to me. “Call my office in three hours.”
“It will take three hours to compare the X rays?”
“If the remains are those of the Ducanes, we will need time to notify the families. Now, if Detective Lefebvre will hand me those X rays, he can escort you back out of the building. And I’ll speak to you later, Miss Kelly.”
Lefebvre didn’t argue. The moment we were outside, I said, “I don’t trust him.”
“Woolsey?”
“Yes. He lied about the Yeagers.”
“What makes you think so?”
“At the press conference, your lieutenant never mentioned how many bodies were found, or whether they were those of children or adults. So how did the Yeagers know about a child’s remains being found?”
“I’ve been wondering about that myself.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get back to the paper.” I took out one of my business cards and handed it to him. “I should have done this earlier. If there’s anything you can let me know…”
“Sure.” He handed me one of his own cards. “And vice versa, all right?”
“Fair is fair,” I agreed.
He started to walk away, then turned back. “Irene…”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
30
WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE PAPER, THE NEWSROOM HAD DEVELOPED ITS usual late-afternoon haze of cigarette smoke. The place was full of noise. In addition to the usual clamor of ringing phones, the snatches of heated conversations, the chatter of the Teletypes, and the shunk-shunk-shunk of electric typewriters, I could hear — and feel — the rumble of the presses. They were in the basement, but they could be heard throughout the building when they ran, beginning as a low hum and increasing to a muffled roar as their speed increased. This was also the hour when bottles started coming out of desk drawers.
O’Connor beckoned me toward his desk — one of the messiest in the newsroom. “Your friend left to interview someone about the farm property. She’s supposed to be back here any minute.” He pointed to a stack of folders filled with clippings and photos. “I’ve just come back from the morgue,” he said, referring to the archives of the Express. “This is what I found on a quick search, enough to give us a start today.”
He seemed depressed. I thought it might be the clippings themselves, since he knew the victims. That brought another thought in its wake. “Did you call Helen?” I asked.
His look of surprise was a good one — for a fake. “Helen? Why?”
“Because Lillian Linworth might need a friend over at her place this afternoon when the coroner calls.”
“Yes,” he said. “I called her. But I didn’t give her any details—”
“I didn’t think you would. And it must have been hard to keep your promise to Lefebvre.”
“It was,” he admitted.
I filled him in on what had happened at the coroner’s office. “Something weird is going on there. Yeager wouldn’t be asking about something that might affect his adopted son unless he had word that a child’s bones had been found. Even then, why would he assume the adult bodies were those of the Ducanes? I thought everyone but you believed they were lost at sea.”
O’Connor stared at me a moment.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing…” he said, then smiled. “I’m only thinking that you’ve asked an excellent question about Yeager. What are your guesses about who leaked the information to him?”
“The only people who could have said anything about the child’s body are the two of us, Phil Lefebvre, Matt Arden, or someone in the coroner’s office.”
“Perhaps a member of the construction crew…”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But that’s not what my gut tells me. Not the crew, certainly not us, and not Lefebvre. And I don’t think it was Arden, either. Not unless he’s a damned fine actor.”
“Homicide detectives often are, I’ve found. It helps them in their line of work. But you’re probably right. Woolsey would be my first bet.” He reached for one of two big Rolodexes that sat on his desk near his manual typewriter — one of the few remaining manuals in the room — and turned the dial on its side until it stopped at the T’s. He thumbed through that section — I noticed that many of th
e cards had no names on them, only initials or notations in what was apparently some kind of code. He pulled one of these no-name cards free. The only thing on it was a lower-case “t” and a number. “I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, picking up his phone.
While he was making the call, I saw Lydia enter the newsroom. Her movements were tentative and seemed to become even more hesitant after she looked toward my desk and didn’t see me there. She was blushing like a teenaged girl who had just been pushed into an overcrowded boys’ locker room. I realized that she felt as if she were trespassing.
Right at that moment, more than any time before it, I was sure that I was right where I belonged.
O’Connor had hung up and was watching her, too. He waved her over. She regained her composure by the time she reached his desk.
“What did you find out about the property?” I asked her.
She pulled out her notes. “As you know, the farm was sold to the developers by the heirs of Griffin Baer. Baer died five years ago, at the age of seventy- seven.”
“He was the last one to live there?”
“Well, yes, but he hadn’t lived there since 1926. From what I could learn from one of the heirs, Baer had a house down near the shore, and most of the fighting in the family was over that property, not the farm. According to this grandson, Baer used to do nothing but work on the farm, then he sold some mineral rights for a fantastic sum and used the money to build his dream home down by the ocean. He always paid someone else to do the farming after that.”
“And the person who cared for the farmland didn’t live on it as a tenant?” I asked.
“The grandson said there was a house out there until sometime in the 1960s, but it wasn’t really occupied — most of the time, Baer used it as a place to drink with his friends.”
“What happened in the 1960s?”
“He said that after his grandmother died — about fifteen years ago — his grandfather didn’t feel the need to escape to the house so often, and tore the old place down.”
“So when was it sold to the current owners?”