Bloodlines ik-9

by Jan Burke

  “Adults are harder to manage.”

  “Okay. But the fact is, no ransom note was ever delivered.”

  “Maybe Gus bungled the kidnapping and the child died,” O’Connor said. “In truth, we just don’t know what happened to that little boy.”

  “No, but Warren Ducane thought young Kyle Yeager — now Max — was that child, so that’s still a possibility. And if that’s true, we keep coming back to the same name again and again, and it’s the man you’ve suspected. Mitch Yeager could be the person who orchestrated all of this.”

  O’Connor sighed. “Doubtless this has occurred to Lefebvre as well. But so far, there isn’t a thing anyone can do to prove that.”

  “My guess is that the Baer farm was kind of a hideout for this gang, and had been for years.”

  “Prohibition was long over by 1958,” O’Connor said.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean smuggling was over. Or that criminals didn’t have a use for an out-of-the-way place.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Think about it — Gus has come back from killing Rose Hannon and handing the child off to someone. Bo Jergenson arrives and says he’s left a reporter at a hideout, where a double homicide was about to be covered up. Gus must have been rattled; he leaves a knife and his bloody clothes at his house. Of course, he thought he’d be able to go back to get them. He had a busy, busy night. He killed Bo, and maybe one or both of the other two, and then took off for the mountains. Or … maybe the other two are buried near the cabin, too.”

  “Betty Bradford and Lew Hacker haven’t been seen or heard from in twenty years,” O’Connor said. “It’s not likely they’re alive. We would have heard from them after Lily and the new Max Ducane offered that reward.”

  “I’m not so sure they’re dead.”

  “Why, because of that phone call you got the other day?”

  I shrugged. “A hunch. Maybe not a good one. I don’t know. Anyway, that night, or soon thereafter, Gus is dead. The only people left on the master-mind’s team are the murderer from the Sea Dreamer and the one who killed Katy and Todd in the Buick.”

  “I can think of two people who are loyal to Mitch and wouldn’t have minded doing a night’s work like this,” O’Connor said.

  “Eric and Ian? How old were they?”

  “In their twenties.”

  I thought about Eric holding Kyle over the railing. “I wonder if Ian and Eric know how to scuba dive.”

  Barbara and Kenny never came by the paper.

  I had Tuesday off and spent most of it taking my dad in for chemo and catching up on household chores and errands.

  O’Connor called me at nine o’clock that evening to tell me that when he came home, my sister and Kenny were sitting close to each other on his living room couch. O’Connor wasn’t happy about finding them together, and neither was I, but we agreed there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.

  When I told my father about it, he asked me if I had so few worries, I needed to borrow some from Barbara.

  No. I had plenty of worries of my own.

  I worried that my time with him was too short to waste with anything other than staying at his side. Nothing worried me more.

  I worried that Mary would feel that I had trespassed on her kindness too often.

  I worried that I’d never figure out what really happened that weekend in 1958, and more people would be harmed.

  I worried that if I didn’t find something solid to back up all my great theories, I’d be covering a PTA fund-raiser by the middle of next week.

  I worried that O’Connor and the other men in the newsroom were just humoring me.

  I worried that someone really was following me all those times I felt watched, and I worried that no one was following me and I was losing my mind.

  I worried that I liked Frank Harriman, the cop in Bakersfield, more than was healthy, because at the end of each day, no matter what else had occupied my mind, I found I had an urge to make a long-distance call to him, to ask if he was seeing anyone, to ask who was meeting him for coffee at the end of the shift these days, and — just to talk, to see if talking to him and listening to him still made me feel comfortable, at ease, in a way no one else seemed to make me feel at ease.

  I didn’t make the call.

  43

  MY MYSTERY WOMAN CALLED EARLY ON WEDNESDAY MORNING. “The boss had a cabin up near Arrowhead,” she said, and gave an address. “Maybe they took the baby up there. I don’t know.”

  “Who was the boss?”

  She ignored the question. “The cabin was in Gus’s name. Gus Ronden.”

  I took a chance. “Betty, where’s Lew?”

  There was a long pause, then she whispered, “Luis died in Mexico.”

  She hung up.

  She had spoken those last few words with grief in her voice — and pronounced his name in a way that suggested she might speak Spanish.

  Lew Hacker had meant something to her. Luis. I wondered if “Hacker” was also an anglicized version of a Hispanic name. It wasn’t surprising that Luis might have found it easier to be Lew in the 1950s. Mexico. Had the two of them made an escape there?

  I looked through everything that had been published about Gus Ronden. Nothing mentioned the exact address of the cabin, or even the road it was on. O’Connor had the address in his notes, from when he had gone to look up property records all those years ago. But it had never been in the paper. Whatever doubts I had that the mystery woman was Betty Bradford vanished.

  I was making calls to find out if Ian Yeager was scuba-certified, when O’Connor told me Lefebvre was on the other line, asking for me. I took the call.

  “I’m in your friend O’Malley’s office on the construction site. You might want to come out to the farm,” Lefebvre told me. “Bring O’Connor if you’d like.”

  I told him we’d be there right away.

  Before we could leave, Max called. O’Connor rolled his eyes when I motioned for privacy, but he stepped away.

  “Want to explore the inside of Griffin Baer’s former home?” Max asked.

  “You know I do. But it was sold this past weekend.”

  “I know. I bought it.”

  “You — what?”

  “I wanted to tell you earlier, but thought I had better wait until it was official.”

  “Wow… I thought… did you decide against living in Katy’s house?”

  “You said it — Katy’s house. I don’t think Lily would be happy if I changed anything in it, and I don’t think I’d be happy if I kept it as a museum.”

  “I can understand that. I drove by the Baer place the other day and saw it from the outside.”

  “Come by and see more of it. Bring a flashlight — the power won’t be on until Friday.”

  “Can you give me a couple of hours? I was just heading out.”

  “No problem. I’ll go on over and open some windows to air the place out. It’s a beautiful house. And the view — well, wait until you see it.”

  I hung up and stood there in a daze. O’Connor came back over and said, “Much as I hate to disturb your daydreams about your rich Romeo, we are keeping Lefebvre waiting.”

  “I doubt he’ll wait for us. Listen, I’m going to drive separately. I’m meeting Max later.”

  I saw a look come into his eyes, and his lips tighten across the front of his teeth. His hand clenched, then opened. But he didn’t say a word.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Biting your tongue.”

  He laughed and said, “I’ll meet you there.”

  Lefebvre and Matt Arden had caused most of the work on the mall to come to a complete halt. O’Malley wasn’t happy about the huge costs involved, but his employers didn’t blame him, so he didn’t blame me. He admitted to me that he had enjoyed helping Lefebvre with the investigation. Currently, that included lending the use of the backhoe and operator to the proceedings, which were taking place about two hundred yards away from the place
where the car had been.

  Lefebvre had found some building plans filed on the farm in the late 1940s, plans that showed where various structures had stood. By the time we arrived there, Lefebvre, those who were helping him from the department crime lab, and O’Malley’s crew had worked together to uncover a strange metal contraption. They had set it aside and continued digging. O’Connor identified the object to me as a still.

  “So he was making booze as well as shipping it?” I asked.

  “It may have been the way he got connected with the bootleggers in the first place,” O’Connor said.

  They were working slowly and cautiously now, and we weren’t allowed to get too close. I learned from O’Malley that a few minutes before Lefebvre called us, they came across a hidden room similar to the one described to me by Griffin Baer’s barber.

  While we waited, I told O’Connor about the call from Betty Bradford. “So at least she’s alive.”

  He was interested in this, but before much more time had passed, he gave in to an urge to lecture me on reporting rather than creating news, especially where Max was concerned. If I didn’t believe, somewhere deep down, that I needed to watch my step, I suppose it would have bothered me more.

  When other media arrived, O’Connor broke off a story about Corrigan to swear. I considered this further progress in our working relationship.

  Lefebvre reached us before the other reporters did. He said there didn’t seem to be anything in the room other than signs that some booze had been stored there during Prohibition.

  “Irene has some theories about the night of the murders, you know,” O’Connor said.

  “Tell them to me later today?” Lefebvre asked.

  “Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “I have an appointment right now, though.”

  “I’ll stay here,” O’Connor said, “and get what I can before deadline. See you in…” He broke off again, this time as we heard brakes squeal. A black Datsun 280Z pulled up, double-parking next to my Ghia, blocking me in.

  “Hey!” I said in protest.

  A bearded man with long dark hair tied in a ponytail emerged from the car. Although we had never been formally introduced, I recognized him immediately as one of the staff of the Express. He was dressed in blue Adidas, torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and an Army jacket, and within moments was carrying two cameras and a backpack full of film and accessories.

  “Stephen Gerard,” O’Connor said to Lefebvre. “Word must have come into the Express, too — Wrigley has sent one of our best photographers.”

  “One of our best head cases,” I said. “He makes Wildman look tame.”

  “You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear, Kelly.”

  I shook my head. “Lydia was trying to interview the author of a vegetarian cookbook. Gerard came in to shoot photos — eating a hot dog.”

  O’Connor and Lefebvre started laughing.

  “He did it on purpose!” I said.

  “I have no doubt of that.”

  “Is he some sort of pet of yours?”

  “He’s paid his dues,” O’Connor said. “And most of them in Vietnam — he’s a veteran, you know.”

  “So is Lefebvre.”

  O’Connor looked at me in amazement. It was clear to me that he had no trouble believing Lefebvre was a vet, but was miffed that I knew about it and he didn’t.

  “Air Force,” I added, just to rub it in.

  Lefebvre smiled, but said nothing. Gerard reached us, and O’Connor introduced him all around. Gerard held on to his cameras as if using them as a protection against having to shake hands with anyone.

  “Nice to meet you, but you’re blocking my car,” I said.

  “I know. I recognized it. That’s why I parked there.”

  “How could you be sure it was my car?”

  He shrugged. “Observation, mostly. I’ve seen you drive into the lot at the paper in a red ragtop Karmann Ghia. A similar car is now parked where you are supposed to be covering a story. When I got closer, I saw that it has a white license plate frame with black lettering that says ‘Las Piernas Auto Haus.’” He paused for about half a second before reciting my plate number, then added, “There’s a place near the right rear taillight where you didn’t get all the Turtle Wax off the last time you washed the car.”

  I was seriously creeped out by this, but all I could manage to say was, “I don’t use Turtle Wax.”

  He shrugged again. “All right. Whatever it was, you didn’t get all of it off.”

  O’Connor grinned, and Lefebvre suddenly took an interest in the toe of one of his shoes.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

  “You didn’t. Look, I’m in a hurry.” I said good-bye to O’Connor and Lefebvre, and walked off. Gerard followed me.

  We didn’t talk on the way to the cars. A couple of other photographers called out to him as we passed them, and he waved but didn’t stop to talk to them.

  Before he got into his car, he stopped to take some quick photos. I glanced in the direction he had aimed the camera, but didn’t see anything unusual.

  “Do you mind?” I said impatiently. “You can take photos of traffic after I leave.”

  “The car I wanted to photograph won’t be here then.”

  “My Ghia? You are starting to freak me out, Gerard.”

  “I freak you out? And the guy who’s been following you doesn’t?”

  I felt the color drain from my face. “What guy?”

  “I don’t know. Drives a black Beemer. I’ve seen it near the paper, but only when you’re there. And he was just here. I don’t know anyone on staff who can afford a BMW.”

  A black BMW. Max? I wondered. “What does the driver look like?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to get a look at him. For that matter, I’m not even sure it’s a him and not a her.”

  “You know where I missed a spot of car wax,” I said, bending to clean the offending dried paste off the taillight, “but you never saw the driver?”

  “You didn’t even see the car, so don’t give me grief about not seeing the driver.”

  I had to admit the justice of this. “New black BMW without plates?”

  He closed his eyes. “No, there were plates. Don’t know how new it is. Shiny, well-cared-for car.” He opened his eyes again. “I’ll see if I can get a plate from the photos I’ve just taken.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And sorry for snapping at you.”

  In a gesture I was starting to anticipate from him, he shrugged that off. He got into his car without saying anything more.

  He took my great parking spot when I drove away.

  I nearly wrecked the Karmann Ghia twice after that, a result of looking in the rearview mirror too often. No black BMWs. I was feeling a little shaky. I told myself it was the near misses, then called myself a liar. I tried to figure out why anyone would want to follow me around, and couldn’t come up with any clear answers.

  I didn’t know if Max had his plates yet. After a moment, I realized that it didn’t matter.

  If Max wasn’t the one following me, I was upset.

  If Max was sneaking around, shadowing me, I was upset. Maybe not quite as much, but still, it was weird.

  I’d have to confront him. Then I thought about how awful it would be if he wasn’t the one following me. How could I even hint at such a thing to him without sounding really paranoid — or as if I thought he was some kind of creepy freak? I started rehearsing how I’d talk to him about it.

  Closer to the beach, an afternoon wind was coming up, causing the roof of the convertible to flap noisily. It added to my sense of unease.

  At a traffic light, I felt that sensation of being watched again. No black cars behind me. I glanced to the side to see a woman quickly face forward after staring at me in an amused way. I then realized that I had been rehearsing aloud.

  Maybe I’d just wait until Stephen Gerard’s photos were developed.

 
; I was almost to the house when I remembered that it had been a while since I had used my flashlight. I pulled into a convenience market parking lot, took the flashlight from the glove compartment, and tested it — sure enough, it gave only a dim glow. I bought batteries, and after checking to see if any black cars were following me, I was on my way again.

  I turned down the alley that ran behind the Griffin Baer mansion, wondering if I would be able to park in front of the garage door again, or if Max’s BMW would be in that space. The BMW was not in sight, so I pulled as close to the doors as possible to allow any traffic in the alley to get past me. It occurred to me that I could check the plates on Max’s car, to see if they matched whatever plates might show up in Gerard’s photos. The garage was unlocked now, but I was so close to it, I ran the chance of scratching the Ghia if I opened the doors. I thought of moving my car, but decided I’d wait until I was leaving and take a look then.

  The gate to the backyard was latched but no longer locked, so I went in that way and walked toward the house, carrying my flashlight. Several windows were open, and I smiled thinking of Max running around opening the place up, trying to get the mustiness out of the house. The wind would help — if it didn’t cover everything inside with a fine layer of sand.

  A note on the back door said, “Bell broken. Come in.”

  A man of few words.

  I turned, entered the house, and found myself in a huge kitchen. There was enough light coming in through the windows to allow me to save my new batteries. The appliances, to my disappointment, were not what they had been in the 1920s and 1930s. Even a big white oven and a curvy refrigerator from the 1940s would have been okay with me, but they were boxy and blah and appeared to have been installed in the late 1960s. An avocado green electric stove. A harvest gold refrigerator. A glass-topped wrought-iron table. Lots of white tile interspersed with a line or two in the avocado color.

  “Max?” I called. I heard my voice resonate in that not-quite-an-echo way sound travels through the emptiness of a big house.

  I heard the wind whistle through the little gaps and crevices only the wind can find in a house. No other reply.

  I walked over to one of the kitchen doors and opened it. An empty pantry. A second one opened on to a laundry room. Harvest gold washer and dryer. I was glad Max had enough money to replace appliances.