Bloodlines ik-9

by Jan Burke

  I crossed the kitchen and pushed on a swinging door that led to a dining area. Sun-faded orange carpet here, with dents showing that a heavy table had taken up most of the room. Max had his work cut out for him.

  “Max?” I called again, a little louder.

  I walked out of the dining room into a large open space and fell in love.

  Wooden floors, alcoves and arches, built-in cabinetry and bookcases, a huge stone fireplace, an old chandelier. The room was spacious and bright, with high ceilings and large double-paned windows that looked out toward the park along the bluffs and the Pacific beyond.

  The room was beautiful, the view was spectacular, but after that first admiring moment, I began to feel uneasy. Perhaps it was because the room was quiet. No sound of the traffic on Shoreline penetrated the windows. No sound of the sea, either. The open windows were all at the back of the house, it seemed. That didn’t make any sense — the coolest air would come from the ocean. Why didn’t Max open some of the windows on this side of the house?

  Why hadn’t Max come downstairs, for that matter? With the windows at the back of the house open, he must have heard the Karmann Ghia coming down the alley — my father always complained that it sounded like the arrival of a Panzer division.

  As if, I chided myself, you are so special, Max is listening for the sound of your car.

  There was a short hallway leading to other rooms on the ground floor, but my eyes were drawn to a staircase with an ornate banister that appeared to be made of mahogany inlaid with a geometric design of brass and mother-of-pearl. I stood at the foot of the stairs and called up. “Max? Are you here?”

  I heard a soft creak above me.

  Upstairs, then.

  At the top of the stairs was the short end of a wide L-shaped hallway. As I turned the corner and stepped into the longer section, I was nearly in darkness. A small amount of light came from one partially opened door at the end of the corridor. That was it. Nine or ten other doors, each of dark wood, flanked the rest of the hallway.

  I turned the flashlight on.

  I heard another creaking sound; it seemed to be coming from the open room at the far end.

  “Max!”

  I yelled his name at the top of my lungs that time. It felt good to shout, because the rest of my body seemed unwilling to move. Stephen Gerard’s confirmation that I was being followed by someone was getting to me. Even as I told myself it was just an empty house, my imagination led me to believe someone or something lurked behind each closed door.

  I had just decided to leave when I heard a soft moan.

  I stood frozen for a brief moment, then hurried down the hallway. What if Max had been hurt?

  I stayed in the middle of the hall and glanced nervously at the closed doors as I passed them, expecting at any moment that someone would jump out from behind them to grab me. I reached the open doorway and looked in.

  I heard myself give a little scream.

  Max lay curled on his side on the floor, bound and gagged. His face and shirt were covered in blood. I quickly knelt beside him. “Max!”

  His eyes fluttered open briefly, then closed again as he moaned — the same moaning sound I had heard moments before. I don’t think he really registered my presence. There was a cut above his brow, but some other wound had caused blood to flow down his neck and back.

  I wasn’t sure what to do first. I glanced around. The room was an empty bedroom. The whole house was vacant — no medical supplies would be in the bathrooms or elsewhere.

  I tried to remember my first-aid lessons.

  Air. Everyone needed air. Worried that the duct tape gag might make it hard for him to breathe, I decided I should remove it. I turned the flashlight off and set it down, not needing it with the light coming in through the windows. Using both hands, one to hold his skin, the other to grasp an end of the tape — and wincing on his behalf — I slowly pulled it away from his skin and off his mouth. That made him moan again, but his eyes didn’t open.

  Bleeding. I should try to stop the bleeding.

  I carefully moved his head onto my lap, grabbed a pack of tissues from my purse, and held one of them to the cut on his brow. I gently searched through his hair for the wound on his head — I found a gash at the back and pressed the rest of the tissues to it. They quickly became soaked, as did my hands, my pants suit, and my blouse. I took off my jacket and tried using it to apply pressure.

  I attempted to free his hands, which were taped behind him at his wrists, but that nearly caused me to drop his head on the floor, so I gave that up.

  Maybe I should just go to a neighbor’s house to get help, I thought. I looked down at my blouse. Would anyone in this snooty neighborhood open the door if they looked through a peephole and saw a blood-covered stranger standing on the front porch? I doubted it, but maybe I could shout to them to call an ambulance.

  As I worried over this decision, the closet door behind me flung open and a man in a ski mask rushed toward me. Before I could do anything other than look up at him in a dumbfounded way, he had covered my mouth and nose with a cloth soaked in something with a sweet medicinal scent. His other hand grabbed the back of my head and pressed me forward into the cloth. I tried clawing at his hands, which were gloved, but the pressure only increased. I quickly grew dizzy and felt slightly ill. The room was spinning wildly — spinning away my ability to think clearly. I felt an odd sensation of floating, even as I struggled in discomfort. Fear stayed with me — a cold, raw terror that wasn’t softened by my confusion. Within seconds, I felt myself hovering on the brink of passing out, tried to use the fear to fight against that. Now I was going to be sick after all, I thought. I became dimly aware of a second pair of gloved hands pulling mine away from the hand that pressed the cloth.

  I did not float into darkness. I plummeted.

  44

  O’CONNOR CAUGHT HIMSELF MUTTERING UNDER HIS BREATH AND STOPPED. Was he turning into such an old man that he couldn’t understand what young people were like when they were in the throes of love? Or lust, at any rate.

  Kelly hadn’t come back to the paper this afternoon after her meeting with Max Ducane. He didn’t mind Max — for all the grief O’Connor gave her about him, he liked the young man. But he had hoped she would take her responsibilities at the paper seriously enough to return in time to contribute something before deadline.

  He had covered for her with H.G. and the others, told them she was pursuing leads and he wasn’t sure if she’d make it back. He said — and this much was true — that she had given him plenty of material for today’s story already. H.G. seemed to buy it, but O’Connor wasn’t confident of being able to keep up the charade more than this once.

  It was a shame. She’d have to be taken off the story. He found he was deeply disappointed. He enjoyed working with her. She sparked something in him, made him work harder.

  He was working hard tonight. He sighed and went back to writing the story of the rooms found today on the farm. It wasn’t much of a story in and of itself, but it made O’Connor feel surer about Mitch Yeager’s involvement. The Yeagers were the biggest bootleggers in Las Piernas, whether they had been convicted of it or not. And if Griffin Baer was involved with bootlegging, chances were good he was involved with Mitch Yeager.

  Lefebvre also told O’Connor — on the condition that he held the information from publication — that they had found some shell casings in the trunk of the Buick, and other evidence (which he wouldn’t talk about at all) that might help them find the killer. He wouldn’t name the caliber, which made O’Connor suspect the caliber itself would give him a lot of information about the gun. Lefebvre had taken an interest in Irene’s theories about that night in1958. Lefebvre had been impressed, which made O’Connor feel a certain pride in her.

  It had lasted until she failed to return to the newsroom.

  O’Connor finally filed the story. He was putting his coat on when Stephen Gerard stopped by his desk.

  “I thought you would have
gone home long ago,” O’Connor said.

  Gerard held out a stack of photos. “Give those to Kelly, would you?”

  “What are they?” O’Connor said, taking them.

  “The plates on that car that has been following her.”

  O’Connor looked up sharply. “What?”

  “The black Beemer. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” O’Connor said slowly. “Yes, I have.”

  “Maybe one of your friends at the DMV can run those for you.”

  “Who said I have friends at the DMV?”

  Gerard shrugged and started to walk off.

  “Wait!” O’Connor called.

  Gerard turned back to him.

  “When did you take these?” O’Connor asked.

  “Today. Out at the construction site.”

  O’Connor let him go, but he sat staring at the photos for a moment, an uneasy feeling coming over him. The phone on his desk rang, startling him. “O’Connor,” he answered.

  “Mr. O’Connor? This is Mary Kelly, Irene’s aunt. We met the other day.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, his worries taking a new direction. “Is Patrick — is Patrick all right?”

  “Patrick? Oh, he’s fine — sleeping at the moment, which is why I thought I’d call now. Forgive me for disturbing you, but I wondered — you see, it’s so unlike Irene not to warn me if she’ll be late, and—”

  “She’s not home?”

  “No — that’s why I’m calling you. What time did she leave the paper?”

  “She went out with Mr. Ducane this afternoon,” O’Connor said. “I haven’t seen her back here since.”

  There was a long silence, then she called him a series of names he was surprised she knew. “I thought you were keeping an eye on her!” she ended.

  “I defy anyone to keep an eye on your grandniece,” he said. “But I’m worried, too. I’ll look for her, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  She thanked him, apologized for losing her temper, and hung up.

  O’Connor quickly looked through his notes and found the address for the house that had once belonged to Griffin Baer. He started to leave, hesitated, then went back to his desk and called Lefebvre.

  45

  MITCH YEAGER STOOD UP FROM THE DINNER TABLE.

  Ian and Eric exchanged a glance, then realized that Uncle Mitch had seen the exchange, and was smiling. It was not a good kind of smile.

  “Eric, Ian, in my study,” Mitch said. To the rest of his family, he said, “You’ll excuse us. We have a little business to discuss.”

  “But, Daddy!” his daughter protested. “You promised you would help me with my homework.”

  Eric felt hope rise.

  Mitch smiled at her. “And I will, sugar, I will. This won’t take long.”

  His brief moment of optimism crushed, Eric followed his uncle into the study, as Ian lagged behind.

  When they had taken seats across from him, Mitch asked, “Tell me all of it, and tell it to me right now.”

  “All of what?” Eric asked.

  Mitch threw a glass paperweight at him. Eric ducked just in time. The paperweight shattered behind him.

  Mitch looked at Ian.

  Within minutes, Ian divulged everything. He started out nervously, then warmed with the enthusiasm he felt for the project. Ian discussed what he believed to be the more brilliant aspects of the plan, including the place where they had hidden their hostages. “So you see, Uncle Mitch, Warren will have to come back.”

  For a full fifteen seconds, Uncle Mitch said nothing, but Eric knew he was unhappy. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he turned red.

  “You fucking imbeciles!” he exploded. “I work all these years to clean up the family name, and you do this? I give up lucrative opportunities, donate to charities I could give a crap about, and spend time with people I like even less. I pay off half a dozen hoods to shut their yaps, and permanently shut the yaps of the ones who aren’t smart enough to be satisfied. I send my kids to good schools. I make sure your own little youthful escapades never lead to an arrest or bad publicity — that wasn’t easy. I take care of you, and what kind of thanks do I get? One fuckup after another, that’s what!”

  He ranted at them, telling them that he would be lucky to be able to save their miserable hides this time, then going on to a familiar speech about their lack of intelligence. All the while, Eric thought of the bag he had packed and concealed in the trunk of his car, of the one-way plane tickets, cash, and other treasures, of the private residence he had bought under another name. He was so pissed off at Ian, he wasn’t sure he’d give him the other ticket.

  He wondered at his own ability to foresee this moment. Maybe he had always been expecting something like this to happen, maybe he had always known in his heart of hearts that Ian wouldn’t be able to stand up to Uncle Mitch. At least Uncle Mitch thought he was too dumb to have a Plan B, which was actually an essential part of said Plan B.

  He suddenly realized that Uncle Mitch had asked him a question.

  “Well?” Mitch said impatiently.

  “No, they didn’t see our faces. We had masks on,” Ian answered for him.

  Okay, Eric decided, Ian could come with him.

  “Did you say anything in front of them?”

  “No, we were absolutely silent,” Eric said.

  “Thank God for that!” Mitch said. “You go back there and make it possible for them to escape, you understand? You will do this immediately, then come back here. Go. Now!”

  When they were outside, Eric insisted on driving. Ian was apologizing profusely, paying no attention to where they were going, until Eric pulled into Ian’s driveway.

  “This is my house,” Ian said. “What are you doing?”

  “Thought I’d give you a chance to pack. You want to buy your underwear in Belize, that’s fine with me.”

  “Belize? What are you talking about?”

  “You can stay here and let Uncle Mitch ride your ass for another twenty years, or you can come with me to the Caribbean. I’ve had it. I’m getting out of here. What you do is up to you, but I’ve got phony passports, and all the other arrangements made if you want to come along with me. Plan B.”

  Ian swallowed hard. He was silent for so long, Eric began to feel certain that he was going to stay behind. He wondered if he’d really have the nerve to go alone.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ian said.

  Eric smiled. “You will not regret this. I promise. Now grab a change of clothes and let’s go — don’t fuck around in there, we’ve got to get out of here before Uncle Mitch figures out what’s going on.”

  “What are we doing for money?”

  “I’ve been putting some in an account down there.” He thought about telling him about the bag in the trunk, but decided that could wait. “Hurry. I’ll tell you the rest on the way to the airport.”

  Eric kept the engine running. Ian was inside for no more than a few moments. When he returned, he had a canvas bag with him. “I brought underwear, a pair of jeans, and three thousand bucks,” he said. “That’s all the money I had in the house.”

  “That’s great, Ian,” he said, and pulled away from the curb.

  They were on the freeway when Ian said, “What about Kyle and the girl?”

  “Not our problem,” Eric said, and moved into the fast lane.

  46

  LEFEBVRE ARRIVED AT THE DARKENED MANSION ON SHORELINE ALMOST at the same moment O’Connor did.

  “Doesn’t look as if anyone is here,” Lefebvre said.

  “You have someone looking for the BMW?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s it registered to?”

  Lefebvre didn’t answer. O’Connor hadn’t really expected him to, but he had learned long ago that unasked questions never get answered, so he had taken the chance.

  Lefebvre took a portable police radio and a large flashlight from his car. O’Connor already had his own flashlight in hand. It was windy here,
and he pulled his jacket closer about him.

  They tried the front door and found it locked. Shining their lights in through the big windows, they saw no sign of Irene or of Max.

  “Maybe they’ve been and gone,” Lefebvre said.

  “Let’s look around back.”

  The side gate was unlocked. They went through it into the backyard.

  “Windows are open,” Lefebvre said, and called out, “Irene! Max! Anyone there?”

  No answer.

  While Lefebvre tried knocking at the back door, O’Connor walked toward the alley.

  “Lefebvre!” he called a moment later.

  The detective turned toward him.

  “Her car’s still here.”

  Lefebvre joined him, shining his flashlight into the car while O’Connor squeezed his large frame between the little import and the garage door. There was no lock on the door and so he unlatched it, trying to peer inside. The wind caught the door, banging it against the Ghia.

  “She’s gonna have your hide for that one,” Lefebvre said.

  “Another item on a long list, I’m afraid.” He pointed his flashlight into the garage and drew a sharp breath. “A black BMW.” He bent to shine the light on the license plate, and sighed. “Not the one we were looking for.”

  Lefebvre’s radio crackled and O’Connor saw him turn away to speak into it. O’Connor didn’t try to listen in — he hurried back toward the house. If she wasn’t still in the house, it was the last place she had been. He had no doubt that she was in trouble. If he knew anything about her at all, it was that she was devoted to her father, and would not have left him.

  He thought of his own sister’s disappearance and momentarily lost himself in remembered helplessness — how like that night this seemed to him. The thought filled him with dread, and he took himself to task — think of Irene, he told himself. Concentrate on the here and now.

  He ran to the back door. He rang the bell, knocked, tried the knob. The door was locked.