Flame Out

by M. P. Cooley

  She picked up a picture of her daughter. I gave her a moment to collect herself and started my real line of questioning. “We need employment records from when Sleep-Tite was a going concern. Anything to prove Vera Batko—”

  “Who?”

  “The dead woman in the barrel. We want to interview every employee who worked with her on her last shift, try to lock down a timeline on her movements both at the factory and when she left, find out if she talked to anyone about her plans. I realize it’s been more than twenty years since your company went out of business—”

  “Since I let Sleep-Tite die. I wanted to burn it to the ground . . .” She paused, as if suddenly realizing what she had said. “Not that I did. I let it die a slow death.”

  “Why not sell?”

  “That business never brought anyone anything but pain—it broke my husband’s heart and was the reason my daughter died. I drove a stake into its heart, finished it off forever.”

  I bit my tongue, wanting to point out that when she did that, she also killed off hundreds of jobs and the hopes of many people employed by Sleep-Tite.

  “Do you know if the employment records were kept?” Hale asked.

  “Did you put them in storage?” I added, “Or can you tell us where they are?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I have them.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, from the last ten years it was a going concern. The accounting department was rigorous and there was always a chance for an audit—Bernie was dirty and the books probably were, too. By the time the statute of limitations passed, it was too much trouble to throw them away.”

  “Where are the files, ma’am?” Hale asked.

  Elda crooked her finger and Hale approached. She patted the seat next to her and Hale sat, balanced on the edge of the delicate furniture.

  “Are you the person who decides whether the FBI will make an effort to find my daughter?” Elda asked.

  “I am,” Hale said.

  “Can you dedicate resources to find them?”

  “We’d have to look at the current caseload—”

  “Yes or no, young man,” she said. “It seems only fair that if I do something for you, you do something for me.”

  Elda was threatening to withhold evidence. I was ready to protest when Hale spoke.

  “I think we can find some manpower to investigate your daughter’s case.”

  Elda took a pillow and propped it behind her back, shifting until she found the perfect spot, relaxing into the couch.

  “The Sleep-Tite records are in my attic,” she said.

  CAITLIN LED US UPSTAIRS. LUISA’S HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION picture hung on the landing; she looked not so much ready to conquer the world as to approach it slowly and hope it didn’t hurt her. It was hard to believe that she would be married to Bernie within a year of the photo’s being taken.

  Caitlin opened a door at the end of the hallway, flipped a switch, and waved us upstairs. The attic consisted of a series of small rooms off a hallway—old servants’ quarters. Caitlin called up to us, telling us that Elda suggested we check in the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth rooms on the right.

  We opened the first door, finding a room filled floor to ceiling with bankers’ boxes. Faced with the wall of cartons, Hale took out his phone. “Now’s the time to avail ourselves of the Bureau’s manpower. As one half of the joint task force, I vote we delegate.”

  “Won’t Elda be concerned that you’re taking people away from the search for her daughter?”

  Hale put his phone away. “Can’t believe I got strong-armed by a little old lady.”

  The containers were carefully labeled by department, the nature of the records, and the year. The boxes appeared to be in pretty good shape, so I made a deal with Hale: try to locate Vera’s employment records, and if we don’t find them in fifteen minutes, we could call in the cavalry. He agreed.

  None of the boxes in the first room dated from the important years, and we ducked into the second. I pulled a box marked “HR March 1983–June 1983.” Threads of spiderwebs pulled away, and a fine layer of dust coated the pile of yellowed papers. I pulled a file at random and paged through it—carefully typewritten sheet, thin and mimeographed, including the employee’s name, Social Security number, birthdate, start date, end date. This place would be a gold mine for an identity thief.

  Hale’s phone rang.

  “Hale Bascom,” he said and walked out to the hallway to talk. He had a lot of business outside this case, and I wondered how he was getting it all done. He came back, hand over the mouthpiece.

  “June, can I borrow some paper?”

  I considered handing him a piece from one of the thousands in these boxes, but pulled out my pad and pencil. Using the wall as a writing surface, he wrote down a time, thanked the person on the other end, and hung up.

  “We got a line on the burned woman,” he said. “Possibly. Louann Bazelon of Taos, New Mexico.”

  The name Bazelon was familiar to me. They weren’t local, so maybe they were from one of my FBI assignments? I’d never been to New Mexico, and I doubted they were from Missouri, but maybe Los Angeles?

  “From the TV show,” Hale said. “Global Adventure. The two brothers, both park rangers, who made a name for themselves saving that idiot CEO who went on a vision quest with only his personal chef as a guide and got himself stuck on top of a mountain. It was high drama, and that CEO made sure they got plenty of attention.”

  I’d seen the TV show several times, and I’d caught the newscasts that covered their daring rescue.

  “They definitely had the whole hero thing down,” I said. “Plus they were pretty hot.”

  “And they had loyal steeds, cute puppies, and they loved their mother.” Hale took a breath. “That last part’s true. They’re pretty wrecked about their momma’s disappearance.”

  “Did they have any idea how she might have ended up here?”

  “No idea. Last time she was seen or heard from she was at home, gardening with her rocks.”

  “Gardening with rocks?”

  “Yeah, it’s high desert up there. No hydrangeas, so if you want something decorative and environmentally sound, you go for rocks and pine trees and cactus.” Hale tore the page out of my pad and returned it to me. “As it happened, the CEO they saved still has a fond spot for them, and he lent them his plane. They should be here in a few hours.”

  I returned to my document search, and found Vera’s HR records without too much effort. She had two stints at the factory—one for fourteen months a few years before she died, and the second for six months right before she went missing. I didn’t find the timesheets, but I did find the payroll records. Double-checking the dates, I was able to pull payroll for every employee who worked at the factory at the same time as Vera. The fifth room held nothing of interest, and the sixth was a jumble. There were pens and pencils, old safety signs and a lost and found box, which contained a jumble of old shirts, three brown shoes, all matching, and a red purse.

  “I’m taking this,” I said, holding up the purse. “It doesn’t match the one described in the missing persons report Dave filed exactly, but I could see where a twelve-year-old might confuse vinyl for leather.”

  “These you definitely want.” Hale held up two of the shoes, boring beige lace-ups that were a practical choice for the factory floor. His finger traced the edge, where a name was written.

  Vera.

  If what Tanya’s mother said was true, Vera walked out of Sleep-Tite the night she died in a red dress and high-heeled boots. No need for practical rubber-soled brown shoes where she was going. But who picked her up for the party at the Medveds’? And did they kill her?

  THE BUZZ HUMMING THROUGH THE HOSPITAL ALMOST drowned out the beeps and hisses of the machines. A low murmur, an awareness of celebrity muted by the attention to the patients.

  “Did you see them?” I heard someone ask as our group passed the nurses’ station. They weren’t talking about Hale and
me. Theo Bazelon had light brown hair and green eyes, and he was tall—almost 6'3''. Nate, the younger of the two, had red hair, but the same green eyes and was short and muscular. Their eyes could be the same color as the burned woman lying in the hospital bed, but it was hard to tell.

  It was odd to feel like you knew someone you’d never met. In preparation for meeting the men I’d read a People magazine article in which Theo talked about his love of popcorn and Nate cuddled with his pixie-cute girlfriend. I’d watched the show: Theo was the wiser of the two, advising caution. Nate would push, faster and faster, forcing Theo to keep up. The combination allowed them to save that CEO and worked to an even greater advantage when they were on Great Adventure. Nate provided the speed, and Theo made sure they didn’t make a mistake.

  With them was a tall African-American man, gray dreadlocks spilling over a fine blue linen shirt. Theo introduced him as the woman’s husband.

  “Can we go in now?” Nate said.

  After donning the paper scrubs and face masks, we went in. Our burn victim had stabilized in the two weeks since her injury, and the smell of rotting flesh was almost gone, a blessing for these young men who might be identifying their mother. Even so, the nurse remained, monitoring the victim’s fluids and checking her vitals. The patient looked even smaller than before, the nutrients in her saline drip no replacement for real food. Pink hard skin obscured her facial features, but her hair had started to sprout, a light red fuzz.

  “She might be Mom,” Theo said softly. “Same . . . size. I think.”

  Nate disagreed. “Red hair. Mom’s hair is kind of dishwater blond. Like Theo’s.”

  Darius went around the other side of the bed. “She dyed her hair.”

  “Her hair went gray ten, fifteen years ago?” Nate said.

  “No, I mean she dyed her hair from the day I met her.” Darius stepped close, examining her. “She was a pretty down-to-earth woman, never vain, but she spent money on hair dye. She didn’t need it. She was a knockout.” He reached for her, taking her unburned hand in his. “Still is.”

  “Do you believe this is your wife, sir?” Hale asked.

  Darius paused, running his finger gently over her fingertips. “These hands. I watched those hands do everything, from potting plants to changing your diaper, Nate.” He caressed her wrist. “It’s her.”

  “But she’s hurt so badly,” Nate said, near tears. I got the sense it wasn’t that he didn’t think the burn victim was his mother, but that he didn’t want it to be.

  Theo walked around the bed, resting his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Look closer, Nate.” He traced her arm, inches from Darius’s hand. “Freckles. She could never tan.” Nate sobbed, and Theo hugged him. “It’s her, Nate.”

  The nurse stood up and checked the monitor. “I’m supposed to change the dressing, but—”

  “Now?!” Nate stalked toward the nurse. “We just find out our mother is almost dead . . .” He stopped, taking a step back. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve my rudeness, miss.”

  Theo spoke, his voice kind. “We’re sorry for inconveniencing you, nurse . . .”

  “That’s fine,” the nurse said. “It’s a difficult day.” While younger, she was no more taken with these minor celebrities than nurse Gayle was. Spending enough time with doctors who had huge egos made anyone unflappable.

  Darius had started to hum a song, sweet and low. “Coma patients have their hearing, mostly. I figure if she hears some Marvin Gaye, she’ll know I’m here.”

  After agreeing to take the brother’s statements the next day, Hale and I decided to leave, giving the men time alone with the woman they’d been searching desperately for, no matter how damaged. We exited to the sounds of Darius singing “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE NEXT MORNING, CHIEF DONNELLY WATCHED WARILY AS A dozen seventy-year-old women arranged a roast, cold cuts, dumplings, and coleslaw on the pink plastic fake lace tablecloth, food for fifty rather than the twenty people roaming Natalya’s house.

  “I served in Vietnam,” Donnelly said. “And I can safely say less planning went into the TET offensive.”

  Two women walked by, each holding one handle of a soup tureen, their hands shaking. I almost stepped in before they safely hefted it onto the table.

  During Vera Batko’s requiem mass at the Ukrainian church, these same practical women had been the source of a sublime sound, their voices layering in song, filling the empty corners of the church and bounced off the icon panels, the gold leaf, and the deep reds of the pictures, giving the saints more gravity than the stained-glass variety.

  Dave’s family had huddled close to the casket. It was small, Vera having shrunk to the size of a child while in the barrel. The bushy-bearded priest spoke over her casket in Ukrainian, his robes spilling over his 6'5'' frame, skimming the floor and wearing a hat that put his final height over 7 feet, easily. The Ukrainian rolled out of him, a steady thunder of words, and the women joined in, their voices light, skidding around his voice. I wondered if their masses always had this much singing or if it was saved for funerals. Bells tolled through the song, and the voices rang out, followed by one last chime.

  A contingent from Jake’s Social Club had showed up, a group of men who refrained from drinking long enough to get through the service. The rest of Dave’s friends and I sat in the back, including people from the station, several deputies from the sheriff’s department, state troopers, and cops from neighboring towns. It was only respect for Dave that kept law enforcement from arresting the guys from Jake’s bar, but I did receive several passed notes with their suggestions of who had stuffed Vera in a barrel, most of which said “Jake Medved.” Even my dad came, making a quick exit after the service with a lie about having to meet someone—my dad had no social life. Annie emerged as the go-to person on what to do. She wore a lace scarf, and it being church, the whisper she used was lower as she explained the different parts of the funeral mass. I was wondering where she’d learned all this. One of the state troopers asked.

  “Dave’s aunt.”

  Annie now hustled through Natalya’s house carrying a basket of rolls, politely obeying an older woman who told her to move the bread to the other side of the table.

  “Help yourself!” Dave said. “Aunt Natalya’s been cooking for days. She’s got a bit of a reputation to uphold, having been the unofficial caterer for the Island over the last forty years.” He waved his hand in front of the table. “I give the bar crowd twenty minutes to get here. Eat up now, before the locusts hit.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m exaggerating. Slightly,” Dave said.

  We loaded up plates and grabbed a corner, the chief sitting at a small table and the group from the station crowded around. Next to us were two pictures of Vera, the frames surrounded by six religious icons. Both Vera and the icons were beautiful.

  I picked up a picture of Vera that I guessed was from the late 1970s. Dave, probably five, beamed from the seat of an amusement park train, his mother sitting next to him, gripping him tightly. In the seat behind Vera and Dave slumped young Lucas, an island of misery in a sea of candy-colored gaiety, his straight hair feathered back in a way that made me suspect he had a comb stuck in the back of the cut-off jean shorts he was wearing.

  “Lucas wasn’t enjoying the train ride?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t enjoying much of anything, I don’t think.” Dave lowered his voice. “Mom was three days back from a few months . . . out of town. Me and Dad were ecstatic to have her back. Lucas was not.”

  I picked up the second picture. Vera was much thinner than in the first, all high cheekbones and dead eyes. She was wearing a lime-green sleeveless shirtdress, the polyester clinging to her slim frame, and was perched in front of a handpainted sign that read HAPPY JULY 4TH 1983 in childlike script, backward flags lining the edge. I looked closer, trying to get a hint of what would leave Vera dead before the end of the summer, but there was nothing. I placed the photo back
in the nest of icons.

  “Aunt Natalya took an icon-making class at the church,” Dave said when he saw me studying them. “She wasn’t religious, but every time she made one it was a big ‘fuck you’ to Khrushchev.”

  “Stalin.” I hadn’t heard Natalya coming. “And do not use profanity.”

  The chief stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Batko, but I need to return to the station.”

  Dave shook his hand. “Thanks for coming. The ladies auxiliary here”—he pointed to the women in the kitchen—“will be sorry to see you go. Fresh meat.”

  Dave’s joke couldn’t have been farther from the truth. While the younger crowd welcomed us warmly, the older women who buzzed around Natalya gave us a wide berth, distrusting law enforcement on principle. I doubted if this group had so much as jaywalked in their lifetime, but they looked at us as if they expected the chief and me to round them up and take them away. I think in their minds I was close kin with Stalin, which was not a comparison I appreciated.

  Chief Donnelly had to fight his way past the crush at the door. Jake and Maxim Medved had arrived, accompanied by the barflies. Lucas greeted several of them warmly, introducing them to Tara, who spun tightly around her father’s legs. Judge Medved carried a ring of lilies over his arm like a racehorse, the smell of the flowers filling the room.

  “Our crowd was getting hungry,” Jake called. “Good thing we followed our noses.”

  “It is a wonder you could smell over those flowers,” Natalya said. “Ostentatious arrangement, the scent overwhelms.” She waved to the backyard. “Put it out there, Maxim.”

  The guys from Jake’s bar that trooped in after the Medved brothers, sticking to the plastic path running through the living room, afraid to step off. One of Natalya’s handmaidens brought the judge a plate, piled high. Clearly Natalya wasn’t holding the fact that the prime suspect in Vera’s death was Maxim’s brother against him. No other plates were forthcoming, and Jake led a contingent into the dining room. The men weren’t grief stricken, and there were happy sighs when they spotted the food.