The Tower of Evil (Bye-Bye Mysteries)

by Robert A. Liston

  “Do you know either Sophia or this Cyn?”

  Hyacinth shrugged lovely shoulders. “I’m afraid not. That’s why I think it must be personal.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Lorna will know what to do.”

  8: Super Sleuthing

  HE HEARD THE PHONE RING and was momentarily confused. Which one, house or cell? He chose the wireless and heard, “Where are you?” Doreen sounded agitated.

  “I’m where I should be, darling. The question is where are you? You’re not minding the store and you’re not in your car.”

  “I’ve such exciting news. Where are you?”

  “At home, indulging in a cholesterol sandwich. Want some?”

  “God forbid. Open a can of soup for me. I’ll be there as—”

  She hung up before saying when, but he knew it would be soon.

  Doreen’s vegetarian vegetable soup, to his mind an awesome redundancy, simmered on the stove when she burst into the house.

  “I knew it, didn’t I tell you, Harry Gould was murdered.”

  “I can only answer you did, you did, and how do you know?”

  She shook her head. “What are you saying? Oh, I get it. Stop being amusing, Walter, this is important. Harry Gould’s computer files have been trashed—obviously by whoever killed him.”

  He bit off a mouth full of his thick ham and cheese on rye, tried to mumble through it, then pointed to the stove, finally getting out, “0Your soup’s ready.”

  “I don’t care about soup. Why are you being so insufferable, Walter?”

  He chewed a moment, then swallowed. “Because you’re not making a speck of sense. Why don’t you start with who, what, when, so I can ask why—instead of beating the facts out of you with a stick.”

  Now she smiled. “You’ve never beaten me, love, would I like it?”

  “When next it rains, we’ll find out. I really do want to hear what you have to tell me, Doreen.”

  “I went to Harry Gould’s office. Don’t ask me why, I just thought I might learn something. I used flowers to get in.”

  “And you learned the hard drive on Harry’s computer was erased.”

  She glared at him. “So you did understand?”

  “Only when you told me where. Everything is gone, not just a file or two?”

  “It’s a blank screen, Walter. Hyacinth, that’s Harry’s secretary, well part-time or time-share secretary—”

  “What have spring bulbs got to do with it?”

  “That’s her name—and I refuse to be Gracie Allen to your George Burns.”

  “Thank God, they’re both dead. It wasn’t a mistake, someone deliberately erased the files?”

  “The killer did—so there would be no trail leading to him. He even stole the back-up disc.”

  “You’d better stop boiling that soup or—”

  “Oh God!” She ran to it, grabbed a hot pad and lifted it off the burner. “It’ll take forever to cool.”

  “You may have something, Doreen. Let’s talk to Lupe about it.”

  “There’s more. Gould’s appointment book is missing. Hyacinth assumes the police have it. If they don’t that’s more evidence of an intruder.”

  “Good work.”

  She curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir, but there’s still more.” She reached in her purse and handed him a paper. “I should phone that number and find out who Sophia and Cyn are, don’t you think?”

  “Eat your soup first.” He worried about her getting enough to eat. A bird could starve on her calories sometimes. “And while you dine on that liquid grass, I have my own super sleuthing to report.” He told her about Addie Kinkaid and how she’d come to be on the street.

  Doreen reacted with exasperation. “I’m sure she’s a nice woman, I regret she’s been treated so shabbily, and I’m sorry she’s living on the street, but what has that to do with Harry Gould’s murder and the lost mother of a three-year-old named Jamie?” She made an exaggerated “whew” sound and panted after her long speech.

  He ignored her. “Addie asked me to drive her out to the Kinkaid estate, so I did.” He made an expansive gesture. “Damndest looking place I ever saw, huge, sort of oppressive looking, dominated by this huge tower, kind of creepy, like a set for an old Vincent Price movie.”

  “A tower of evil. How fascinating!”

  “It’s way up in the boonies, populated by trees and igneous rocks, guarded by not one but two iron gates and—”

  “Stop it this instant, Walter Byerly, it’s not funny.” Then she squinted at him. “I know when I’m being put on. If I’m not going to be Gracie Allen, I’m not about to be Ma Kettle either.”

  “Ma Kettle?”

  “Wasn’t she always getting worked up over nothing?”

  “Do you really think of me as Percy Kilbride?”

  “I will if you don’t stop teasing me.”

  “Very well.” Now he spoke rapidly, as she had. “The driveway contained a black limo, the sticker on the back bumper read, JUSTIN WRIGHT FOR PRESIDENT, the chauffeur who most definitely didn’t want us there fit the description given by Henry Clay, and, yes, he does look like a Ninja Turtle.” He laughed. “You really should enter a gaping contest, dear.”

  “Karl Kinkaid abducted a woman?”

  “At best someone using his limo, and that’s far from certain. Maybe his chauffeur is in love.”

  “And maybe Karl Kinkaid has something to do with a little boy named Jamie.”

  “As you know, adored one, I couldn’t possibly be a bigger fan of your famous intuition, but this time don’t you think—”

  “Well, it could be, couldn’t it? At least it’s something to think about.”

  “Want something more?”

  “If this is going to be the long version, I’ll eat my soup.”

  “Addie told me who Kincaid’s wife is. Supposed to be a celeb, only I never heard of her and didn’t want to admit it.”

  “No reason you should. You have me for these things. Who is the good woman?”

  “Somebody named Joy Fielding. Addie said she’s some kind of advice guru.”

  “You sure you’re not putting me on?” Now she laughed. “Of course you’re not. Darling, your lack of interest in celebrities is so remarkable it ought to be written up in a medical journal.”

  “I knew Percy Kilbride, didn’t I?”

  “But nobody since. Joy Fielding is Dr. Joy. She has an advice column, radio and TV shows. She’s an author, lecturer, the most famous blonde since Barbie—and just as plastic with about as many brains.” She laughed. “Now she really is someone who should be named DeeDee.”

  He roared. “Only jiggling Jezebels named Joy are—”

  “Still don’t know who she is? Okay, more clues. Dr. Joy is four square for family, family, family. She rails against premarital sex, abortions, divorce, homosexuality, liberals in general and women’s libbers in particular. Dr. Joy is a regular scold—and people eat her up.”

  “Now I know who you mean. I may tune out phony celebs, but I do follow politics. You’re talking about that darling of the Christian Right.”

  “Self-appointed.”

  “She backs every half-baked nut there is. Hell, she makes Charles Manson and the Boston Strangler look like caregivers, the KKK and Adolf Hitler seem enlightened. She’d happily return to the Spanish Inquisition and Ivan the Terrible.”

  He had Doreen doubled over with laughter, which pleased him greatly. Finally, she could say, “You exaggerate, but not by much.”

  “So she’s Mrs. Kinkaid. That accounts for the bumper sticker. Justin Wright is her kind of guy—and maybe the next President, unless the country comes to its senses.”

  “He is good-looking and glib.”

  “So was Attila the Hun.”

  Again she laughed. Doreen was such a good audience. He opened his cell phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “Lupe, I’d better fill her in.” She shook her head. “Why not?”

  “Just don’t tell her about Ja
mie. She’d be duty bound to call Children’s Services and—”

  “Very well. Meanwhile, see if you can get anybody at that Boston number.”

  “What will I say to her?”

  “Tell her you think Sophia has been kidnapped by King Midas and turned into a gold statue.”

  “These are young people, my love. They think King Midas is a rock singer.”

  “Rocks sing?”

  9: An Old Pol Helps

  TRY AS SHE WOULD, Lupe couldn’t quite shake her sense of dread whenever she approached Sgt. Brogan. She had been a cop four years, commended twice, made detective, at least as a probationary, but none of that mattered. Det. Sgt. Brogan was “the man,” a relic of her days on the street, her B.D. period, Before DeeDee. Maybe she’d get over it one of these days.

  “I have some information on the Gould shooting, sergeant.” She hoped her voice sounded matter-of-fact.

  Buster Brogan was in his 50s, gray and excessively wrinkled around the eyes. When he leaned back in his chair, as now, causing his sizable belly to protrude, he looked every inch a model for the Lord Buddha. “What have you got?” He smiled and motioned to the chair beside his desk.

  She sensed his cordiality had more to do with her being female than a fellow detective. She sat but did not cross her legs. “Gould’s mother doesn’t think her son would kill himself. He was—”

  “Have you spoken to Mrs. Gould?”

  “Well, not directly.” She hesitated. “A friend told me.”

  “What friend?”

  He had no right to ask. She was entitled to her own sources “If you must know, her name is DeeDee Byerly. She owns a flower shop, her husband, Walter Byerly….”

  His laughter stung her.

  “You’re kidding, Hernandez. You’re listening to some dame in a flower shop? What’s your hairdresser and manicurist say?”

  Oh why had she ever brought this up? “Forget it, sergeant, it’s your case.”

  “You got that right. It so happens, Hernandez, that I spoke to the Gould woman at length. I sympathize with her, but when you have more experience you’ll realize that families, mothers especially, try any form of denial to avoid accepting suicide.” His smile was positively avuncular. He might have been Walter Cronkite addressing a sixth grade class at parochial school. “There are no fingerprints, Hernandez, no witnesses, no evidence of any kind to suggest Gould did anything other than take his own life.”

  Did he have to humiliate her this way? Her anger flared, changing her flight into fight. “Did you perform a paraffin test on Gould to see if he fired the gun?”

  “I saw no need for it.”

  She stared at him. The test was routine in such cases. “Did you know somebody erased Gould’s computer files?”

  Buster Brogan blinked.

  “Whoever did it took the back-up disc and his appointment calendar. Both are missing.”

  “I see.”

  She had stood up to him. Her worry, fear, panic vanished. Buster Brogan was a trapped bear, desperate for a way out. She wasn’t about to give it to him. “Did you know it’s possible to recover material erased from the hard disc?”

  Clearly he hadn’t known, but he dismissed his new knowledge with a bravura wave. “Why do that? It’s an extra expense, and this is an obvious suicide, after all.”

  “Are you sure, sergeant? Someone went to a lot of trouble to eliminate any link between himself and Gould. Have you traced the gun to Gould?”

  “Nor to anyone else. These cheap guns make the rounds. As for the erased files, that just about cinches it as a suicide.”

  He had figured out his reply. “It does?”

  “Sure. The guy’s distraught. He’s a nerd with few friends and no social life. Still lives with his Mama. Moreover, he’s a flop as an attorney, no clients and little hope of any. He decides to end it all.” Brogan made an expansive gesture. “Along with his own life, he wants to take away any evidence of his miserably failed existence, so he pushes the delete button.” Brogan made an exaggerated motion with his forefinger. “Nothing is left except the printout of the suicide note. Make sense to you, Hernandez?”

  Unbelievable! The fool would go to any lengths not to be wrong. “Not at all, sergeant. I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “Won’t be the first time.” Walter Cronkite revisited. “You go back to your pals, them Bye-Byes or whoever, and tell them I appreciate their help. I’ll look into their allegations.”

  “Then the case is still open?”

  “For the moment, so folks like them Bye-Byes can keep up their peerless detective work in hopes of making monkeys out of real cops.”

  He shoveled sarcasm. God! The man inhabited a cave. “I’m sure that’s not what they’re doing.”

  He looked at her hard. “Loyalties, Hernandez, loyalties. If you want to get ahead in this line of work, I suggest you decide whether you work for the Santa Barbara Police or them Bye-Byes. In a word, say bye-bye to the Bye-Byes. And ain’t that a howl?” He repeated the phrase.

  Now he picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “Meanwhile, I have something useful for you to do. A mother reported her child missing. Here’s his description, three years old, blond, blue-eyed, believed to be in the Santa Barbara area.”

  She accepted the paper. “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “You’re in juvenile, you should have some connections, you know, an extra kid where he ain’t supposed to be.”

  She shook her head. “Sounds impossible, what’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was he wearing, when was he last seen?” She saw Brogan shake his head. “Who’s the mother, who made this report?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Hernandez. Do the best you can. If you find out anything, report back to me.”

  After lunch, Byerly sat at his desk and opened his bible, as Doreen called it. The bible started out as an address book to keep track of girls in college. Over the years it expanded to include co-workers, ex-students, friends, acquaintances, anyone who knew or might know something useful or was just plain interesting. He added clippings, business cards, old scribbled-on napkins, notes and mementos until now the loose-leaf book was several inches thick and quite dog-eared. He sometimes thought of willing it to the Smithsonian when he croaked.

  He turned pages, looking at names, reading forgotten information. Would you look at that, Danny Mendoza. Hadn’t thought of him in years. Maybe he should give him a call. He reached for the phone, then mentally slapped his hand. Walt, baby, you’re looking for someone qualified as an old pol, a nice ward healer or pork barreler.

  There. He read. Yes, definitely an old pol. Sid Rankin was hyper, thoroughly Type A, balding, overweight, adrift in cigar smoke—a candidate for an early grave. Only one way to find out.

  To his surprise Sid Rankin answered on the first ring. “Well, if it isn’t the perfesser hisself, long time no see, what’ve you been up to?” He affected a New York accent. Sid was born in Wisconsin.