The Tower of Evil (Bye-Bye Mysteries)

by Robert A. Liston

  “Good heavens, Walter!”

  “It’s something checkable, maybe by you, Lupe.”

  “If I only knew what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, darling, must you be so mysterious?”

  He grinned. “Gotta have some fun. Okay, Sid Rankin says the hot political rumor this season is that Justin Wright fathered a child out of wedlock with one Amanda Sykes. She and the child have both disappeared. Wright’s political opponents, the press and apparently God Himself are looking for her.”

  “And the Wright people want to keep him hidden.”

  “My exact words to Sid Rankin.”

  “Or test for DNA to prove he’s not the father.”

  “Wright himself could save that expense.” He looked at Lupe. “What’s bothering you?”

  “What was that term you used?”

  “Charming speculation. That’s what it is.”

  “No mistake there.”

  “Except for one thing,” Doreen said. “Who asked the police to find a missing little boy? It just has to be someone who knows Jamie is in Santa Barbara and not very many people do. Cyn Wu wouldn’t tell, and Gould is dead. That leaves whoever hired Gould in the first place.”

  “We ought to be able to trace that.”

  Doreen shook her head. “We can’t. The erase button on Gould’s PC was punched and the backup disk stolen, remember? We’re dealing with a smart and careful person.”

  He paced the kitchen. “Okay, let’s say it was Kinkaid for the moment. He discovered Gould knew Amanda Sykes sometime in the past.”

  “College maybe.”

  “He hired Gould to contact her and he—”

  “Entices her out here on a promise of financial support for Jamie. A meeting is arranged—”

  “But at the last moment, Sophia or Amanda, worried about what might happen to Jamie, gets cold feet—”

  “Leaves him with the only person she knows in town—”

  “Whom no one would think of or be able to trace—”

  “Then goes to meet Kinkaid on schedule—”

  “And is forced into the limousine—”

  “And has been held ever since—”

  “And will be until she tells where her son is.”

  Lupe laughed. “Is this how you two operate?”

  “Sometimes.” Doreen smiled. “We make a pretty good team—”

  “For a couple of old folks.”

  “Speak for yourself, darling.” She patted his cheek. “This JoAnn-Sophia-Amanda, whoever she really is, just has to be an interesting person. As far as we know, she’s never revealed who Jamie’s father is.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  “Exactly, dear. She doesn’t want him to know and has endured hardship to keep him from knowing.”

  “And if it is Wright, she has to know the damage she’d do him and wants no part of it—certainly all the hullabaloo it would bring.”

  “She wants a normal life for herself and her son,” Doreen said, “not money, not 15 minutes of fame. Quite a remarkable young woman, I’d say.”

  He watched Lupe shaking her head and laughed. “We’d better let you throw your cold water before you freeze. What is it?”

  “I keep remembering your term charming speculation. That’s all it is, you know. You have no evidence—”

  “Speculation is not a bad word, despite the efforts of critics to make it so. To speculate is to reflect, ponder, think. Without speculation we’d all be living in caves. Doreen and I are simply trying to solve a mystery—why a mother, obviously caring about her son, left him with a nearly total stranger.”

  “Walter thought at first the mother might have kidnapped the boy, which is why he approached you.”

  He served his SOS at the counter. “Fruit and cottage cheese okay for a salad?”

  “Whatever’s easiest,” Doreen said.

  “You are now learning, my dear Lupe, the origins of a happy marriage, the words whatever’s easiest.”

  All three ate in silence for a moment. He was starved. Doreen broke it, “Lupe, you have no idea who asked the police to locate Jamie?”

  “Someone surely knows, but not me.”

  “Would Kinkaid have the clout?”

  “Not officially, but….” She shrugged.

  “It has to be the Wright people,” he said. “If Win-Win Moore knew Jamie was in Santa Barbara or, God forbid, the press, we’d be awash in TV trucks. Could still happen, I suppose. Kinkaid could trot out a tearful ‘mother’ to beg for the return of her darling little boy.”

  “No, Walter. Kinkaid or whoever doesn’t have a photo of Jamie—needed for the tearful mother bit—or even much of a description.”

  “They must know something about him”

  “My guess is they tried to get Harry Gould to reveal where Jamie was. He had no idea, of course.” Doreen grimaced. “Under threats, maybe at gunpoint, hoping to save his life, he told them what he knew about Jamie—blond, blue-eyed, about three.”

  “He may have only seen him once.”

  “Oh, Walter, it must have been so awful for poor Harry.” Doreen shook her head, sighed, then looked at Lupe. “What are you going to do with all this information?”

  “What information?” She smiled. “My job is to look for a missing child. I have no idea where he is and I’m still looking. The death of Harry Gould is not my case. The Santa Barbara Police have no reports of alleged abductions, nor are they interested in rumors of illegitimate children, however illustrious the parentage.”

  “Like I said, only a matter of time, Captain Hernandez.”

  “Hear, hear” Doreen raised her glass. “There is one thing you can do, Lupe, help us find this woman. She’s in grave danger, and we don’t have much time.”

  After Lupe left, DeeDee helped clean up the kitchen, then went upstairs to change into her nightie, robe and slippers. She returned to the living room, accepted a glass of red wine—it helped her sleep and she needed it tonight—then got out her knitting. She had neglected it lately.

  She took her place in an easy chair, matching Walter’s, both facing the unlit fireplace. This room was by far the largest in the house and her favorite, perhaps because it had sunlight most of the day. She’d decorated it in a variety of pastels, her favorite colors, giving it an aura of softness, warmth and familiarity.

  “I find knitting very soothing,” she said. “Must have something to do with occupying the hands.”

  “I’m sure.” His nose was in the newspaper.

  “You might try it.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him. ”Yes dear, yes dear, the words of the truly henpecked husband.”

  “What?” At least he put down the paper.

  “You were very funny at lunch.”

  “I was?”

  “I don’t know anyone who makes me laugh as you do.”

  “What a nice thing to say, thank you.”

  “And you were most insightful with Lupe this evening.”

  He looked at her quizzically, “What’re you getting at?”

  “Oh nothing.” She worked her needles. “I just wondered why you haven’t mentioned that Tyrannosaurus Rex standing over there by the piano, slobbering all over my best carpet.”

  He actually looked across the room.

  “He’s a fearsome, husband-taking, widow-making monster, Walter.”

  After a long pause he said, “I think he’s more a pussy cat.”

  “No, no, pussy cats get mentioned regularly. Only the big, bad things are ignored.” She sniffled. “Only they just get bigger and badder. What did the damn doctor say, Walter? I won’t be cut out of your life at this late stage.”

  His sigh was a deep one. “He biopsied my prostate. He’s running tests. Take a few days.”

  “For what? The Big C?”

  Another sigh. “It could be the little b, as in benign.”

  “Tell me every word he said.” She listened, asked some questions, then s
aid, “Thank you, I feel better now.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. It’s always better to know. Your day-long silence scared the wits out of me.”

  “I've been afraid to tell you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Whatever happens we’ll both deal with it when the time comes. “

  He arose from his chair and leaned over her. His fingers felt so cool, touching her chin, raising her head to his. “What a magnificent woman you are.”

  “It’s about time you noticed.”

  As he kissed her she knew she had done the right thing. No matter what, this beloved man must never know the terrible churning in the pit of her stomach.

  11: A Warning

  HENRY CLAY HOPPED INTO THE VAN. “Can I ride along today, Doc?”

  Byerly liked his privacy. Some of his best ideas came while driving. But he knew boredom was chronic among the homeless, particularly for a man like Henry. He may have lost half his wits, but he still had a college education. “Sure, Henry, glad to have you.” Then he smelled him. Should he suggest a bath? No, Henry’s pride might be hurt.

  After his second trip to the county clinics, Walter said, “I have to run out to UCSB.”

  “Whatever you say, doc.” A few minutes later he said, “Pretty out here, ain’t it, doc?”

  “Sure is, Henry.” He raised his voice, imitating a travelogue. “Surrounded by the blue Pacific on three sides, the University of California at Santa Barbara ranks as one of the most scenic institutions of higher learning in the country. Lucky kids!”

  He returned to his normal voice. “Of course the university regents have done their best to ruin the place by erecting less than inspiring buildings, however cheap.”

  “UCSB has more bicycles than any college in the country.”

  “How do you know that, Henry?”

  “I dunno.”

  He parked and headed for the registrar’s office, Henry Clay in tow. Again he couldn’t refuse him.

  “Oh, Professor Byerly, it’s good to see you.”

  He had taught a couple of terms and still filled in occasionally. That made him an Adjunct Professor. Sounded so much better than substitute teacher. “And you, too. I wonder if I could see the records of a former student, Harry Gould.”

  “The man who shot himself? How awful!”

  “Yes.” To both the question and the comment.

  “The police were here for the same thing yesterday.”

  At least they were still investigating. He studied Gould’s record. Better than average student, pre-law group, international club. Nothing special. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

  “Do you have any record for—” He extracted the photo of Jamie’s mother from his pocket.

  “I know her,” Henry Clay said.

  “You do?”

  “Sure, Mandy Sykes, we called her Cyclone. I had classes with her.”

  He studied. “How old are you, Henry?”

  Henry blinked and looked away. “I forget.”

  “That’s okay, it’s not important.” Henry looked scruffy, but probably not that old. He could have gone to school with Amanda Sykes. “What else can you tell me about her?” Henry had his vacant look. “Was she a good student?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I guess so.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  That qualified as faint praise. Henry was too nice to say she wasn’t. “Did you ever date her?”

  “Me? Naw.” Henry blushed. “I never—she was spoken for anyway.”

  “She was?”

  Henry rubbed the stubble on his chin. His name was….” He stared off into space. “I forget.”

  “That’s okay, Henry.” He perused Amanda Sykes’ record. Lots of political science courses and activity in conservative organizations. She left after her junior year.

  “His name was Harry, I remember Harry.”

  Byerly turned to him. “Harry Gould?”

  “That’s it, Harry Gould. Them two was hot and heavy. Everybody figured he was into her pants, but good.”

  Back in the van heading downtown, Walter did a quick calculation. If Harry Gould were Jamie’s father, the boy would be five or six, not three—unless he’d seen Amanda after college. No, Amanda wouldn’t be on the run from Harry Gould. Somebody else put the bun in her oven, as the Brits say.

  Walter stopped at the clinics. No passengers returning to town. He now headed there himself, driving on city streets, Calle Real, State Street, and the west side along De la Vina Street.

  “You were a big help, Henry.”

  “I was?” Byerly could see his wide grin in the rear view mirror.

  “You knew all about Cyclone and Harry.”

  “Sure, I remember them.”

  In his outside mirror Walter saw a large black car tailgating him. “The speed limit’s 30, my friend. I’m not about to get a ticket because you’re in a hurry.”

  One block below Alamar the street turned one way. He saw the black car pull into the left lane. “Now’s your chance, fellow, go for it.” The black car turned out to be a limousine. “Hey, what’re you doing!” Byerly jerked the wheel to the right to avoid being hit, then braked sharply. He was against the curb, unable to move.

  He hollered out the window, “What kind of a driver are you?” A uniformed man got out and walked around the front of the limo toward him.

  “Hey, that’s the guy what grabbed the girl.”

  “Be still, Henry, I’ll handle this.”

  The Ninja’s voice was a gruff as his looks. “Listen, Byerly—”

  “You know my name?”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from the estate—and from that dame, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He had to laugh. “And if I don’t I suppose you’ll break both my knees.”

  “A good idea, smart ass. I hadn’t thought of that.” A huge hand burst through the window and grabbed his shirtfront, pulling him sideways and forward. “An old guy like you, I could make you into a pancake, and I will, if you don’t watch it.”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  “Or else what?” He grinned, showing pretty good teeth actually. “What’re you going to do about it, old man?”

  He hesitated. “I’m going to blow this horn.” He pushed the button on the steering wheel. “And I’m going to keep blowing till you release me and get the hell out of my way.“