At eight, he presented himself to the receptionist at the contact desk of the Worthington Clinic. A blonde with a Rodeo Drive walk showed him to Steven Hadlestadt’s office. Hadlestadt stood up to greet him and they shook hands.
The man was younger than Cork had expected, early thirties. His head was shaved smooth of hair. He had a narrow face with intelligent, blue eyes. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit and a red silk tie.
“I admit I expected just a phone call, Sheriff O’Connor.”
“It’s important, so I came in person. Is it Dr. Hadlestadt?”
“Yes, but not M.D. I’m the clinic administrator. Won’t you sit down?”
Cork sank into the soft leather of a chair. The office was beautifully appointed, and through a long side window there was a stunning view of the San Gabriels.
“Before we go any further, may I see some identification?”
Cork pulled out his wallet and handed over a card.
“This is a driver’s license,” Hadlestadt said.
“That’s right.”
“May I see your law enforcement ID?”
“I don’t have one at the moment. I’m the former sheriff of Tamarack County. I held that office for eight years. Currently, I’m working as a consultant on law enforcement issues.”
Hadlestadt handed back the driver’s license. “Then you’re not actually a cop.”
“Would you look at this, Mr. Hadlestadt?” Cork thrust at him a copy of the Duluth News Tribune, the April issue in which the headline read “Aurora Girl’s Death Ruled Murder.” The story ran with a photo of the young woman.
“Is that Charlotte Kane?” Cork asked.
Hadlestadt’s eyes took in the headline, then scanned the story and the photo. “It certainly looks like her, but I don’t see how that could be.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, she died four years ago. Or at least that’s what I thought. And for another, it says here she’s only seventeen. Charlotte Kane would be twenty now.”
“What happened to Charlotte four years ago?”
Hadlestadt put the newspaper on his desk. “You say you’re a consultant. In what capacity on this case?”
“I’m working for the attorney whose client has been charged with the girl’s murder.”
For a moment, it appeared as if Hadlestadt was considering the advisability of answering. Then he seemed to give a mental shrug. “Charlotte disappeared. They found her car a couple of days later. Lots of blood, but no body. As I understand, it was a pretty awful scene. The police carried out a thorough investigation, but I believe they never did find out exactly what happened to her. It was a terrible thing. She was such a terrific kid.”
“Did they ever find the body?”
“No. At least not as far as I know.”
“Was Fletcher Kane ever a suspect?”
Hadlestadt tensed. “No. And I can tell you right now I’m not going to say anything that would reflect badly on Dr. Kane.”
“Please understand that I’m only after the truth. A young man has been accused of murdering Fletcher Kane’s daughter, who appears to have been already dead. Mr. Hadlestadt, all I’m asking is that you help me understand how that’s possible.”
Hadlestadt rocked back in his chair. For a few moments, he looked away from Cork and studied the mountains framed by the office window.
“What do you want to know?” he said.
“When you knew him, what kind of person was Dr. Kane?”
“Terribly demanding of himself and his colleagues. A perfectionist. Sometimes difficult because his standards were always so high. But absolutely wonderful with patients. Compassionate, understanding.”
This last part caught Cork by surprise, though he tried not to show it.
“He hired me. I worked with him for several years. I have nothing but admiration for him as a physician and as director of this clinic.” Hadlestadt leaned forward, put his arms on his desk, and laced his fingers. “When Dr. Kane took the responsibility of heading Worthington, it was a place that catered exclusively to a wealthy clientele, people who wanted to buy back their youth or who wanted things done to their bodies they thought God had overlooked. Kane changed that. He hired talented physicians and gave them resources. Over time we’ve become known more for the reconstructive work we do here on victims of physical trauma. Automobile accidents, burns, that kind of thing. Don’t get me wrong. We’re still Hollywood’s favorite choice for a nose job, but that’s not at the heart of Worthington anymore, thanks to Fletcher Kane.”
“Why did he leave?”
Hadlestadt shrugged. “What happened to Charlotte. It devastated him. He never got over it. He seemed to lose a part of himself, the best part, honestly. He resigned as director, withdrew from the rest of us, from the social life here. He asked for a new staff, which was a bit odd, but we accommodated him. He became secretive about his work. Considering everything he’d been through, I suppose most of this was understandable. It didn’t surprise me at all when he finally left.”
“What can you tell me about Charlotte Kane?”
“Aside from the fact that everybody loved her, not much. Maybe you should talk to someone who was closer to her. Try her mother. I’m sure she’ll be interested in this.” He tapped the paper.
“Her mother?” Cork said. “I thought Kane’s wife was dead.”
“The marriage may have died, but Constance Kane is alive, I assure you.”
She lived in a big house in Ganesha Hills, above the Los Angeles County fairgrounds. The place was hacienda-style, two stories of beige stucco with a red tile roof. The property lines were marked with tall cedars, in almost exactly the same way as the boundaries of the Parrant estate back in Aurora. There was a fountain in front, a porcelain maiden pouring water from an urn into a small pool. The maiden had a young, pretty face and blank eyes. Cork rang the bell. Constance Kane appeared immediately.
He could see Charlotte in the woman at the door. The same raven hair, the same facial structure-small nose, high cheekbones, strong chin. Attractive. The eyes were different, blue and softer, with tiny crow’s feet. She wore a yellow summer dress and sandals.
“Mr. O’Connor?”
“How do you do, Ms. Kane?”
Her hand was small but firm, her nails well manicured and polished with an opal sheen.
“Won’t you come in?”
Lilies filled a vase on a table in the foyer, and Cork walked into their marvelous fragrance.
“Would you care for some coffee, or perhaps some tea?” she offered.
“Thank you, no.”
In the living room, she indicated a stuffed chair and Cork sat down. She took a place on the sofa, crossed her legs at the ankles, and folded her hands on her lap.
“When you called from the clinic, you said you had some information about Fletcher that you thought I ought to have. Is he all right?”
“In a way, that’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m from Aurora, Minnesota, your ex-husband’s hometown.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. O’Connor. Fletcher is from Kansas.”
“I knew him until he was thirteen years old and his mother moved him away. They left as a result of rather unpleasant circumstances. It doesn’t surprise me that your husband might have chosen never to speak of that time in his life.”
“I’m sure we’re talking about two different Fletcher Kanes.”
Cork had brought with him a photo he’d cut from the Aurora Sentinel that had run with an article about the family shortly after Kane came to town. The article had been vague, but the photograph was clear. He handed it to her. “Is that your husband?”
She looked at the photo and said warily, “Yes.”
“He returned to Aurora two years ago. He brought a daughter with him. Her name was Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” Her eyes hardened and the crow’s feet deepened. “Is this some kind of sick joke? You said you were with the sheriff’s department?”
“I was she
riff of Tamarack County, that’s where Aurora is, for eight years.”
“But no longer?”
“No longer.” Cork took out the issue of the Duluth News Tribune that he’d shown to Hadlestadt at the clinic. “I have something here I think you ought to see.”
She took the newspaper from him and spent a minute reading. She studied the news photo intently. “Whoever this is, she isn’t my daughter. She looks like my daughter, but she’s not.” Ms. Kane stood abruptly and walked to a piece of blond furniture that seemed constructed for the sole purpose of holding expensive knickknacks. She took from it a framed photograph and brought it to Cork.
“This is my Charlotte. You see?”
It was a professionally done portrait, shot against a soft blue background. At first glance, it appeared to Cork to be the same young woman whose picture was in the newspaper. But when he put the news photo and the other side by side he could see the differences. In the jawline, the ears, and in the eyes especially. The California Charlotte looked tanned and happy. The Minnesota Charlotte was pale, thinner, sullen. Still, it was possible that the differences could be the result of the poor quality of the news photo reproduction, or a differing state of mind when each shot had been taken.
“Their ages are different, too,” the woman said. “My Charlotte would be older.”
Cork said, “Would you be willing to tell me about your daughter and her disappearance? And about Fletcher?”
She stared at him. “If you’re not a sheriff anymore, what does all this have to do with you?”
“A young man has been accused of killing Charlotte Kane. Our Charlotte. I don’t believe he did it.”
“Why do you want to know about Fletcher?”
“There are a lot of unanswered questions in the case. If that’s not your daughter in the news story, you have to wonder why they look so much alike and have the same name.”
She sat down and closed her eyes. Cork waited. Through sliding doors, he could see a wide deck, flower boxes filled with red and white blossoms, and beyond that the purple hills of a metropolis that stretched unbroken all the way to the purple horizon.
“Charlotte disappeared a week after her sixteenth birthday,” she began slowly. She looked at her hands, not at Cork. “We’d given her a car as a gift. She’d just got her license. She left after dinner that evening to meet some friends at the library. She never came home.
“Two days later, they found her car. There was a lot of blood in the trunk. Charlotte’s blood. They never found her body.”
She raised her head. Her face was taut, but composed.
“It took me a long time, Mr. O’Connor, but I finally accepted that my daughter is dead. It was different for Fletcher. I loved Charlotte very much, but she and Fletcher had something special between them.” She hesitated. “I don’t know how well you know my husband.”
“Not well at all, I’m afraid.”
“You’re not alone. I was married to him for eighteen years, and I understood him no better on the last day we were together than I did on the first. Fletcher was a very private person, very closed. He allowed few people near him, and he let no one inside. No one except Charlotte. From the moment she was born, she somehow managed to open Fletcher’s heart. I admit, I often felt on the outside of things, a little envious of what the two of them shared.
“In the weeks before she died, however, they were often at odds. Charlotte’s grades were slipping. She was spending too much time with her friends. In Fletcher’s view, anyway. Really, it was normal teenage testing, rebelling. The night she disappeared, they had a fight. About her clothes, which Fletcher thought made her look like a bum. It was the style back then. Holes in everything. She left, and never came back. Fletcher couldn’t deal with her loss, couldn’t stop blaming himself, although there was no reason for blame. It tore him apart. He got stuck in his grieving. In the end, we didn’t just lose our daughter. We lost each other. Eight months after Charlotte disappeared, we separated, then divorced.”
The phone rang.
“Would you excuse me,” she said. She left the sofa and went to the kitchen. “Hello?” she answered. “Hi, sweetheart.” She was quiet for a moment. “No, I said Thursday night. The tickets are for the nine o’clock set. Jill and Ed will meet us there.”
Cork didn’t like listening in. He took the photograph of Charlotte Kane and returned it to the shelf from which her mother had taken it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connor.” She stood in the doorway to the kitchen and spoke from a distance.
“That’s all right.”
“This is all very difficult to absorb.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know what’s going on in your town-what’s it called?”
“Aurora. Minnesota.”
She nodded. “But your Charlotte isn’t mine. Of that I’m absolutely certain.”
“You’re not curious?”
She crossed her arms protectively. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had to deal with loss. This kind, this overwhelming uncertainty. At first you live on hope. You pray your heart out. You don’t sleep, don’t eat. Days stretch into weeks, weeks into months. Finally, holding on to hope becomes like holding up the earth, and you just can’t do it anymore. You have to let go. You have to grieve and move on. I haven’t heard from Fletcher in over two years. I moved on. I’d hoped the same for him.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if experiencing physical pain. After a few moments, she went on. “Fletcher didn’t just lose a daughter. I think he lost the best part of himself, and he was desperate to get that back somehow. He became obsessed with finding Charlotte, whom he didn’t believe was dead. He saw her everywhere. In passing cars, on street corners, in the mall. I’ve heard that everybody has a double somewhere. So I suppose it’s entirely possible that he finally found Charlotte’s double, some young woman as desperate for a new life as he was for his old.”
“Or he manufactured her.”
It took a moment, but as she understood what he was suggesting, a look of horror dawned on her face. “Jesus. That’s hard to believe.”
“But not impossible. I understand your husband was a gifted plastic surgeon.”
“You misunderstand. I think Fletcher was probably capable of something that desperate and bizarre. What’s hard to believe is that he found someone willing to let him do it.” She crossed the room and picked up the photograph of her daughter. “If that’s what happened, I feel so sorry for her. Mr. O’Connor, when you find the answer, I’d like to know.”
He left her standing in the middle of her beautiful home, looking deeply troubled.
36
After he talked with the contact officer, Cork had to wait awhile. Finally Sergeant Gilbert Ortega came up front and escorted him back to the homicide division. There was another plainclothes detective in a corner of the office, coat off, shirt-sleeves rolled back, fingers tapping on a computer keyboard. He glanced up when Cork came in with Ortega but went right back to his work. Ortega sat down at his desk and motioned for Cork to take the other chair.
“Minnesota, is it?”
“That’s right.”
Ortega scratched at the small, neat mustache that lay like a pencil line on his upper lip. “Never been there. Pretty, I hear.”
“You heard right.”
“Officer Baker said you’re interested in an investigation we conducted a few years back.”
“Yes. Vic’s name was Charlotte Kane.”
Ortega nodded. “I remember. All the evidence pointed toward homicide but we never found a body. What’s the Minnesota connection?”
“The girl’s father lives there now. His daughter was murdered. As nearly as I can tell, the circumstances were similar to what happened here.”
Cork handed Ortega the Duluth newspaper. The detective glanced at the photograph of Charlotte Kane then scanned the story. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. Emory, take a look at this.”
The other cop stood up. He was tall and had one long eyebro
w that stretched over both eyes. He left his computer, came to Ortega’s desk, and read over the detective’s shoulder. He whistled and wrinkled his forehead. His eyebrow split in the middle. He looked at Cork. “They have a suspect?”
“A man’s been charged. I work for his attorney.”
“What is it you want?” Ortega asked.
“Any information you can supply about your investigation four years ago.”
Ortega gave a smile, thin as his mustache. “You’re interested in the father.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“It’s a cold case. I didn’t work it.”
“Buster,” Emory, the tall cop, said.
Ortega sat back and crossed his arms. “Buster Farrell was in charge of homicide back then. It was his investigation.”
Cork said, “Is he still around?”
The two Pomona cops laughed.
“Oh, yeah,” Emory said. “Buster’s around.”
“He’s retired,” Ortega said. “Medical situation. But he stops by. All the time.”
“Think he’d mind talking to me?”
“I’m sure it would be his great pleasure,” Ortega said. “Why don’t I give him a call and square it. Couple things, though. I want to make a copy of that article before you go, and I’d like to have the name of the officer in charge of the investigation in Minnesota.”
Buster Farrell lived in a stucco bungalow, beige with brown trim, across the street from a small park. The walk was lined with flowers, the yard edged with a perfectly clipped hedge. A sprinkler turned lazily on the lawn, spinning out water that fell in jewellike droplets on thick grass. As Cork strolled up the walk, the cop opened the screen door and came outside. He leaned on a metal cane.
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