"Regarding?" He spoke as if each word cost him money and he was reluctant to spend a dime. There was a hollowness to his voice, too, as if he was speaking on a Bluetooth device.
"This is awkward, sir, but have you heard about your ex-wife? Angela?"
There was a pause, and when Wellman spoke again his voice was still clipped, but tinged with suspicion.
"Who is this?" he said. "Are you a cop?"
"Not exactly," Gage said.
"Not exactly? Press then? I've had enough calls from the press to last a lifetime, and I don't have a lifetime to waste. You have exactly five seconds to convince me you're not wasting my time before I—"
"We were lovers," Gage said.
Wellman said nothing; there was a faint buzz on the line. Gage didn't know why he felt the need to say that. It may have been true, but it sure sounded melodramatic when spoken aloud. And were they, really? His own passion had been fueled mostly by teenage lust. Had he really been old enough to be someone's lover? They certainly weren't boyfriend and girlfriend. He never took her to the drive-in. He never asked her to the prom. Sex buddies? That made it sound more crass than it was. There was real emotion involved, even if it was wrapped in layers of lust. No, lovers was the right word.
"Excuse me?" Wellman said.
"It was a long time ago."
"How long?"
"Before you met her. When she was teaching in Montana." He cleared his throat. He didn't want to get into the whole teacher-pupil thing. "Look, I'm calling because I'm also a private investigator. She came to see me before she was killed. She was worried people were after her. I'm sure you've been following the news. Everybody thinks it's the God's Wrath cult, but I'm not so sure."
"Really? It seems pretty cut and dried to me—though I am three thousand miles away. Yes, can I have a tall Americano with cream, please?"
It took Gage a second to realize that Wellman was ordering coffee and not just having a brain freeze. His jaw tightened in response. They were talking about the death of a woman this man had once slept next to night after night, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and he wasn't even willing to stop his normal routine for a few minutes?
"Oh, order one for me too," Gage said.
"Excuse me?" Wellman said.
"I like it with a little Irish cream, if they have it."
"I'm sorry," Wellman said, "I'm not—"
"So where were you Wednesday night?"
"What?"
"It's a simple question," Gage said. "I want to know your whereabouts Wednesday."
"Thank you," Wellman said, obviously talking to the barista. "No, that's fine. Thanks. You too . . . Mister Gage, I'm a little confused here. Do you think I'm a suspect?" He said it with a little emotion but not enough given what Gage had just said; it was more like a man asking his dentist if he was going to need a filling.
"Everybody's a suspect," Gage said.
"I was here in Boston with clients. Dozens of people can confirm it. I've already gone over this with the FBI."
"Okay."
"Perhaps we should end this call. If you're not official law enforcement—"
"I'm just like you. A guy who loved Angela. You did love her, didn't you?"
"What? What kind of question is that?"
"Did she have any enemies?"
"No," Wellman said. "Not when she was with me. And not later, as far as I knew."
Gage was astonished at the man's inability to get angry, no matter how much Gage pushed him. "As far as you knew? You maintained contact with her?"
"Of course," Wellman said. "She may have left me, but I never felt any ill will toward her. I was focused on my career. She wanted more intimacy. I told her I couldn't give that to her, but I didn't blame her for wanting it; she appreciated my honesty. We talked several times a year. We were probably better friends after the divorce than before, because we could finally accept each other without wanting the other person to be something they weren't." He paused. "In fact, I'm surprised she never mentioned you. She was always quite open about her life, before and after she met me."
"Maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought you did," Gage said.
"Or maybe you didn't mean as much to her as she did to you."
The fact that he spoke the words so flatly made them sting all the more. And what if it was true? Did it really matter? It was a long time ago.
"I just want to find out who killed her," Gage said.
"Don't we all," Wellman said. "Are you going to have her buried out there?"
"Why are you asking me?" Gage said. "It seems like the sort of thing family should decide—"
"You know she doesn't have family—no one she would trust with that decision, anyway. And I think she would like being buried out there. She always thought she'd retire on the coast, in a house that overlooked the ocean. But of course you probably already knew that."
Gage let this comment pass. "Anything more you can tell me that would help—"
"There isn't anything more, really. If I thought of anything, I would have told it to the FBI. Someone needs to do something about these religious psychotics. That was one thing Angela got wrong about me. She thought I didn't care about anything but money, but it isn't true. I just realized I wasn't the kind of person to do something about it."
"But Angela was," Gage said.
"Yes. I actually admired her for taking that job with Loren Sparrow. She called me about it, you know. She wasn't sure she should."
It was like Wellman was still trying to prove how much better he knew Angela than Gage. But Gage wasn't going to be baited. "Oh? I got the feeling she jumped at the chance to work for him."
"Oh no. Sparrow had a reputation for being very hard on his assistants. He'd burned through three in less than two years. But Angela believed in the cause. Low pay, long hours, a boss who made your life miserable—I could never do that. But I admired that she could. And I have now reached my office, Mister Garrison. I'm afraid I'll have to let you go."
"I see," Gage said. "Well, can I give you a number if you think of anything else?"
"I already have the number of an agent with the FBI. If I do think of anything, it's more appropriate that I tell her."
"Let me guess. Karen Pantelli?"
"Goodbye, Mister Gage."
"Wait. Can I just ask, do you know if she dated other people after you two divorced?"
"I believe so, yes. But they never lasted. She had a type, you know. She was drawn to smart, emotionally distant men—men who could never really give her what she wanted. That's why I had no problem letting her go. I really hoped she would find someone who could give her what I couldn't. So yes, Mister Gage. I did love her. Always did, even if it wasn't in the way she wanted. But when I knew I couldn't change, I knew it wasn't fair to keep her."
He hung up.
Chapter 16
The match on the prints came in Monday morning, not long after Gage dropped Zoe off at school. He was glad to see one of Barnacle Bluffs's finest in a patrol car outside. He didn't know if Chief Quinn had ordered it because of Zoe, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Maybe he'd send Quinn a Christmas card this year after all. Of course, Gage had never sent anyone a Christmas card in his life, so the odds of him doing so now were fairly low, but if he was the sort of person who sent Christmas cards then Quinn would definitely be on the list. Maybe.
When Gage walked into Books and Oddities, carrying a cardboard box loaded with chocolate, sprinkle-coated donuts, Alex was already smiling. A saxophone rendition of Silent Night played from the speakers on his computer. He held up a printout filled with lots of tiny text, a fingerprint in a box in the upper right corner, a black and white photo of a man in the other. As Gage stepped closer, he saw that the man was young, thin, with dark hair and a narrow face.
"You're a miracle worker," Gage said.
"The miracle's the technology," Alex replied, his eyes bright and shiny behind his glasses. "But since technology can't enjoy donuts, I'll eat t
hem on its behalf while you read this over."
The man's name was Ryan Monahan. Age twenty-nine. No criminal record. He was on file because of his military service—seven years he'd spent in the army, the last three in special ops. Expert marksman. Honorable discharge. Not married. His listed address was his mom's house in Lewiston, Idaho—Claire Monahan. Tax records indicated he ran his own yard maintenance company, though he didn't appear to make much. Some medical records indicated that his mother had Alzheimer's. No political contributions. No charitable deductions on his taxes. Nothing else of significant interest.
"Special ops," Gage said, leaning on the counter where there was a stack of Louis L'Amour paperbacks, most as tattered and weathered as the cowboys they pictured on their covers. "That sounds promising. You've got some chocolate on your chin, by the way."
"So sue me," Alex said, taking another bite.
"You share this with anyone else yet?"
"Would I do that to you? Especially after you brought me donuts?"
"With sprinkles," Gage added.
"With sprinkles," Alex said. "No, not a soul. But my buddy, he did ask a few questions. I tried to tell him it was just a personal matter, but he watches CNN like the rest of us. Well, except for you. You live in a cave."
"It's hardly a cave," Gage said. "I have indoor plumbing. You probably think I should just let the FBI handle this."
"I think the FBI will handle this, whether you do anything or not, but the question is whether you're going to stick yourself in the middle of it. What if this ends up being another Waco?"
"What if this is just some guy who lives with his mother who's vacationing in Oregon over a long weekend?"
Alex picked out another donut. He didn't bother wiping the smear of chocolate off his face. Gage assumed this was to spite him.
"You don't believe that," Alex said.
"No, I don't."
"And you're going to go to Idaho to find out."
"Yep."
"Long drive."
"I'll be there by nightfall."
"Not sure your van can even make it."
"Then I'll walk. I could use the exercise."
Alex took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "And if it ends being like Waco? You ready for that kind of attention?"
"I'm already on CNN," Gage said. "How much worse could it get?"
"Fair point. These are very good donuts, by the way. You've really outdone yourself. Oh, and your FBI friends stopped by this morning looking for you. Wondered why you didn't stay at your place last night."
"Next time, tell them it's because we had a bad case of bed bugs."
"They also wanted to talk to you about why you're looking at surveillance tape at Jaybee's Grocery."
"Hmm. Word's getting around about my fetish for hidden cameras, I guess."
"Still want to go to Idaho?"
"Yep. In fact, I better go now."
"What about Zoe?"
Gage gave him a knowing look. Alex sighed, but nodded with apparent reluctance. It was an act, Gage knew. Alex, even with two grown daughters of his own, or maybe because of it, had a soft spot for Zoe. Gage knew that Zoe wouldn't be thrilled about it, that if he spoke to her she would most likely insist on coming with him, but it wasn't an option this time. With Bruzzi in town, Gage didn't like leaving her behind, nor did he like possibly putting Alex and Eve in danger as well, but he just had to hope that Bruzzi was only really interested in Gage anyway.
Leaving the bookstore, Gage had the gnawing sense that taking off on a field trip to Idaho was not the most responsible thing to do, but he couldn't see just handing this over to the FBI. That wasn't his style. He may have been retired, but that didn't mean he was going to let the FBI bungle this. Not with Angela. Now with how she'd died—alone, afraid, in pain. Retirement or not, he had to see this through personally to the end.
You can't retire from what you are, Garrison.
Even after decades apart, Angela still knew just what to say to him that would get to him. Was that what this was about? Was he really just doing this for Angela, or was he just looking for another excuse to get back into his old line of work? No. He could never think of Angela as an excuse. Teacher. Mentor. Lover. Friend. She may have been all of those things, or none of them, but she would never just be an excuse. He may not have cared about the things that she did—he truly didn't see how what one believed or didn't believe about religion mattered at all in the grand scheme of things—but he'd appreciated the same things in her that Gerald Wellman had. He'd been jealous of her passion, her commitment to something greater than herself, because he could never muster any such resolve of his own.
Except for doing what was right, which he'd always understood on some gut level. He knew right and wrong. That was probably his only true talent.
And this was right.
Helping her was the right thing to do.
* * * * *
Sunlight gleamed on the wet sidewalks outside The Bugle's office, the morning fog evaporating under the parting clouds. He didn't see Bruzzi, though he knew he couldn't afford to stop being vigilant. His knee feeling strong, he left his cane in the van. Entering the office, he found Carmen talking to a heavy, balding man in a dark suit, a man with skin nearly as pale as his thick white sideburns. Fifties, maybe. The man rose from the chair next to her desk, extending his hand, brown satchel in the other.
"If you change your mind, Carmen, please call," he said. He had a deep, gravelly voice, the kind that would have been perfect for movie previews.
"I appreciate you stopping by, Larry."
"I mean it," he said. "I can't wait forever, but the offer's there on the table at least until I get back to New York. I think you'd be terrific. I know you'd be terrific, in fact."
She smiled but offered no comment. Larry headed for the door, nodding at Gage politely, then glancing a second time with more interest. Carmen ushered Larry past before he could say anything, thanking him again and closing the door.
"Whew," she said. Her short blonde hair was combed as smooth as silk. Her red wool sweater flattered her curves, the color bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks. He marveled at her ability to make anything look good. "Never thought Larry Masworth would walk into my office. Small world."
"Offer?" Gage said.
She patted his chest with both hands, raising up on her tiptoes and kissing him. "Good to see you," she said.
"He offered you a job?" Gage pressed.
"Something like that, yeah," she said. "He works for MSNBC now, if you can believe it. He's an associate producer, in town with his crew. Used to work with me back at the Detroit Free Press. He was just a staff writer like me."
"What kind of job?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I told him I'm not taking it."
"But what kind of job?"
She stepped past him, rifling through a stack of papers on her desk. He heard Bing Crosby playing faintly from her computer. He wondered if she and Alex had been swapping CDs.
"Carmen?" he said.
"Special correspondent, actually. A television reporter. Go on location. That sort of thing. I guess he saw me being interviewed and thought I'd be great. Funny, huh?"
Gage nodded. "Funny," he said quietly.
"I'm not taking it."
"Yeah, you said that."
She looked at him with more earnest now. "I like my life. I came here to get away from the rat race. Why would I want to jump right back into it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Fame, fortune, all that jazz."
"So what're you saying? You think I should take it?"
"I never said that."
"But you're not telling me I should stay either."
"Carmen, come on. Of course I want you to stay. You know that."
She frowned. "When you say it like that, you make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Jesus, Garrison."
"I just don't want you to pass up a good opportunity, that's all. Maybe this is the one, you know? The big break. I just don't want you to, yo
u know. . . have regrets."
"Ah, regrets. Yeah. Don't want to have those."
She considered him, her eyes misty. He didn't know what to say. The music player on her computer was between songs, which deepened the silence. He heard a distant helicopter on the beach, miles away. Search and Rescue, most likely. Once a week, at least, some moron treated the ocean like a kiddie park and got swept out to sea by a sneaker wave. To the regulars, the helicopters were a periodic reminder of the stupidity of tourists.
"I wanted you to know I'm leaving town for a day or two," he said.
"Oh yeah? Off to ski at Mt. Hood?"
"With this knee? They might as well rig the chair lift so it takes me right to the hospital. No, I'm checking out a lead."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
He hesitated. She saw his hesitation and raised her eyebrows.
"Really? You don't trust me?"
"It's not that," he said.
"What is it then?"
"I just—I don't want to put you in a position where you have to lie."
"I've already lied about you. What's a little more?"
He laughed. "All right, fine. It's not a big deal. I'm going—"
"No, no, no, never mind," she said. "You're right. Better that I not know. And why should we have to share every little detail like that? It's silly."
"Carmen—"
"No, really. You're right. Is Zoe going with you? She can stay with me, if you want."
"She's staying with Alex."
"Ah."
Somehow, he'd manage to hurt her again. In truth, he'd considered asking Carmen if Zoe could stay with her, since he liked their big sister-little sister act, but decided that Alex's FBI handgun training might prove useful if Bruzzi showed his ugly face. Since Gage wasn't really sure how to make things right with Carmen, he figured the best course of action was to stop before he could make things worse. He stepped close and hugged her, kissing the top of her head. He breathed in the smell of her hair, apricots and oranges and some other fruity fragrance.
She responded stiffly at first, a mannequin in his arms, then finally relaxed and hugged him back.
A Desperate Place for Dying Page 18