But I still didn’t have my answer. Why had he been persecuting Tonia? Well, it didn’t look as though I would get it. I just couldn’t make him talk. I had underestimated him—he wasn’t what I had expected. He might be an addle-brained misogynist, but he wasn’t a wild-eyed maniac. In fact, he seemed rather clever to me. And cool. Maybe too cool for a man whose future was at stake. Damn it all, what did he know that I didn’t? I suddenly decided I had nothing to lose by asking.
“Why have you been trying to scare Tonia Konig half to death?” The next thought just popped into my head and out my mouth before I had a chance to censor it: “Is someone holding your leash, Victor?”
There was no laughter this time. Had I hit the nail on the head? I was so surprised that I didn’t notice him moving backwards toward the edge of the embankment. Abruptly he turned and...disappeared. In a moment, the fog had swallowed him.
“Shit!” I yelled, running to the cliff edge and looking over. The fog made it impossible to see more than what was directly below me. I didn’t dare follow him or send the girls. I heard sounds of clumsy flight, a body falling heavily onto the rocks below, and a series of splashes. Then, nothing. “Farkas!” I shouted. Damn it anyway, had he fallen over the edge and broken his neck?
When Gray appeared beside me, a dark shape in black windbreaker and jeans, I thought my heart might stop. She snapped her fingers, and the girls flanked her. “The man you call Farkas has gone,” she told me.
“Gone? Then he’s all right?”
“Apparently. He fled along the rocks. He will probably climb the embankment closer to town, wait awhile, then come back here for his car.”
“Damn!” I swore.
“Why reproach yourself?” Gray asked me shrugging. “You told him the conditions under which he could remain free. What reasonable man would ignore them?”
What reasonable man, indeed?
The evening had an unfinished feel about it, like an interrupted conversation. Well, what was I to do—wait for Farkas on Clover Point, hoping he’d return for his car? Or go back to Redfern Street and beard him in his den? And then what? Beat on him? Demand to know what I was certain he was hiding from me? With a sigh, I decided to let it go. Farkas had run away, intimidated by my ferocious self. End of story.
I dropped Lester off at his new digs — a duplex on Fernwood Street. Not very prepossessing, but at least it was safe.
“Looks like the guys aren’t back yet,” Lester said. “Funny, I thought they’d have finished long ago. Oh well, maybe they’re still getting their stuff from the old house. Or drinking. I could use a few beers myself.”
I guessed that was an invitation, and decided to decline. “You’d probably be better off with a good night’s sleep,” I suggested in a motherly fashion. “By the way, it’s a moot point now, but how do you think the pictures will turn out?”
“Real good,” he said, patting his camera. “But I’m sure glad you won’t need them.”
“Well, that’s what you buy insurance for,” I said tritely.
“And those dogs — they were terrific,” he said appreciatively. “So were you, come to think of it. God, I’m surprised Farkas stood there and took all that from you.” He yawned. “What happens now, Caitlin?”
“Beats me,” I admitted. “If he stays away from Dr. Konig and from Valerie Frazier, he has nothing to worry about.”
Lester nodded. “Say, what did you mean about someone holding his leash? Do you really think someone else made him harass Dr. Konig?”
I shrugged. “Maybe I like to make things more complex than they are.”
“Well... “ Lester said.
“Goodnight, kiddo,” I told him fondly. “You were terrific, too. I appreciate your help.”
“Um, listen Caitlin,” he said, “if you ever, you know, need me to help you again...”
“I know where to find you,” I assured him. “Now go get some sleep.”
The house was dark when I got back. I was surprised. Not that I expected a homecoming party, but a smidgen of interest in how the proceedings had gone would not have been unwelcome. Thinking I should at least offer to recount the night’s events, I tapped on Tonia’s door, and called softly.
Belatedly, I saw the note: I can’t stand this, Caitlin. I’ve gone to bed with your bottle of Scotch. Talk to you in the morning.
Oh, to hell with it, I thought. Maybe Repo would be interested.
From the phone in the kitchen I made yet another call to Francis. This time his phone rang and rang. No answer. I hung up the receiver thoughtfully. The ferret was apparently not at home—about as unlikely an occurrence as snow in August. I shrugged. He was already hours late with my information—or unable to find any. I yawned. Well, Valerie would have to extricate herself from Buchanan’s clutches without my help. As for the tardy ferret, I decided I’d pay him a visit early next week and eloquently request a refund on my five hundred dollar advance.
I took a hot shower, poured myself an enormous cognac, and climbed into bed. Repo joined me, and I began telling him the story of the fleeing extortionist. He might have been willing to listen to the entire sorry tale—I don’t know. Suddenly the alcohol, my fatigue, and the night’s events juggernauted over me, and I was scarcely able to turn off the light before I was asleep.
Sunday
Chapter Seventeen
How long had the phone been ringing? I fumbled for it, knocking over my alarm clock and a glass of water in the process. “What?” I croaked.
This hiss of long distance preceded Francis’ voice. “You are so hard to get hold of!” he complained.
I swung my legs out of bed and sat up. “You should talk, you reneging little piranha! Talk to me, Francis.”
“Don’t be so mean to me, Caitlin,” he pouted. “When I tell you what I’ve done for you in the past twenty-four hours, you’ll probably kiss me.”
“Don’t count on it, buster. Come on, Francis, let’s have it.”
I could hear him take a deep breath. “I’m at some sleazy motel on the mainland,” he said, “and I’ve had to spend a lot of money—most of it mine, I might add—but I’ve got what you want on Buchanan.” I sat up straight, my heartbeat accelerating. “There was a well-buried police report which is very interesting indeed. Apparently Baxter Carlisle Buchanan was a very naughty boy thirty-one years ago.”
The suspense was making me crazy. “The bottom line, Francis.”
He sniffed. “You emotional women—so impatient! You want the bottom line—okay here it is. Thirty-one years ago, Buchanan murdered his first wife. And got away with it. At least that’s my reading of things. It seems she was cheating on him—or he thought she was cheating on him—and he shot her. The official story, for your information, is that she was shot by an intruder, but the facts on the police report don’t suggest that. There was more than enough evidence to bring him to trial, but the Buchanans are pretty influential in this part of the country. And his wife was just a poor kid from up north somewhere. His family never wanted him to marry her anyway, but it seems he really loved her—he went crazy when he suspected that she had been doing things behind his back. So the whole affair was hushed up. For thirty-one years.”
By this time I was on my feet, all my alarms going off. “Jesus Christ, Francis—did you just find this out? If you’ve been holding out on me—”
“Caitlin, relax! You have my word. I just got the report an hour and a half ago. I phoned you right away. Why the hell don’t you have an answering machine? I’ve been calling you on and off since Saturday morning with my suspicions, but I had no real hard information until now.”
“Okay, Francis. I’m sorry. It’s just that this is...dynamite. Is there anything else I should know right now?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You can come by and pick up the report tomorrow.”
“Right.” I started shedding sweatpants and shirt, fumbling around in the dark for my clothes. “I have to run, Francis. Thanks. Bye.”
So
Buchanan had been so crazy with jealousy that he had killed his first wife, had he? I shivered. Zipping my jeans and ramming my feet into my Nikes, I had my hand on the telephone to call Valerie when it rang under my palm, scaring me witless.
“Yes!” I yelled into the receiver.
A horrible gaspy wheezing was my only reply. I was about to hang up, thinking this a new variation on the obscene phone call, when a tiny voice moaned, “Caitlinnn ...”
“Who’s this?” I answered.
“Uhhh ... uhhh ... “ the voice said.
I realized that whoever was calling me was weeping uncontrollably. “Who is this?” I shouted.
“Mmmmm...me. It’s me—Lester,” the voice stuttered. I realized then that the voice also sounded scared to death.
“Lester? For God’s sake, it’s three a.m. What the hell’s the matter?”
He blubbered for a few moments, then managed to squeeze out a few coherent words. “They’re dead, Caitlin. Oh God. All of them. Dead.”
My mouth suddenly dry, I asked the question. “Who, Lester? Who’s dead?”
“All of them!” he shrieked as if addressing a moron. “Harrington, Jerome ... and Farkas, too.”
My mind was a complete blank. Perhaps I was having a nightmare. Or maybe Lester was. “How do you know this, Lester?”
“Because I’m right here with them. In the house on Redfern Street. They’ve been shot...there’s blood everywhere. Oh God, Caitlin. What should I do?”
“Get the hell out of there,” I told him.
“I can’t. I’m afraid,” he stuttered. “Maybe whoever did this is looking for me, too.”
“All the more reason to get out.” I tried to visualize the house on Redfern. Wasn’t there a low fence in the back yard, and an alley separating it from the next street? I thought so. “Go out the back door and down the alley. I’ll meet you on the corner of the next street over.”
“Caitlin, I can’t!”
“You bloody well better manage it, buster. Hide in the bushes or something. I’ll be on the corner in ten minutes.” I hung up.
It took me about fifteen additional seconds to pull my sweater on and grab my windbreaker. I checked the .357 and patted my pockets to make sure the speed loaders were still in place. Should I take time to call Valerie? I couldn’t decide. And what about Sandy? Things were very quickly becoming unravelled, and I sure could use a little help. But first, I had to take care of Lester.
He bolted from a stand of rhododendron bushes like a hunted stag, yanked open the car door, and collapsed on the passenger seat. Covering his face with his hands, he moaned a little. I shoved a half-full bottle of cognac at him.
“Take a drink, Lester. A big one. And calm down.”
While Lester drank, I drove. I found a Seven-Eleven with a well-lit parking lot, and turned in. He handed the bottle back to me and I took a swig myself. Couldn’t hurt, I reasoned.
“What were you doing back at that house, damn it?” I demanded.
He took a deep breath. “Harrington and Jerome didn’t come back. I called the people at the delivery services, then all our friends. Then I started to think maybe something awful had happened to them.” He sniffled a little. “The worst thing I could think of was Harrington decided to go back and try to patch things up with Farkas, and Farkas had beaten the shit out of them. So I went to check it out. I was going to sneak in the back door but it was open when I got there. And there they were. All three of them. In the living room. Shot in the head.” He started to shake again. “It didn’t look like Farkas had been beating on anyone, but I couldn’t be sure. I kind of freaked out, I guess. Took the phone and called you from the front hall closet.”
Smart kid—when in doubt, retreat into the closet. “Did you see anyone, Lester?”
He shook his head.
“Think! Anyone on the street? A car that didn’t belong there? Someone driving away?”
He shook his head again, then turned to look at me. “Caitlin, I just don’t remember. Maybe there was a big black car, but maybe not. I’m a little mixed up right now.”
“Maybe you’re not,” I told him. “Think about that big black car. Try to see it.”
He dutifully closed his eyes.
“What can you tell me about it?”
“Shiny,” he said. “Long. Foreign. A Jaguar,” he said with conviction. “I remember the hood ornament.”
It was too much to hope for, but I had to know. “How about the driver? Did you get a look at him?”
He opened his eyes. “No. That’s all I can tell you. Just the stuff about the car. Sorry.”
I let out the breath I had been holding. What I didn’t want to tell Lester was that if he had seen the car, in all probability the driver had seen him. And I had a pretty good idea who the driver was.
“Do you think the guy in the Jag was...” he swallowed audibly, “the killer?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I do.”
He hunched down in the seat, trying to disappear. Well, I couldn’t help him vanish, but I could arrange the next best thing. I could add him to my collection of orphans of the storm.
“How would you like to come home with me?” I said brightly. “Malcolm and Yvonne—the people upstairs from me—won’t be home tonight. You’ll have to sleep on their couch with the cat, but if you don’t mind, he probably won’t.”
That coaxed a wan smile from him. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks, Caitlin.”
I took Lester up the outside stairs and used the key Yvonne keeps in the begonia pot to let him in. I stayed just long enough to tell him where to find the bathroom and some blankets, and hurried back downstairs to my place. I was beginning to have a terrible feeling about all this.
I hammered on Tonia’s door loudly enough to wake the dead, then barged in and turned on the light. “Get up and throw some clothes on,” I told her.
“What?” she mumbled sleepily from her nest of blankets.
“Get up damn it! And hurry up about it.”
For once she didn’t give me any back talk. She put her clothes on over her pajamas, and when she had pulled her sweater over her head, I tossed the key to Malcolm and Yvonne’s apartment at her.
“Go on upstairs and lock yourself in,” I ordered.
“Why—” she started.
“I don’t have time to explain,” I told her. “Please, Tonia, just do it. There’s a badly frightened kid up there—maybe you can help soothe him. But don’t put the lights on and don’t tromp around. I want the place to seem empty if...” I trailed off.
“If what?” she demanded.
“If someone comes looking for me. Now go on and do what I told you. And if you have to, call the police.”
She looked appropriately frightened. “What happened tonight, Caitlin? It all went wrong, didn’t it?”
Ah, such confidence. I shook my head and pointed to the door. “Later. Just go upstairs.”
She opened her mouth to ask another question, but after a look at my face, changed her mind. I heard the door close, the sounds of her feet on the outside stairs, then the creaking of floorboards overhead. A murmur of voices. Then, nothing.
I dialed Valerie’s number. It rang eighteen times before I gave up. Letting the door to my house slam shut behind me, I raced outside to my MG. I knew who I was after now. I just didn’t know where to find him.
As I drove down deserted Oak Bay Avenue, I cursed my stupidity. I had been on a parallel path to the truth from the beginning. Damn it anyway—I’d known Farkas hadn’t been harboring some nutty misogynistic urge. It had just felt wrong. Why hadn’t I paid attention to my intuition? I shook my head. Because I’d been afraid to. Because I had wanted to reason my way to the truth. The analytical sleuth, solving the riddle by the cold clear light of logic. Not the frowzy tealeaf reader, Madame Caitlin, coaxing the truth out of a dark pattern in a cracked cup.
No, I had held the truth in my hands the afternoon I’d ransacked Farkas’ trunk and found his old Air Force pictures. But I had i
gnored it. A coincidence, I’d told myself. Oh, sure. Some coincidence—Baxter Buchanan’s wife being blackmailed by Victor Farkas. The fact that Farkas just happened to be an old Air Force buddy of Buchanan’s and kept a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings of Buchanan’s exploits was, of course, unrelated. What a cozy, improbable tale.
How I can be so willfully blind sometimes amazes even me. Well, now I had a story I liked better.
In the course of directing a burglary—an activity which was his avocation—Victor Farkas had come into possession of letters between Tonia Konig and Val Frazier. That was the only coincidence, and that was the event which had set all the others in motion. Farkas knew he had hit gold, because he had kept a scrapbook on all the events in the life of Baxter Buchanan, his old Air Force hero, for lo these twenty-five years, including Buchanan’s marriage. The information contained in the letters—that Valerie was in thought, if not in deed, being unfaithful to Buchanan—must have pushed Farkas’ crazy button. Presumably Buchanan had confided in him sometime during their wartime careers about the first philandering Mrs. Buchanan, and how her infidelity had cut him to the quick. Poor sensitive soul. I was willing to bet that Farkas never forgot that little story. Then, years later, when James Harrington and Mark Jerome presented him with the letters, he had the key. Something that would unlock his hero’s gratitude. All he had to do was scare Val back into Buchanan’s arms. But of course he couldn’t risk harming Val, so he picked on Tonia. What did he expect to get in return from Buchanan? I had no idea. Money? Maybe. Buchanan’s undying gratitude? Perhaps. Power over the man? Possibly.
And what about Buchanan? Had he known anything about Farkas’ little scheme to bring Val to heel? I guessed not. Farkas probably wanted to present him with a fait accompli.
I frowned. This theory had as many holes in it as a hunk of Swiss cheese. Why had Farkas intended to prolong the blackmail process? Did he think he would wear Val down gradually—abrade her by degrees until she went running back to the safety of a socially acceptable relationship? Maybe. And why such gleeful persecution of Tonia? Was that merely an added bonus—the opportunity to harass and humiliate one of the hated female sex? If so, he had certainly thrown himself into his work with inventive abandon.
The Always Anonymous Beast Page 15