Family Reunion

by Nicholas Sarazen

  Dr. Thomas stroked his beard and looked at his patient. "Cindy, I think you're showing remarkable insight and courage." His tone was gentle. "But I still don't think you should go."

  "Not going to the reunion is the easy way out," Cindy said firmly. "I'm going to go."

  Chapter 31

  It wasn't until Tuesday evening that Stephanie finally reached Dirk Yates. He was the last one on her list. At first he didn't want to come to the reunion unless he could bring A.K., but he changed his mind when she offered to pay to board the dog at a kennel near Sonora. Counting Dirk, she had commitments from eleven of the fifteen former Family members she had called. Stephanie had given everyone she interviewed both her home and office numbers, and Alexis McGivens called her at home Monday night to tell her she had thought about it and still wasn't interested. Mike D'Angelo was the only one who wasn't sure. He wanted to come, but he already had made plans for that weekend. He told her he would try to work something out and get back with her before the end of the week.

  Stephanie went to the office on Wednesday with just one more interview to write. Some people were fascinated by the series, others were outraged, but everyone had an opinion. The Trib's advertising push had brought about a flood of new subscriptions, and daily sales were climbing to near-record levels. The series was being editorialized on television stations and in almost every newspaper in southern California, and Stephanie was besieged with requests for exclusive interviews. She even had a note on her desk about an invitation to appear on Late Night With David Letterman, but it turned out to be another of Adrian Mathers' practical jokes.

  Soon after she arrived at the office, Stephanie met with Hal to work on plans for the reunion. Mr. Zollinger offered the Trib's party house in Rancho Palos Verdes and Hal accepted. Even without publicizing the reunion in advance, Hal was concerned about security. He knew the secluded party house would be the perfect place to hold the gathering. In addition to the main lodge, the twenty-acre retreat had several cabins, a tennis court, and a pool. Stephanie came up with an idea on how she could cover the reunion and ensure secrecy at the same time--instead of hiring people to serve food and drinks, she and Hal would handle those duties themselves.

  "Kenyon, you got a minute?"

  Stephanie stopped typing and looked over her shoulder to find Lance Melrose. "That's about all I have. What do you need?"

  He put his hands on the back of her chair and leaned forward, his head next to hers, as if he were trying to read what she was typing. "I want you to give me a list of everyone who's coming to your reunion, and let me know how they're planning on getting here."

  Stephanie scooted her chair to the left, forcing Melrose to straighten up. "Nobody gets their names, Lance. You should know better than to ask."

  "Okay, forget the names. But I still need to know their transportation requirements since we're footing the bill. I hope you encouraged them to drive instead of fly."

  "Always first class, aren't you Lance?" Stephanie moved back to the keyboard and started typing again. "These are busy people. If we want them here Friday night, we'll have to fly some of them in."

  "Oh, all right, if we really have to. But I need at least some sort of idea what this will cost, and I want to go over the figures with you. Can you make it at nine, in my office?"

  "I have too many things to do in the morning," Stephanie protested.

  "Not tomorrow morning. Tonight."

  "Nine o'clock tonight?" The last thing Stephanie wanted was to be cornered alone at night with Melrose. She swiveled around to face him. "Are you sure this can't wait?"

  "It's either tonight or they don't fly. Your choice."

  Stephanie sighed. "I'll be there."

  It was late afternoon and she was finishing the last interview when her phone rang.

  "Stephanie Kenyon."

  "Stephanie, this is Frank Satterfield." There was a pause. "Look, I'm sorry about the other day. I shouldn't have treated you like that."

  "That's okay," Stephanie said. She never expected Satterfield to call, much less apologize. Of all the cops she had ever dealt with, Satterfield was the first to admit he had made a mistake. "I guess I said some things I shouldn't have, too."

  "Well, I'd like to make a peace offering...that is, if you're willing. Are you busy this evening?"

  Stephanie remembered her meeting with Melrose. She now had one more reason to dislike him. "I'm sorry, I have to work late tonight. But another time?"

  "Then how about tomorrow night? Dinner at La Scala? I can meet you there at seven."

  Stephanie hesitated only a moment. "I'll see you then."

  "Stephanie, this is Colonel Willis. I wanted to let you know I heard from Weasel."

  "You did? When?" Without letting Colonel Willis answer, she asked, "Where is he?"

  "I don't know, he wouldn't tell me. And if you happen to hear from him, don't let him know I called you."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I'm not sure what's going on. He called and asked me not to get rid of his stuff--his clothes and things. He said he'd be coming back, but it might be awhile. That's all he said. He didn't want me to tell anyone he called, especially you. Normally I wouldn't betray a confidence like that, but frankly I'm very worried about him, and I know you have been, too. Can you tell me what's going on?"

  Stephanie thought of her own vow to Weasel. "I'm not sure myself, Colonel. Do you have any idea at all where he could be staying?"

  "He doesn't have any family or friends. Who knows, he might be in another shelter somewhere."

  "Are you going to call the police to tell them you heard from Weasel?"

  "No, I don't see any reason to do that right now. There's no proof that he has done anything wrong. And whatever is troubling him personally, involving the police would only make it worse."

  "I agree, Colonel. Thanks for calling. I'll be sure and let you know if I hear from him."

  Melrose was in his office when Stephanie walked in at precisely nine o'clock. It took them less than twenty minutes to go over everything, but Melrose insisted they check it a second and third time. Just before ten he closed his briefcase.

  "I guess that's it." He flashed a suggestive smile. "Now, Kenyon, what would you say about going somewhere for a little nightcap to unwind a bit?"

  "I think I'll do that." Stephanie smiled back. "Thanks for the idea."

  She heard Melrose muttering something as she closed the door and walked away.

  The man behind the steering wheel unwrapped the last stick of chewing gum and stuck it between his teeth. The wrapper joined several others on the floor of the sedan. He pulled his black hat lower on his head. From where he sat he had a perfect view of the elevator doors. He reached inside his coat and pulled a large handgun from a shoulder holster. He slid the release and pushed out the cylinder. Each chamber held a round. Gently he pressed the cylinder back into place, holding the gun down near his lap to muffle the metallic click. He slipped it back into the holster.

  Something caught his attention. The dial above the elevator doors was sweeping from right to left. He eased down in the seat, peering through the steering wheel across the top of the dash. As the doors parted he raised up just enough to see an attractive blonde in a business suit get off the elevator. His eyes narrowed. She started toward him, but that was according to plan because he had parked near her car. As she walked her high heels tapped on the concrete floor. She was now less than sixty feet away. He continued to watch and calmly chew his gum until he heard a car engine start. The engine began to rev louder and louder. There was a sudden screeching of the tires as the car sped forward. He pulled his gun and jumped from his car.

  Stephanie stood in the path of the oncoming headlights. She had just started to move when someone pushed her from the side, making her lose her balance and fall. She looked up in time to see a man in a black hat level a long-barreled revolver at the oncoming car. Above the sound of squealing tires three shots rang out. The car swerved to the right, smashing into a
concrete pillar. Steam hissed through three holes in the grill. From under the engine, fluorescent-green coolant washed across broken headlight glass that now sparkled like emeralds on the floor.

  The man with the gun stood beside the car, his weapon trained at the open window on the driver's side. "Make one move and you're a ghost." His tone was emotionless. Without taking his eyes off the driver, he asked, "Are you all right, Miss Kenyon?"

  Shaken, Stephanie rose to her feet. "I think so. Who are you? What the hell is going on?"

  "Robert Winslow, private investigator," responded the man in the black hat. "Let's find out who your secret admirer is." He moved the gun closer to the man's head. "All right, I want to see both hands on top of the steering wheel!"

  "I don't think I can," the driver said in a pained voice. "I think my right arm is broken." His trembling left hand clutched the top of the steering wheel. "Please...don't shoot me."

  The private investigator kept his gun on the man while he slowly opened the car door. "Get out. And don't do anything that will make me nervous. This trigger's only got a five pound pull."

  The man winced as he slid out of the car, holding his right arm. His eyes were wide and watery.

  "I wasn't going to hurt her," he said. "I was just trying to scare her a little bit, that's all."

  "You were going to run her down," Winslow snapped, "and when I pushed her out of the way you tried to run me down."

  "No, I swear. I was giving her plenty of time to get out of the way, but you pushed her and then you were standing right there in front of me. I didn't have any place to go. I slammed on my brakes but you shot at me anyway."

  "Not at you," Winslow corrected. "The car. If I had shot at you, you'd be dead." He shoved his gun back into its holster. "Just suppose that what you're saying is true. Then I want to know why."

  "Some guy in Mallory's Pub offered me two-hundred bucks if I'd do it. He said this chick here owes him a lot of money and won't pay him back. He just wanted her to get the message." The man looked at Stephanie. "Honest, lady, I wasn't going to hurt you."

  "Who was the guy?" Winslow asked.

  "I don't know. Like I said, some guy in Mallory's I met earlier tonight. I've never seen him before. He gave me a hundred bucks and told me what this lady looked like. I was to come to the McKinnon parking garage and wait until she walked out of the elevator. If she was alone I was to do it, but if she had somebody with her, I wasn't. Afterwards I was supposed to go back to the bar and he'd give me another hundred bucks. Look, if you don't believe me, check my wallet. The money's still in there."

  "Let's see it," Winslow said. "But do it slowly."

  The man carefully pulled out his wallet and handed it to Winslow. Inside was a crisp one-hundred dollar bill, along with a five and three ones.

  "All right, maybe you are telling the truth. But you're still in a ton of trouble. Sit down where I can keep an eye on you." Winslow looked at Stephanie. "Are you sure you're all right, Miss Kenyon?"

  "I'm fine, but how did you happen to be here?"

  "That's not for me to say, ma'am. But do you have any idea who would go to so much trouble to scare you like this?"

  "No, no, I don't."

  The elevator doors opened. In unison the trio looked over to see a man start to step out. When he saw them he ducked back inside.

  "That's him!" the injured man cried out. "That's the guy who gave me the hundred bucks!"

  Stephanie's mouth dropped open. "Melrose!"

  Chapter 32

  Frank Satterfield paused until the waiter had poured the wine and walked away. "So this Lance Melrose is Arthur Zollinger's nephew?"

  "Yes," Stephanie replied. "Can you believe it?"

  "And the guy he hired wasn't really trying to run you down?"

  "No, he was only supposed to scare me. And it worked. But that was just the latest episode in Lance's little reign of terror." Stephanie took a sip of wine. "Melrose was the one behind all of those weird phone calls I was getting. He knew my schedule as well as I did, because he had to approve everything. He had me paged in an airport, then hung up on me when I answered. He even bribed an old lady working at a seedy motel to ring my room in the middle of the night and then deny it the next day. Let's see, what else..." Stephanie stopped to think. "Oh, then there was the threatening letter he sent to my apartment, and black roses, and another threatening note he had delivered to the office."

  "He sounds like a major menace. Do you buy his explanation?"

  "I can believe it from Melrose. You should have seen the look on his face when Mr. Zollinger walked in. I think Melrose was too scared to try and lie his way out of it. Besides, if he were lying, do you think he would have come up with that story?"

  "No, but it's still hard to believe."

  "You don't know Lance Melrose. He knew the Trib would sell more papers if it seemed like Mother Earth's Family was behind the threats and the attempt on my life. I'm sure he also got some personal enjoyment out of frightening me, because he and I have had problems for a long time. He didn't count on several things, though. He was certain I would write about the threats, but I didn't. He also didn't anticipate my editor telling Mr. Zollinger what had been happening. And finally, he never expected his uncle to hire a private investigator to keep an eye on me. Mr. Zollinger paid for it out of his own pocket so no one at the Trib, including Melrose, would know about it."

  "What happens to Melrose now? Are you pressing charges?"

  "I could, but I'm not. Mr. Zollinger made him apologize to me, and I'm sure that was excruciating for someone like Melrose. He also has to pay for damages to the garage, pay for the guy's medical expenses, and get his car fixed. But the best part," Stephanie's smile widened, "is that he's gone from the Trib for a long, long time. Mr. Zollinger arranged through one of his friends at a small paper in Spokane for Melrose to get a job as a junior accountant in their fiscal department. Mr. Zollinger left the door open for Melrose to come back to the Trib one day, but he assured me it wouldn't be anytime soon."

  Satterfield shook his head and grinned. "And I thought cops were crazy." He opened the menu and began to pore over the list of entrees.

  She used the pause in the conversation to steal a fresh look at Frank Satterfield. There was something about him, something about his face that radiated goodness. But it was a goodness without pretentiousness, without piety. Then it hit her. It was his eyes. And not just the soft grayness, or the way they were deep-set, or the way they danced when he teased her. No, it was something extending far beneath the surface, as if his eyes were a window to his soul. Frank looked up from his menu and smiled when their eyes met.

  "I'm glad you were able to make it tonight," he said.

  Stephanie reached across and touched his hand. "Me, too."

  After the waiter had taken their orders, Frank refilled their wine glasses. "Have you heard from your buddy Weasel yet?"

  Stephanie paused before answering and felt a little quiver in her throat. She hoped that Frank didn't notice. "No, I haven't." Technically it wasn't a lie. "He hasn't been back to Severman House, either. But now that you know the man in the alley wasn't murdered, what does it matter?"

  "Well, theft of a corpse isn't exactly a capital crime, but the D.A. takes it seriously. We need to find out if he's the one who did it. But even if he is, he could get lucky. I heard County Hospital doesn't want to make a big deal out of this thing. I guess it was embarrassing enough to have someone just stroll right in and steal a body like that without having to go through even more publicity by pressing charges and going to court. And the kid's only living relative was his grandmother. All she cared about was that he got a Christian burial. If Messina was involved, the best thing for him to do is to come in and explain what he did and why."

  "Are you looking for him?" Stephanie asked.

  "Homicide's not, of course. I really don't know if anyone else is. There's not an active warrant out on him, if that's what you mean."

  "If I do happen to find hi
m, and I can convince him to tell his story, would you be willing to talk with him?"

  "It's not my beat, but sure, if you want me to."

  "Thanks. It would mean a lot to me."

  Stephanie took a sip of wine. "Did you always want to be a cop?"

  "Oh, I've thought about doing other things. Years ago, in college, I had some illusions about being a folk singer. I was always intrigued by the power to move people through music. I bought a lot of equipment, made some inquiries, but things didn't work out. I guess it just wasn't my calling."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, when I was in catechism class--I was about twelve or thirteen--I asked the teacher, who was also our pastor, what made him choose the ministry. He told me it was his calling. When I asked him what that meant, he explained that he had wanted to be a football coach more than anything. He had played football in college. He tried really hard to become a coach, but every time he made a move in that direction, he ran into one obstacle after another. He finally decided it just wasn't meant to be. He said it was God's way of telling him that he should go into the ministry."

  "And you think police work is your calling?"

  Frank smiled. "Sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn't it?"

  "Not at all," replied Stephanie, "as long as it's what you really want to do."

  "This will also sound odd, but I like Homicide. I even feel sort of an obligation to stay there. I see a lot of people hurt. Obviously I don't mean the dead. There's nothing you can do for them except catch their killers. But the families and friends--they're victims, too. I'd like to think my work is important to them if to no one else. There's no real justice in the world unless there are people who are willing to work for it." Frank shook his head. "Boy, does that ever sound trite."

  "It sounded sincere."

  "What about you? You're an intelligent lady. What made you become a reporter?"