If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  In San Francisco, they lived in the basement ofPsoong’s uncle’s house for several months, maintaining their secret, remainingfamily. Then they bought an old two-story house in the Sunset with Psoong’sfather’s savings and the money they earned as office cleaners. They livedquietly in fear-fear that intensified when police came to them last night.

  Remember the rules. We cannot go back. No one mustknow.

  The two detectives were not in uniform, flashed theirbadges and Psoong let them in. They did not stay long after Psoong explained infaltering English that they knew nothing about the missing American girl. Whenthe detectives left, Psoong thought that was the end of it and managed a smile.His relief vanished less than an hour later when one of the officers returnedwith an Asian woman. She was fluent in five Asian languages, including theirs.

  She was a pretty, young university language professorfrom Berkeley who could not be fooled. Right off she explained how the policewere not the slightest bit interested in them, only their help, which theycould give confidentially. After listening to her warm, friendly assurances,Ngen immediately wanted to tell her what he had seen.

  The woman asked if they remembered seeing anything oddin the last month or so. Psoong and Min shook their heads. The woman showedthem a picture of Gabrielle. Yes, Ngen knew her and talked to her once ortwice. She was a friendly little girl who loved her dog.

  “How do you know she loved her dog?” the detectivesaid.

  The professor translated.

  Ngen shot a look at Psoong. Remember the rules. The professorcaught the communication and placed herself on the couch between Psoong andNgen, showing Ngen an enhanced picture of Gabrielle’s kidnapper. For amicrosecond, recognition flickered in his eyes.

  “Have you seen anything like this man around here before?”

  Ngen swallowed and shook his head.

  The professor knew the truth. “Are you certain?” Herpretty eyes held him prisoner. She would not let him look at Psoong.

  “No,” Ngen lied.

  The woman asked Min and Psoong a few more questions,then cards were left and requests made for calls if anything was remembered.This was a very serious case. A little girl’s life was in danger. Ngen noticedhow the tall detective searched his eyes for something.

  Now, watching the police scrutinizing Gabrielle’syard, Ngen struggled to understand what was happening. More than twentyofficers in white coveralls, with radios crackling, were investigating theneighborhood. The enormity of Gabrielle’s disappearance hit Ngen. He could nolonger stand it. He hurried home and pleaded with Min to allow him to tell thepolice what he had seen. What if the kidnapper had stolen him? Wouldn’t Min andPsoong want help? This was the United States, people helped people here. Mincalled Psoong, who was at work. He came home, worry etched in his face.

  “I, too, have thought about the matter. It is truethat I could not bear another tragedy, if this abductor were to take Ngen. Wemust help police catch him. But first we need assurances.”

  Psoong called the number on the professor’s card andshe arrived with two new officers-Sydowski, a big man with gold in his mouthand his associate, a dark-haired young woman, Turgeon. Min made tea. Theprofessor assured them the police were only interested in the kidnapping of thelittle girl who lived two doors away.

  “The little girl’s dog did not run away a month ago,”Ngen began.

  “What happened?” Sydowski asked as Turgeon made notes.

  The professor translated.

  “A man took the dog in the night.”

  How did Ngen know?

  “I saw him from my bedroom windows,” the professor repeated.

  Sydowski asked to see Ngen’s upstairs bedroom. Theysaw the small telescope on Ngen’s nightstand at the window. They remained calm.The bedroom’s large corner windows overlooked the Nunn’s backyard. Sydowskicould see two IDENT people kneeling in the dog’s kennel.

  “Tell the officers everything,” the professor said.

  Ngen loved to look at the stars and moon. They werehis hope when they were adrift at sea, and now his communion with his deadmother and father. The night the man came there was a three-quarter moon. Itwas about two A.M. because he had set his alarm to see the best view. All wastranquil in the neighborhood. Ngen could hear the Nunns’ air conditionerhumming. He was studying the moon when he saw a man walking down the backalley. He focused his telescope on him. He looked like the man in the policepicture. He unwrapped some meat and fed it to the dog, then walked away withthe dog to his truck, which was parked down the alley, and drove away.

  Sydowski and Turgeon absorbed Ngen’s account.

  “Did he get a license plate?”

  The professor translated and the boy said something atlength, reaching for the star journal he kept, flipping through the pages.

  He kept a journal? Sydowski couldn’t believe it.

  At school they taught you to take license numbers ifyou ever saw anything bad. But he didn’t get the entire plate.

  “The first three characters, B75,” the professortranslated.

  “Was it a California plate?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of truck was it?”

  Ngen didn’t know trucks.

  “If we showed him pictures?” Turgeon asked, whiletaking notes.

  The professor explained. Ngen nodded. “Yes, that wouldhelp.”

  Sydowski wanted to know what kind of meat the man gavethe dog, and did Ngen see a store’s logo on any wrapping or packaging?

  The professor translated. Ngen thought for a moment.It was hamburger in a white tray with transparent wrap.

  “What sorts of things does Ngen write in his starjournal?”

  The professor asked Ngen.

  “Dates and times of everything he saw in the night.”

  “Did Ngen make such notes the night he saw the mantake the dog?”

  Yes, he did because it was so unusual.

  “May we borrow the journal?” Turgeon asked.

  The professor made the request. Ngen looked to Psoong,who nodded.

  One more time, because this was so important, Sydowskiwanted to know what happened when the man approached the Nunns’ yard.

  Ngen said the man threw some hamburger into the dog’skennel and the dog ate it without making a sound. Then the man opened the gateand the dog ate more from his hand. Then the man picked up the dog, took himunder his arm, and walked to his truck and drove off.

  “Did the man throw the wrapper away?”

  Ngen thought. Yes, he tossed it aside.

  “Where?”

  Somewhere in the alley near the yard.

  “Again, what did it look like?”

  The woman explained, then said something to Min, wholeft the room. She returned with three packs of frozen meat. Ngen touched apackage of sausages, packed on a white foam meat tray with clear plasticwrapping and a producer’s label with a bar code on one corner, with the date,weight, cost, and a product code.

  Turgeon made notes. Sydowski reached for his radio andsummoned the head of the IDENT unit to Ngen’s room. The man arrived, his eyesdarting to the boy, the meat, Sydowski, then Turgeon.

  “This is what we’re looking for, Carl,” Sydowski said.

  Captain Carl Gray turned the package over in hishands.

  “Sausages?”

  “A meat tray and wrapper just like this one,” Turgeonsaid.

  “The guy lured the dog away with wrapped hamburger,”Sydowski said. “If we could find the wrapping, label, and product code-“

  “Right.” Gray came up to speed. “Then we could narrowwhere and when he bought it.” Gray reached for his radio. “I’ll call my teamfor a briefing. But it’ll be a needle in a haystack, Walt.”

  “I know. It’s been nearly a month.”

  Gray left, and while they thanked Ngen and his family,something ate at Sydowski, something he needed to know, so he told theprofessor to ask.

  “Why didn’t you come forward yesterday?” the womansaid.

  N
gen looked at Psoong, at Min, and the professor, whoimmediately knew the answer. They were scared.

  Sydowski nodded.

  Then Ngen looked directly at Sydowski and in a littleboy’s voice that was awash with emotion, spoke spontaneously, rapidly, forcingthe professor to struggle to keep up with him.

  “They were scared that police would send them back,but he loved this country, it was his home and did not want to make troublebecause he knew that people who make trouble are punished. The day after thedog was taken, Ngen saw the little girl and how sad she was. He saw the signsin the neighborhood with the dog’s picture and heard her calling him everynight. He wanted to tell her that he saw a man steal her dog, but was afraid.”

  Ngen began crying. Min comforted him.

  “His heart ached for the little girl who loved her dogso much. Ngen knew what it was like to love someone and lose them. Now the girlis gone and he is terrified. It is all his fault. Had he spoken earlier, maybeshe would be safe. And now that he has spoken, maybe the kidnapper will comefor him? Please do not punish his family. He is sorry. Please forgive him!Please!”

  The professor dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

  Sydowski and Turgeon exchanged glances.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  By Monday afternoon, Reed was atop Russian Hill, approaching a Victorian mansionoverlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. A gabled roof topped its three stories,twin turrets, and colossal windows. The open front porch was edged with ornatespindled railing, and the clipped lawn was rimmed by a wrought-iron,spear-tipped fence.

  Would he find answers here? Anything that would bringhim closer to Keller? So far, the house was the only lead he and Wilson came upwith after digging all Sunday and this morning. No matter what they tried,quietly using their sources in a number of agencies, scouring the Internet,they could not nail a good address for Keller. He was invisible.

  Even Professor Martin provided little help.Coincidentally, she popped by the Star that morning to thank Reed overcoffee in the cafeteria for the feature on her group. Reed made time for herbecause he wanted to know more about Keller, but he was careful not to tell herabout his suspicions. And if Martin had any, she kept them to herself.

  “Tom, I just wanted to thank you. After your articleran, we received pledges of support and calls from bereaved parents searchingfor help. I thought your reporting and writing was sensitive.”

  “Don’t thank me. Say, what did Keller think?” Reed wascasual.

  “I don’t know. He’s so private. Why do you ask?”

  Reed shrugged. “No reason. I mean, he really didn’tlike me.”

  She was wearing a summer dress and sandals. Almost nomakeup. She was attractive, Reed thought. “I’m glad you left him out of yourstory. He has a lot of pain to deal with right now.”

  “Don’t we all Kate?”

  Reed’s cell phone rang. He had to go.

  Standing to leave, he asked Kate to put him in touchwith Keller again. He wanted to apologize. She would, only she did not have anumber or address for him. It was curious. Maybe she had taken his number downincorrectly, or there was a mix-up. Anyway, none of the others knew him or wherehe lived. And something strange had happened.

  “He stopped coming to the sessions after you visitedthe group.”

  “Really? It was because of me?”

  “I don’t know. It could be a number of things. I mean,I don’t know much about him beyond his loss of his three children. And I amworried because the anniversary is coming up. I’ve been trying to find him. Ibelieve he gave me a phony number to protect his privacy. If I locate him, I’lllet him know you would like to see him again. I owe you.”

  It was Molly Wilson who called Reed. She had triedfinding Keller’s wife, Joan Keller. Joan Webster, if she was using her maidenname. She checked the DMV, voters’ registration, everything she could think of.Nothing.

  As for Keller, only a San Francisco post office boxand two other addresses surfaced from all their checking. One was for thebungalow that the Kellers’ rented for a couple of years in Oakland during thelate 1960’s. Wilson knocked on some doors, went through old directories, tryingto find old neighbors, see if Keller kept in touch with anybody. Nothing.

  They were missing something obvious. What the hell wasit? Reed reflected, coming to the last address, their last hope for a lead: themansion on Russian Hill. He pushed opened the unlocked gate, entered the yard,and gazed at the house where Keller had lived with his wife and children twentyyears ago. Before their lives were destroyed.

  No one answered the bell. Reed waited. Rang again. Heheard the clank of metal on stone and went around to the side, where a womanwas on her knees, tending a rosebush. Property records showed the owners wereLyndon and Eloise Bamford, who bought it from Carlos Allende, who bought itfrom Keller about a year after the tragedy. The robust woman appraising Reedappeared to be in her sixties. She had the attractive, intelligent face of alady who was not easily intimidated.

  “May I help you?” She patted a trowel against a glovedhand.

  “I’m looking for Eloise Bamford.”

  “You found her. Who are you?”

  “Tom Reed, a reporter with The San Francisco Star.”

  “A reporter?” She stood and accepted his card.

  “Sorry to interrupt you. I was hoping you could helpme.”

  Sensing something behind him, Reed turned and faced anuneasy Doberman. “I have identification if you would care to see it?”

  Eloise Bamford smiled.

  “No, you look the part. Go away, Larry,” she orderedthe dog. “We’ll go to the back porch. I’ve just made lemonade.”

  They sat in exquisite cane chairs and Reed admired theBamford’s backyard. It was a sloping garden, with an oasis of large trees, dellsof ferns, and fiery-red rhododendrons, pathways lined with rose-covered, stoneretaining walls.

  Reed sipped pink lemonade and told Mrs. Bamford-whoinsisted on being called Eloise-about the bereavement group feature and hishunt for Keller. He did not reveal his fears about Keller, keeping his urgencyout of the conversation, hoping Eloise might jump in.

  She didn’t.

  As he continued, Reed was drawing the conclusion hehad hit another dead end. He showed Eloise the articles of Keller’s tragedy.She read them while he absorbed the garden’s tranquility.

  “Yes, I remember the case and the Allendes.” She gavethe clippings back to him. “They were from Argentina. Sold the house to usafter a year. Couldn’t stand to live here anymore. Sad.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Too many ghosts.”

  Reed nodded.

  “Of course you know how Joan Keller died?”

  She was dead? “I was trying to find out.”

  “Suicide. Here. Not long after the children drowned.”

  He had never found any stories about that, nor anobit.

  “Joan Keller’s death was what led the Allendes tosell. They didn’t know the Kellers’ history until someone around here mentionedit. Mrs. Allendes couldn’t bear to stay in the house. They sold it. Moved backto Argentina. I think he was a diplomat.”

  “The tragic history of the house didn’t bother you?”

  “Not really.”

  Eloise wanted to know why Reed would come to the houselooking for Keller when he hadn’t lived in it for such a long time.

  “It’s because I can’t find him. I know it’s a longshot, but I thought you might have a current address for him. Do you know him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I see.” Reed was at a loss. “I just thought cominghere might help me find him. After the story on the university’s research,Keller seemed to vanish.”

  “Like a ghost himself.”

  “I suppose.” Reed thanked her for her lemonade andtime.

  “Why do you need to find him?”

  “I need to talk to him about his tragedy. Thetwenty-year anniversary is coming up. The Star wanted a memorialfeature.”

  “Mmmmm…” Eloise kept turning Reed’s card over
.

  “I’m curious,” Reed said.

  “It’s part of your job.”

  “How did Joan Keller die?”

  Eloise sipped her lemonade and looked out at thegarden for a moment, watching a pair of swallows preening in the birdbath.

  “She hung herself in the attic sometime after herchildren drowned. She was a tormented young woman.”

  How would she know? Reed nodded. A sweet-scentedbreeze caressed them as Eloise tapped his card in her hand.

  “Some of the family’s things are still up there.”

  “Things?”

  “In boxes. The Allendes never touched them. I don’tthink they ever used the attic. We just shoved the stuff into a corner,thinking somebody would claim it one day. We tried to locate Edward Kellerourselves years ago. No luck.”

  Reed understood.

  “Would you like to look at it? It might help you.”

  The air in the attic was stifling.

  Stained-glass octagonal windows filtered dusty beamsof light to a crumpled tarp in a dark corner. The floorboards creaked. Eloisestopped under an overhead joist bearing a faded “X”.

  “The insurance people or police marked the spot whereshe tied the rope and stepped from a chair.”

  Reed paused. He could have reached the beam if hewanted.

  “And over here”-Eloise pulled back the tarp, stirringup a dust storm that made Reed sneeze-“is what Edward Keller abandoned. Allthis was theirs.”

  It was a small warehouse of boxes, crates, andfurniture. Reed opened a trunk. A chill passed through him. It was filled withchildren’s toys. He found a valise filled with papers and sifted through them.Mostly bills and invoices for the house. Eloise went to a small desk, rummagedthrough a drawer, and pulled out a thick leather-bound book with yellowingedges. It smelled musty.

  “This was her diary. You’ve never known such abjectsadness.”

  Her handwriting was elegant, clear, from a fountainpen. He flipped the pages. The secrets of her life. It began on her sixteenthbirthday. Her small-town-girl disappointments and dreams. Her exciting firstmeeting with Edward Keller. “Deliciously handsome tycoon from San Francisco,”she wrote. “What a catch he would make!” Reed flipped to their marriage, thechildren. Joan’s concerns evolving into frustration and anger at how Edwardnever had time for the children, missing birthdays, holidays. The mansion was agilded cage. Their marriage was strained. Edward had become intoxicated with success.She begged him to make time for the children.