She printed the articles and sent Hayes a reply, thanking him. He’d given her more information than she needed, and leads to follow up, if she felt compelled. At the moment, her main concern was Peyton’s health.
Hagan was in the kitchen pouring coffee. She took a cup. “As soon as I drink this and change, I’m going to the hospital. Do you want to come?”
He declined, saying he had errands to run and asked if he could use the car. The insurance company told him not to drive the Dodge until an adjuster looked at the damage, which he would do when he brought him a replacement. She waffled. He pleaded. She was going only one place—the hospital—she could take a taxi there and back. He had multiple stops, wasn’t sure exactly where he would be going. It would be much easier if he had the car.
They compromised. They’d both go to the hospital. If Peyton felt up to having company, she would stay and hold his hand. Hagan could leave and take the car. If Peyton wanted to be left alone, she’d go with Hagan. “After all, aren’t you supposed to be protecting me?”
He grunted something unintelligible, which she took for agreement.
While she rummaged for the car keys, Hagan noticed the blinking light on the answering machine in the living room and punched the replay button. She rarely used that phone or checked the messages since most were for Ian.
Most but not all. The hesitant voice on the recording was one she’d recognize anywhere, there was no need for him to identify himself.
“Rebecca, this is your fa—, Robert Moore. Please call us. We’ve had an intriguing visit from a friend of yours. We’d like to talk to you.”
Twenty-three
The Methodist Hospital of Indiana was a stone’s throw from Interstate 65 on Senate Boulevard. Rebecca won the toss again, so she was driving. Hagan listed to the left to study the instruments as she wove through neighborhood streets. The gleam in his eye might have meant he was ready to scrap the Jeep and get a car that was fun to drive. After the crash outside the gentlemen’s club, it was going to cost more to fix the Cherokee than it could ever be worth.
She welcomed his silence. Her own thoughts were jumping to conclusions, then leapfrogging over themselves to change direction. Someone had given Robert Moore the phone number for the house where she was staying. Only two people had it. Frank—it was posted at the shop. And Jo—he had it in case she wasn’t answering her cell phone. Frank hadn’t left Maryland in eighteen years. Eliminate him and that made Jo the intriguing visitor her parents had entertained. That would explain why she couldn’t reach him in Head Tide. She braked too hard when a Volvo cut her off, punched the poor excuse for a horn. What gave him the right to visit her parents?
The question continued to annoy her as she parked the car and entered the hospital. It was Saturday quiet; few people strolling the halls who weren’t paid to be there. The volunteer at the information desk found Peyton Madison’s room number and pointed them in the direction of the elevators. Exiting on the second floor, they entered a nearly deserted hallway. Three nurses were positioning equipment outside a room at the end. Something routine, they weren’t hurrying. According to the sign on the wall, room 232 was down the short hall veering off to the right.
The door to the room was slightly ajar. Hagan hung back, fidgeted with coins in his pocket. She almost asked for one to flip. Heads she’d go in, tails she’d leave unannounced. Yes, she was worried about the state of Peyton’s health, but she’d come mostly out of curiosity. Not the best reason for visiting a hospitalized victim. She should turn around, leave him in peace.
But she wouldn’t. From the time she could mouth the word “why,” she’d hated unanswered questions. She didn’t always need the correct answer: Being a reporter had trampled the notion that there was only one right answer to every question, or that the answer was the same for every individual. She just needed an explanation that made sense. Nothing about the attacks on the team or on Peyton did.
She knocked and pushed through the door.
The lights were dim. Peyton was lying with his head elevated. His dark hair contrasted with the white pillow; his face was the same color. There was an IV in his arm. The neck brace had been removed. He was breathing without oxygen. Those were good signs.
Hearing her footsteps, he rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. Stared at her while he licked at his lips. “Moore. Help.” His voice was a dry croak.
There was a water glass with a bent straw. She held it while he sipped. He swallowed as if his throat hurt, sank back against the pillow. “Help, please. You. No police.”
She followed his gaze to the doorway. Hagan was glued to the threshold. His expression said that Peyton’s demand was fine by him. No police, no problem. He was ready, willing and eager to leave.
She held out the car keys. Hagan crept into the room, felt his way along the mobile monitors like an octogenarian with bad balance, looking anywhere except at the man in the bed. She reminded him that the car needed gas. He mumbled “Yes, dear” on his way out.
Peyton’s eyes had drifted shut again. She lifted a molded plastic chair and slid it quietly next to the bed. The night’s ordeal had erased all smugness from his face. The bruising under his eyes made him appear vulnerable, like a puppy who’d been kicked. What did he want her to help with that he didn’t want the police to know about? Why did he think she could?
“Ian. Says you investigate?” His eyes were still closed. His tongue flicked around his lips, seeking moisture.
She responded yes. It was simpler than trying to explain that she’d been an investigative reporter, not a detective. And that was in the past.
His eyes fluttered open; they were Basset hound sad. “Trouble.”
“Involving the team?” She didn’t want to be drawn in. Despite his present weakened state, the man was arrogant and effete and probably deserved what had happened. But the crew didn’t. Could she live with herself if someone else was hurt? “Is the team in trouble?”
He wagged his head. “Me. Hoped, they were acci—accidents. Assumed the Lotus wasn’t ready. Maybe bolts had rusted. Arrows, hoses were old. You told me. My fault. Then the shot. Gunshot. Thought it was warning. Pay up.” He swallowed hard. “No.”
She hitched closer as if she had trouble hearing him. It wasn’t that. His words were audible, but they weren’t making sense. Had Peyton really dismissed the car problems as routine mechanical failures; taken the gunshot as some kind of unrelated warning? Knees pressing into the mattress, she prodded him to recount his last twelve hours. Guided him as she had others she’d interviewed. It was slow going. Mostly, she listened, tried to piece together the fragments. Occasionally she flicked out a question to keep the ball rolling.
After the party, Peyton had decided to stay in the motor home. Earlier, he’d rigged a monitor to listen into the paddock area. Around two A.M., a noise woke him and he went to investigate. Entering the tent, he crossed to check on the car. It was then that he’d been shocked. Fell. Dazed. Someone hoisted him into the Lotus. When his head cleared, he was strapped in, a helmet on his head. He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t move.
Peyton paused, his breathing was labored. He looked bewildered.
She patted his arm. “Lubrication grease had been smeared on the visor. Your arms were trapped beneath the harness.” His head lolled when he tried to nod. He was tiring fast. “When you woke, were you alone?”
Again his head rolled. “No. Voices.”
“Whose?”
He didn’t know, or wasn’t saying. She melted back in the spindle-legged chair to give him a minute to recover. Tried to imagine the scene and come up with a rational explanation. Torture implied that Peyton knew something worth torturing him for. What?
“Tape.” He rotated his index finger in a circle. “Voice tape.”
Not a person speaking to him, but a voice on a tape. Odd. As far as she knew, the police hadn’t found a tape recorder at the scene. But then, the assailant could have carried a pocket recorder, played it, taken
it away again. That implied preplanning. What did he want Peyton to listen to?
He coughed. She offered more water. He nodded thanks, whispered: “Crackled, hissed. Two. Old voice. German.”
He thought one voice was a woman’s, though she didn’t say much. The other was so gravelly it could have been either male or female. He insisted it spouted gibberish in German. The only words he understood were mutter, vater; mother, father. Peufel, German for evil, and erbschaft, meaning inheritance.
The tape droned on for a few minutes, then stopped. He sensed he was supposed to answer or comment, but he didn’t understand what was being said. When he protested that he didn’t speak German, he was shocked. Then the tape began again. Then paused, waited for an answer. Then the shock. Over and over for hours.
His hand fluttered above the bedclothes. “I offered money. Pleaded. No answer. Just the voice screaming: Heinrich Kauffman. Heinrich Kauffman. Who is he, Moore? Find out. The painting. How did the voice know about Coro—” He coughed, choking off the word. A string of mucous dripped from his nose.
Someone had pushed open the door, letting in light from the corridor. She felt the tension level rise, heard ragged breathing behind. When she turned to look over her shoulder, an old man posed in the doorway.
He snapped at her. “Who are you?”
His posture was erect, jacket hung without a wrinkle. Steel-gray hair swept back from a high pale forehead creased with parallel lines. He had the same pinched lips as the man in the hospital bed, the same glint of condescension. She had seen a younger version of his face recently in a grainy magazine photograph. Except for the hint of jowls, he hadn’t changed much in thirty years.
Annoyed by her silence, he crossed to within inches of her, leaned on the back of her chair. “I asked your name. I expect a courteous reply.”
By standing, she forced him to back away. “You must be Peyton’s father. I’m Rebecca Moore, the team mechanic.”
She glanced back at Peyton. He’d shrunk, sunk into the mattress. Beads of perspiration clung to the hairline. His eyes were tightly closed as if he didn’t want to watch the bedside scene. Or feared being kicked again.
The old man picked at her arm with bony fingers. “I will thank you to leave. My son has a weak heart. Your chattering has tired him.”
He shifted to one side to let her pass. Close to, his face showed no trace of sorrow over his son’s condition, no concern, no weakness of any kind. He had to be nearly eighty, but Peyton Madison II was still a force that would not be ignored.
Twenty-four
Mick borrowed the yellow pages from the talkative codger at the hospital’s information desk. He looked up the phone number for the You-Mail-It Store he’d visited the day before, punched it in on his way out the front door. According to the recorded message, they were open until seven.
He wiped perspiration from the phone case with his sleeve and restowed it in his pocket. Breathed deeply. The air was cool and bright after the storm. Even tainted with exhaust fumes from loitering taxis, it smelled better than the antiseptic odor permeating the hospital corridors. He’d tasted a lifetime’s supply while his father took his time dying.
Patrick Hagan had caught a bullet fired by a scared punk holding up a convenience store for candy bars and petty change. The bullet didn’t kill him outright; septicemia did. Infection from the wounds had seeped into his bloodstream, which carried the poison throughout his body to infect every organ it could. Once his fever hit one hundred and four, the doctor sent the blood samples off to the Centers for Disease Control, which accurately typed the bacteria. Too late. Massive quantities of strong antibiotics were administered intravenously for weeks, but the sickness had its hold and wouldn’t relinquish it.
With a typical adolescent’s ego, Mick first felt responsible for his father’s death. Then blamed him for dying, for leaving him alone to take care of his mother and muddle through life. Later, his thoughts turned darker and he wondered if Patrick Hagan had left this world willingly. If he’d been fed up with a frustrating job, overbearing parents, a too saintly wife and a rebellious, unappreciative son. Death had seemed a peaceful alternative. Mick never shook the sorrow attached to that assumption.
He was almost to the car when he spotted Brian Franks hiding behind an arrangement of gaudy flowers. The financial consultant was scurrying toward the entrance to the hospital, peeking around the bouquet to keep from tripping on the steps. Undoubtedly, he was going to visit Peyton. The flowers were a nice gesture. He assumed Franks was just the delivery boy, not a concerned fan, and wondered who’d signed the card.
The Corvette looked diminutive wedged between matching blue minivans. Mick let it warm up as Moore had instructed, grinned each time he gunned the throttle. During his teenage years, when driving meant as much as Saturday sex after the movie, he’d been stuck with cast-off Oldsmobiles belonging to one of his uncles. All his mother’s brothers drove Oldsmobiles; all of them got a new one every two years. They took turns giving him the castoff. Once on the job he drove a patrol car, followed by the Jeep, suitable for undercover work. He’d never driven anything sporty.
Back on Patricia Street, he parked in front of the rental. Took his kit from the trunk and went inside to transfer his latest set of prints. Peyton Madison III’s came from the solid gold lighter he’d foolishly set down while betting on the Calcutta the night before. Carlson’s were wrapped around a sleek Mont Blanc she’d allowed Peyton to use when signing away his fortune on the bet. The prints on the barrel looked smudged, but they might turn up something. His coup had been the glossy black matchbox from St. Elmo. Derek Whitten had used the matches to light the cigar he waved in Peyton’s face. Ian Browning’s were easy, in plain sight on the bathroom glass. Moore would be up in arms if she realized he was checking up on her boy, but he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t.
Working methodically under the fluorescent light in the kitchen, he transferred the prints, labeled each with names and dates of collection. Zimmer would have to call in favors with state police to have the work done quickly, but he’d do it for Moore. Much as the sheriff bitched about her, he didn’t take kindly to his local citizens being the victims of crime. She’d been cheek-by-jowl with more than her share of criminals lately and proved herself a survivor. Zimmer had a healthy respect for survivors.
Mick drove to the mail store, shipped the package overnight and was back in under an hour. He enclosed a note asking Zimmer to call with the results. Cruising past an ice cream stand, he thought about stopping, then decided to wait and treat Moore. Only Moore wasn’t home. Disappointing but not surprising. He should have stayed with her. He was less itchy when she was within touching distance.
He wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, stared at the white, humming void, debating whether it was too early in the day for a beer. Something about Moore made him want to drink: motivated by equal parts celebration, frustration and depression. Most casual observers could figure out the first two. She was intelligent and could be delightful. She was also sexy as hell, not that this keen observation had produced the desired results.
The depression was more elusive unless you’d witnessed their pasts. Hers contained a brilliant but derailed career as an investigative reporter for the Post. His contained the step-brother who’d committed suicide when Moore’s investigation into investment fraud threatened to expose his crimes. At the time, David had also been Moore’s lover. It was a complicated overlapping that refused to go away entirely. Like a blueberry stain on white shorts. His mother recommended lemon juice and leaving them on the grass in full sun.
He slammed the refrigerator, gazed out the sliding glass door. Maybe fresh air would improve his mood. The sun had slipped behind an elephant-sized puffball cloud. It cast dark shadows over the patio. Shadows that obscured but didn’t obliterate a flash of movement near the gate.
He froze. Listed to the side, tried to blend with the vertical blind as he inched his hand forward. His fingers gripped
the door handle. Breath suspended, he waited for the figure to come into view. Until he’d glimpsed the wraithlike movement, he had forgotten about Jasmine. Now she was as good as caught.
The tiny girl skipped to the table. Went up on toe point, leaned in, tipped aside the potted geranium.
He burst through the slider.
She bolted before she’d recovered from the shock of seeing him. Was almost back to the gate when he grabbed her wrist. The rest of her body skidded through the opening. She kicked and squealed. He held tightly to her thin forearm, braced his foot against the gate wedged between them like a bundling board. When her squirming started to peter out, he said quietly, “The picture got rained on. What did it show?”
She stopped wriggling.
He waited, sensing her dilemma: Should she escape, or find out what happened to the picture? Curiosity won out. She relaxed her arm and peeked around the gate.
“Did it dissolve?”
“Almost.”
That was the only word he could choke out as he came face-to-face with Jasmine for the first time. From their previous encounter he knew she was a Munchkin, under four feet and wiry. He expected a child, an unformed cherub. The face scowling at him was that of an ancient. Not wrinkled and sagging, but wise and doubting enough to have lived two lifetimes, which seemed fitting, for her face belonged to two different people. One half was mostly the color of chocolate cake batter his mother made for his birthday. The other side was a ragged splotch of ivory. A milky white band crossed the bridge of her nose, widened to engulf her left cheek around to the tip of her ear. It clipped the corner of her mouth, dipped under her chin where it stopped. Near the hairline, the edges were rippled, irregular. A smudge of white above her right eye lifted her brow in a perpetual question.
Jasmine rounded the corner and faced him squarely. “You may stare. Everybody does.” She marched past him and sat at the far side of the table. “Where’s the lady?”
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