by P J Parrish
Diane had said her father hadn’t gone to college. Landeta hadn’t even been able to find a high school record for the man. So what in the hell was all this? Louis thought of his partner Jesse up in Michigan. Jesse had prided himself on being an autodidact. Well, reading The Great Gatsby was one thing, but teaching yourself to read classics in Latin was another.
Louis spotted a copy of Bullfinch’s Mythology. He remembered having to buy a copy of it back at the University of Michigan for a freshman literature course. There was a yellow bookmark sticking out of it. He pulled the book out and opened it to the marked page.
The Legend of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. There was a picture accompanying the chapter. It was a bronze sculpture of a wolf nursing two baby boys. The caption said: ROMULUS AND REMUS WITH THEIR WOLF FOSTER-MOTHER, BRONZE SCULPTURE, C. 500-480 B.C. IN THE CAPITOLINE MUSEUMS, ROME, ITALY.
Louis stared at the photograph for a moment then closed the book and set it aside. He turned his attention to the bottom shelf. It held only four books, stacked on their sides. Louis pulled them out, scanning the titles.
Of Wolves and Men by Barry Lopez. Mother Was a Lovely Beast by Philip Jose. The Wolf Children: Fact or Fiction? by Charles MacLean. Man Into Wolf: An Anthropological Study of Sadism, Masochism and Lycanthropy by Robert Eisler.
Louis stood slowly, holding the four books. He wiped a sleeve over his sweating face.
Jesus...What in the hell was this?
Wolf mothers? Werewolves? Had Frank Woods been some sadistic animal who hunted down women and killed them? Is that why he had bookmarked that photograph of the weird wolf statue? Was that what he had been trying to say with the Latin?
Louis went to the bedside table. There was a single book there and he picked it up. The Myths and Customs of the Asturian People. There was something sticking out of the book that didn’t look like one of Frank’s color-coded bookmarks. Louis slipped it out.
It was a picture of Frank and Diane. Diane was smiling and had her arm linked through Frank’s, her head lying on his shoulder. Louis stared at the picture, trying to reconcile the affection he saw in the picture with the reality he had seen between Diane and Frank. He turned it over. Someone had written in pen -- Sophie, October, 1952.
Of course it wasn’t Diane. She had probably never felt close enough to her father to touch him like that. Louis slipped the picture into his pocket. At least now when he went to St. James City, he would have a picture of Sophie Reardon to show. And if he found Sophie’s past, maybe he could find the real Frank Woods.
Louis added a Latin dictionary and the Bullfinch’s Mythology to his pile of books and left the stifling bedroom.
It was past four by the time he reached Pine Island. At Stringfellow Road, Louis turned south, heading in the opposite direction of Bessie Levy’s home up in Bokeelia. The sun was sinking in a pale orange sky when he pulled into St. James City.
It was more a village than a city, a pleasant collection of small homes clinging to the edges of canals like some Florida cracker version of Venice.
Louis had found a James Reardon listed on Carombola Lane. He pulled up in front of the neat white house and got out. Lights were on inside, a car parked in the drive. Louis went up to the open front door and rang the bell.
A white-haired woman came to the screen door, wiping her hands on a towel. She stiffened slightly seeing Louis. He had his private investigator ID ready.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“I’m looking for James Reardon,” Louis said, holding the ID against the screen so she could see it. “I’m working with the Fort Myers Police Department.”
“Oh...dear. Is there something wrong?”
A man was coming up to the door. He was tall, white- haired, using a cane. “Who is it, Nan?”
“The police, Jim.”
James Reardon stared at Louis and then his ID through the screen. “That doesn’t look like a real badge,” he said. His hand moved to the latch on the screen. Louis heard it lock.
“It’s not a badge, sir. It’s an ID. I’m a private investigator. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Your daughter Sophie.”
“Sophie?” He waved his hand, like he was dismissing the name and memory. “She left here more than thirty years ago. Why you coming around now?”
“Mr. Reardon, if I could just come in for —-”
“You here to see if I’m dead yet?” Reardon asked, leaning into the screen. “Tell her I ain’t, and even if I was, I have nothing to leave her.”
Mrs. Reardon was hovering behind her husband, her eyes wide.
“Mr. Reardon, please. This is important. Maybe if I could talk to Sophie’s mother,” Louis said gently.
“Sophie’s mother is dead,” the old man said quickly.
The woman behind him stepped forward. “I’m Jim’s second wife,” she said, taking her husband’s arm. “I think you should go. Please.”
Jim Reardon hadn’t budged. He didn’t seem so quick to stop talking. “You tell her I got nothing to offer her. No money and no time.”
Louis took a breath. “Mr. Reardon, Sophie’s dead. She died in 1959.”
Reardon’s eyes went liquid. The sagging skin along his jaw quivered a little as he lifted a hand to the door frame. His wife stepped forward and took his arm.
“You have a granddaughter,” Louis said. “Her name is Diane.”
“Granddaughter? I never heard about no granddaughter,” Reardon said. “No one ever told me about it. I don’t believe it. It’s probably just some scam, someone trying to take advantage of an old man —- ”
“Jim, please,” his wife interrupted, pulling his arm.
He shrugged out of her grasp. No one moved. Louis could feel the sweat trickling down his ribs. He ran a hand across his brow.
“So is that spic dead too?” Reardon asked bitterly.
“Who?” Louis asked.
“That damn boy she ran off with.”
“What boy, Mr. Reardon?” Louis pressed.
“That damn Mexican boy who used to come in the store. The one that took her away.”
Mexican?
Louis reached into his pocket. He held the picture of Frank and Sophie up to the screen.
“Is this the boy, Mr. Reardon?” he asked.
James Reardon peered at the picture. “Yeah. That’s the damn spic who hung around my store.” His face hardened. “I knew he was no good. Damn Mexicans...like heathens they are.”
“Jim, please ...” His wife glanced quickly at Louis. “I’m sorry, he’s —- ”
Louis ignored her. “Mr. Reardon, what makes you think the boy was Mexican?”
“All that black hair and that spic name and talking those words I didn’t understand just to gall me.”
Louis pressed the photograph of Frank and Sophie back on the screen. “Mr. Reardon, you’re sure this is the boy?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m old but I still got my mind, young man.” Reardon wagged a finger at the picture. “He came in my drugstore every month. I was back there filling his damn prescription and he was always out at the counter, talking to my Sophie.”
“What was his name, Mr. Reardon?” Louis pressed. “Do you remember the boy’s name?”
“I don’t know. It was like Mexican or Puerto Rican. Probably one of those damn migrant workers. So is he dead or not?”
Louis nodded. “Yes, he is.”
“Good.” Reardon turned from the door and disappeared back into the shadows of the house.
His wife glanced after him. Louis wiped his brow again, slipping the picture back in his pocket. “I’m sorry if I upset him,” Louis said. He paused. “Does he still have the drugstore? Maybe there are records —- ”
“Oh, no, he closed it years ago.”
Back in the living room, Louis could see Reardon slump down in a chair, tossing his cane to the floor.
Mrs. Reardon opened the screen, speaking quietly. “I was a friend
of Sophie’s mother, see, and I don’t think Sophie ever forgave me for marrying her father. You know, the wicked stepmother and all that.”
She tried to smile but it came out as a sad tremble. “But Sophie was a good girl, I do know that. After her mother died, Jim kind of closed down, like he didn’t want anyone to touch him. It was hard on Sophie. Too hard. All the girl wanted was someone to love her. Jim had a hard time showing that.”
“I understand,” Louis said.
Mrs. Reardon leaned closer. “What did you say the granddaughter’s name was?”
“Diane.”
“Are you going to tell her about Jim? Maybe I could convince him to see her.”
Louis tried to picture Diane Woods in this place, on this porch, giving James Reardon an embrace. Or him giving her a grandfatherly one back. But he knew there were no bridges that could be built between them.
“I’m sorry,” Louis said. “I don’t think she’d come.”
“He’s dying,” she said softly.
Louis drew in a small breath, his chest tightening. “I still don’t think she would come, but I’ll ask her.”
Nan Reardon glanced back at her husband sitting in the shadows and then looked back at Louis. “He never talks about Sophie. I don’t think he ever forgave her for leaving. Or himself for pushing her away.”
Louis noticed she was looking at the photograph in his hand.
“Jim got rid of all her pictures when she left,” Nan Reardon said. “I don’t suppose I could have that one?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Louis said.
“Nan!”
She turned to look back at her husband.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said softly. She shut the door.
Louis stood there on the porch, gathering his thoughts. He held the picture up to the porch light, studying Frank’s face. Frank’s hair was thick and dark, his facer thinner, almost pale. He didn’t look Mexican, at least not like the brown-skinned people Louis had seen in Immokalee.
But Reardon had been sure that Frank spoke in a foreign language and had a Spanish name.
There was only one answer. Frank Woods wasn’t his real name. Which was why Landeta hadn’t been able to find any history on the guy. And without even a real name to go on, it was a sure bet they weren’t going to find any now. Or anything concrete to connect Frank to the Umber case.
Louis slipped the picture back in his pocket and started down to the Mustang. It was going to be a long drive home -— all the way back to square one.
CHAPTER 31
It was past seven by the time Louis headed the Mustang back over the Caloosahatchee Bridge. On Cleveland Avenue, he stopped at a 7-Eleven and called Landeta.
“Why are you calling me at home?” Landeta asked.
“I found out something important about Frank Woods.” Louis waited. He could hear Landeta breathing heavily. “You want to know what it is or not?”
“So tell me, Rocky.”
“Look, I haven’t eaten all day. I’m going to grab something at McDonald’s and then I’m heading over to the station. Meet me there and we’ll go over it.”
“No,” Landeta said. There was a pause. “Why don’t you just come over here?”
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
Landeta inviting him to his home? What was this, some new attempt at making nice?
“All right,” Louis said finally. “Give me your address.”
The address turned out to be nearby on First Street, only about a mile from the Fort Myers Police Station. The Babcock Apartments were above an empty store. Most of the old storefronts had FOR RENT signs in the windows. The street was empty of people and traffic. Louis grabbed a couple of Frank’s books and went into the lobby.
He scanned the mailboxes for Landeta’s name, and pressed the buzzer for Number 1. When nothing happened, Louis peered through the second locked glass door into the plain hallway. He buzzed again. Nothing.
He was just about to give up when he saw Landeta coming down the stairs. Landeta jerked open the door.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was on the phone.”
Louis stood in front of him, the books from Frank’s apartment in his arms. Landeta didn’t move, didn’t seem interested in inviting Louis in.
“I saw Sophie Reardon’s father this afternoon,” Louis said.
“Who?”
“Sophie Reardon. Diane’s mother...Frank’s wife. I finally got Diane to give me the maiden name.”
“And?”
“I have some stuff I need to tell you. You going to ask me in?” The lobby was hotter than an oven.
Landeta didn’t budge. “Tell me here.”
Louis drew in a breath. “Look, I’m tired of this shit. I’ve been your errand boy long enough. You asked me to come over here. Either you let me in and we talk or I take what I have to Horton.”
Landeta hesitated a moment then stepped back. “Okay. Come on up.”
Louis followed him up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Landeta was dressed in plain black pants and what looked like just an older version of his usual white dress shirt, neck unbuttoned, sleeves rolled above the elbows. He was wearing only black socks on his feet.
Landeta closed the apartment door behind Louis. “Have a seat,” he said, moving into the living room.
It wasn’t a big place but its spareness made it look as if it were. The walls were all white, the wood floor left bare, the windows that looked out onto First Street were covered with white blinds. There was a beat-up black leather sofa and a couple of plain black wood tables. A black Ikea entertainment center dominated one wall, holding a TV and a good stereo system. A well-worn black Eames chair was positioned close in front of the TV and there was a sleek black desk with a black drafting table lamp hovering over it. There was nothing on the walls, no books, no plants, no knickknacks, nothing to relieve the black-and-white decor. No color anywhere in fact, except for the rows of albums, tapes, and compact disks carefully arranged on the shelves of the entertainment center.
The room was lit up like a hospital operating room, and it smelled of acrid cigarette smoke with an under note of lemon Renuzit. It was all bare-bones style, and as charmless as the man who lived in it.
Except for the music coming from the stereo. Louis recognized it immediately —- Clyde McPhatter singing “Let’s Try Again.”
“You want a drink? I got Diet Coke,” Landeta said. A second’s pause. “And I think there’s a beer in there somewhere.”
“Beer,” Louis said. He sat on the edge of the leather sofa, setting Frank’s books down on the coffee table next to a boomerang-shaped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. He heard Landeta moving around in the kitchen.
“I found out something interesting about Sophie,” Louis called out over the music. “She ran away from home when she was eighteen.”
No answer from the kitchen. Just sounds of drawers opening, clanking metal like spoons and knives.
“Sophie’s old man told me she ran off with Frank and that he used to come into his drugstore,” Louis said, raising his voice over the noise. “He said Frank was —-”
There was a sudden crash in the kitchen.
“Fucking motherfucking sonofabitch!” Landeta yelled.
Louis jumped up and went to the door. Landeta was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding his left hand. A drawer lay on the floor, surrounded by knives, forks, spoons, and kitchen utensils.
Landeta’s face was red. So was his left hand, blood dripping onto the white tile. He stared at Louis.
“The fucking knife was in the drawer! I didn’t see the fucking knife in the drawer!”
Suddenly, Landeta drew back a foot and kicked the wooden drawer, sending it crashing against the refrigerator. Landeta just stood there, chest heaving, eyes closed. The bouncing blues of McPhatter’s “I Can’t Stand Up Alone” filtered in from the living room.
Louis took a step into the kitchen. “Hey, man, take it easy.”
Landeta was holding his hand, dripping blood. He seemed lost, glancing around the kitchen for something. He took a step then began groping around the white tile countertop for a towel. Louis could see the white towel, several feet from Landeta’s outstretched right hand.
“Goddamn it.”
Louis watched him. He was looking around, down at the floor, still holding his bloody hand.
What the hell was going on?
“Can I help?” Louis asked.
“The towel. Hand me the towel.”
Louis held out the towel. Landeta grabbed it and wrapped it around his finger. He walked slowly to the sink, picking his way over the spilled silverware, recoiling when he stepped on a fork tine. Louis watched in silence as Landeta turned on the faucet and held his bleeding hand under the water.
Landeta again pressed the towel to the cut, his back to Louis. He turned off the water, but didn’t move from the sink.
“What’s going on?” Louis asked.
It took Landeta a few seconds to answer. His voice was as rigid as the muscles in his shoulders.
“I can’t see,” he said.
“What?”
“I can’t see,” Landeta repeated. “I’m going blind.”
Louis felt himself tighten. Blind?
“You should have asked for the Diet Coke,” Landeta said. Louis’s eyes went from the green bottle of unopened Heineken on the counter to the mess of flatware on the floor. He bent down and picked up the bottle opener, holding it out to Landeta.
“Open it yourself,” Landeta said. He trudged out of the kitchen.
A moment later the music stopped. Louis set the opener on the counter next to the beer and followed Landeta back to the living room. Landeta was standing at the stereo. He went to the Eames chair and sat down, holding his towel-wrapped hand.
“You’re blind?” Louis asked.
“Going blind. There’s a difference.”
Landeta unwrapped his finger, looked at it, and wrapped it again. “You ever think how ironic that sounds? Going blind? Like it’s a good thing, like you’re going somewhere you can look forward to?”