by John Case
‘He just . . . subscribed,’ she said. ‘He always subscribed.’
He’d called Annie from Kerwick on the night of the wake, so she already knew about his father when he got back to Washington.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. It was good I went. How about you?’
‘You mean, with the flu?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think it’s finally on its way out,’ Annie said. ‘Anyway, I’m back at work. What’s up?’
‘I was looking over some of the stories I found about these people who drowned, or who were supposed to have drowned, and it’s interesting.’
‘How so?’ she asked.
‘Well for one thing, all of the obits are the same. Like they were churned out by the same person, which I suspect they were. And the families – I finally got around to calling them.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘Well, the first one I called was O’Reilly’s sister, Megan, who – it turns out – is a member of the Temple of Light. Just like her brother.’
‘Huh!’ Annie said.
‘And then there’s Mr. and Mrs. Garcia, the parents of Arturo. They’re members, too.’
‘Really!?’
‘Yeah, except I didn’t find this out until after I’d talked to them. The Dutchess County D.A., he’s the one who told me they were beamed up.’
‘What do you mean, “beamed up”?’ Annie asked.
‘You know,’ Frank said. ‘Like “mobbed up.” Or “spooked up.” Except it’s a cult thing, so –’
‘I get it.’
‘Okay. So, anyway, the way these two reacted, it was really awkward. I mean, they were hostile. They didn’t like the questions I was asking, and they had a lot of questions of their own. “No, they didn’t think there was anything strange about the accident on the Crystal Dragon. And, no, they had no reason to believe Arturo or Thomas was alive! What did you say your name was? What’s your telephone number? Who’s your supervisor?” They said that my calling them was religious harassment. Do you believe that? I mean, is that the way you’d react if someone called you?’
‘Of course not,’ Annie replied. ‘But what about the others?’
‘Well, that’s the flip side of the coin. I talked to Ross Stevens’s daughter – and by the way, this guy was no kid, he was fifty-two years old – and Chris Yates’s mother. I talked to her, too. And it was totally different.’
‘How?’
‘Well . . . they wouldn’t talk to me. I mean, not at all.’
‘Because it was . . . too painful?’
‘No. Because they were scared to death.’
Annie was silent.
‘And I know it’s jumping to conclusions,’ Frank went on, ‘but – the parents who complained, the ones who pressed for an investigation – the Bergmans – well, they fell off the edge of the earth, didn’t they? I mean, if the D.A.’s right, they disappeared completely until . . . well, until they found the –’
‘Torso,’ Annie said. ‘The newspapers called it a “torso.”’
The line was quiet for a while, and then Frank said, ‘I’m thinking of going up there.’
‘I really don’t think –’
‘I’m going.’
A long silence, and then: ‘Frank?’
‘What?’
‘What is this Temple thing? Who are these people?’
He thought about it for a moment, listening to her breathing at the other end of the line. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’re just folks. But I don’t think so.’
20
HE TOOK THE New Jersey Turnpike to Interstate 287 and into the New York Thruway, crossed the Hudson River to Poughkeepsie, and followed the main street into town, looking for a restaurant called Fernacci’s. Finding it, he parked in the lot next door, turned off the ignition, and sat back. It was 6:35, and he was supposed to meet Martin Kramer at seven.
Rather than waiting in the restaurant, he opened the Post to the sports page and started to read.
Twenty minutes later a new black Jag pulled into the lot. It was an XJ-12 with a burled walnut dashboard and, Frank supposed, seats made with the skins of Chinese felons. A stocky man stepped out and gave him a quizzical look.
‘You Daly?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Frank said.
‘Marty Kramer. Nice ta meecha.’
They shook hands and walked into the restaurant, which was surprisingly nice, and air-conditioned to about sixty degrees. Lots of tile and wood, and Turandot playing softly in the eaves. The maitre d’ showed them to a table in the corner, where they sat down.
‘Nice ride,’ Frank said with a glance toward the parking lot.
Kramer shrugged. ‘It gets me where I’m goin’.’
He was a short, pigeon-chested man with a beaklike nose, crooked teeth, and glittering black eyes. His dark hair was short and spiky, and glistened with goop. ‘Hey, Mario!’ he called out. ‘What do you have to do to get a drink around here?’
With a smile, a waiter sauntered over with the wine list and told them about the specials. Then he took their order for drinks and went back the way he’d come.
In the course of the next hour, they worked their way through a couple of drinks (Knicks versus Wizards); two orders of carpaccio (Clinton versus Starr); what must have been a loaf of bread dribbled with olive oil (10K training regimens); and their entrées: osso buco for Kramer, and tortellini for Frank.
Kramer proved himself an engaging raconteur and a good listener, but a reluctant source. After fifty-five minutes of schmoozing, Frank had learned next to nothing about Kramer’s work for the Bergmans – and he remarked upon it.
‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘you haven’t told me anything.’
Kramer smiled. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well,’ Frank said, pouring each of them a glass of Montepulciano, ‘to begin with, were the Bergmans murdered? What do you think?’
Kramer screwed up his face, seesawed his head back and forth and winced. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I got a problem here. My name gets into print – I lose clients. It’s as simple as that. And, hey. Why not? You look at the card I gave you? What does it say?’
‘It says you’re a private investigator.’
‘Exactly. A private investigator.’
‘Trust me, we’re off the record.’
Kramer scoffed. ‘“Trust me . . .”’
Frank smiled.
‘I’m serious.’
Kramer cocked an eye at him. ‘You sure?’
By way of an answer, Frank folded his hands in front of him. ‘Absolutely.’
Kramer sighed, seemingly worn out by Frank’s insistence. ‘Okay,’ he said, putting his napkin aside. ‘I’ll give it a shot. What do you want to know?’
‘Whatever you can tell me about the Bergmans,’ Frank replied.
The P.I. sat back in his seat, thinking about it. Finally, he said, ‘Coupla squirrels.’
Frank laughed, then let the smile fade. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean: what happened, really? Their kid ran away and joined the circus. Wah wah wah! Gimme a break.’
‘Yeah, but . . . his parents hired you after he was dead, right? So it wasn’t like it was a missing person thing.’
Kramer twisted his lips into a knot of fleshy skepticism. ‘That’s not exactly right,’ he said. ‘They came to me about six months after the kid joined the Temple. This was two years ago.’
‘What did they want you to do?’ Frank asked.
‘Kidnap him. That’s not what they called it, but that’s what they meant. They had a ‘deprogrammer’ standing by.’
‘And what happened?’ Frank asked.
Kramer shrugged. ‘I looked around. Asked some questions. Near as I could tell, the kid was fine. Happy. So I backed off. Told them it couldn’t be done.’
‘And after he drowned? They hired you again?’
Kramer looked uncomfortable for a moment, then leaned forwar
d: ‘What I don’t understand is, what’s your interest? I mean, this isn’t exactly a national story, and it isn’t in the Post’s circulation area – so I don’t get it. What are you looking for?’
‘The truth.’
Kramer sneered. ‘Then I think you should try Krishnamurti.’
‘That’s funny,’ Frank said.
‘I’m serious. Are you a police reporter, or what?’
‘No,’ Frank said.
‘Then, what?’
‘I’m working a medical story. But it’s complicated. And I guess, to answer your question, what I’m trying to find out is whether or not the people on the ship –’
‘The Crystal Dragon?’
‘Yeah’ Frank said. ‘I’m trying to find out whether or not they actually drowned. Because in my opinion, maybe they didn’t. Maybe they faked it. And if I’m wrong, and they did drown, maybe it was murder.’
Kramer stared at him for a long time, took a sip of Montepulciano, then said, ‘Where were we?’
Frank thought about it for a moment. ‘You were telling me how you worked for the Kramers twice. Once when their son joined the cult –’
‘And after he drowned,’ the detective said. ‘That was pro bono.’ Frank’s eyebrows must have lifted, because Kramer hurried on with his explanation. ‘I felt sorry for them. And, I guess I was feeling a little guilty. I don’t know . . . maybe I shoulda gone after the kid in the first place.’ He looked regretful. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘it wasn’t a lot of work. I talked to some of the people on the ship –’
‘And what were they like?’
‘Cooperative. Didn’t act like they had anything to hide.’
Once again Frank must have looked skeptical, because Kramer leaned toward him and said, ‘Look, here’s the deal. The Bergmans were crazy when it came to the Temple. You couldn’t talk to them about it. The way they saw it, they had “religious beliefs,” but the kid was “brainwashed,” the kid was in a “cult.” So what does that tell you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Frank said.
‘They were bigots,’ Kramer went on. ‘And paranoid. My God, it was like they were lookin’ under the rugs for land mines. All the phones were tapped. There were people watchin’ the house . . . Christ almighty, they went out and bought a gun! Kept it in the vestibule, in case someone broke in on ’em.’ Kramer laughed.
‘What kind of gun?’ Frank asked.
He shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. I think it was a .38.’
Frank frowned. ‘So –’
‘Look: what it came down to? They wanted someone to blame. They needed someone to blame. Otherwise, they gotta blame themselves – y’know what I mean?’
‘So you don’t think the Temple was at fault?’
Kramer shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe they could have made a case. There might have been some liability with the ship – not enough lifeboat practice, something like that. But that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is, in this business, you meet a lot of people chasing rainbows. Half of them? I could say – put your wallet back in your pocket, I know right now I am not going to be able to give you what you want. I mean – look at the MIA people. You ask them: no one’s missing. There’s no such a thing as missing. There’s just a bunch of “secret prisoners.” Same thing with the TWA crash. Was it an accident? Fuck, no. It was a missile, a bomb, a maintenance error – something. Because when you’re dealing with families, there’s no such thing as an accident. The loss has to be for a reason, there has to be someone to blame. You’ve gotta get payback – money, revenge, whatever. Otherwise, there’s no meaning to it. It’s random. And that’s when the quest takes over. The investigation stops being about what happened, and becomes something else. And, like it or not, that’s where I make a lot of my money.’
‘And you think this is what happened with the Bergmans?’
‘I know it.’
‘And the body they found?’
‘You mean, in the Adirondacks?’
Frank nodded.
Kramer shrugged. ‘They don’t know it’s her.’
Frank agreed. ‘But . . . if it is?’
Kramer frowned, and thought about it. ‘I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the Temple chopped them up. I don’t see any evidence of it, but –’
‘If it wasn’t the Temple . . .’
‘Let’s put it this way: I think the D.A. should be lookin’ for Mister Bergman.’
The suggestion took him aback. ‘You mean –’
The detective leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The Bergmans were having some pretty serious problems.’
‘What kind of problems?’ Frank asked.
‘Problems that didn’t have anything to do with Junior,’ the detective replied. Frank started to say something, but Kramer shook him off. ‘I don’t want to get into it,’ he said, ‘but – what I hear? Bergman moved a lotta money to the Cayman Islands, right before he and his wife turned up missing.’
‘I had no idea,’ Frank said.
Kramer shrugged. ‘You talked to Tuttle yet?’
‘You mean the guy in the D.A.’s office? Up in Placid?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well . . . just by phone,’ Frank said.
‘I guess you could ask him about it, but I don’t think he’ll tell ya anything. It’s a big lead they’re working.’
Frank sipped his wine and thought about what Kramer was saying. Then he tried another tack. ‘What about the exhumation? Did they ever get –’
The detective shook his head. ‘No, it got all hung up in the courts. The county was ready to exhume, but the Temple won it on appeal. I mean, they had the kid’s documents. Signed and sealed. Notarized. There was a will. His signature, no question. He wanted to be buried up there, and he didn’t want his remains ‘violated.’ Said so, right in the will. The next thing you know, Mom and Pop pull a vanishing act, and – boom – the issue’s moot.’
The waiter arrived with the check, and Frank gave him his Visa card, wondering if it was still any good. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you think you could get me the names of the people you talked to on the ship?’
‘The Crystal Dragon.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking, maybe I could talk to them.’
Kramer pursed his lips. ‘I guess I could,’ he said. ‘Gimme your fax number and I’ll send you the memos I wrote.’
Frank told him the number and asked, ‘So what’s it like up there? In Placid.’
Kramer shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s . . . wellkept. Pretty well-organized. They’ve obviously got some dough. Leader’s a toon, but – hey, it works for them.’
They parted company in the parking lot, with Kramer thanking Frank for the meal and promising to get in touch if anything came across his ‘radar screen.’ Then he got into the Jag, which started with a roar, and with a little wave over his shoulder, glided out of the parking lot and into traffic.
Frank watched him leave, then got in the Saab, thinking about the conversation they’d just had. Maybe Kramer was telling the truth, but it seemed to Frank that the P.I. had an agenda, and the agenda was to dismiss the story. Why would he want to do that? Frank wondered. Most P.I.’s were publicity hounds. The more their names got in the paper, the more clients they had.
As he pulled out of the lot and headed north, he regretted what he’d said about the investigation and, in particular, his suspicions about the men who’d drowned. And he regretted it even more when, only a few blocks from the restaurant, he passed a 7-Eleven. Kramer’s Jag was sitting in the lot, and the detective was talking animatedly on the pay phone outside.
Frank slowed, making sure it was him, and then drove on. Hope that’s not about me, he thought.
21
DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
LIKE MOST OF his Pine Creek neighbors, Gene Oberdorfer was retired. He’d moved to Florida from Lake Placid some four months earlier, swearing he would never spend another winter in the frozen north.
Built around a go
lf course, with a gatehouse at each of its two entrances, Pine Creek was like a lot of subdivisions in Florida. But it was actually very special, and what made it so became apparent to anyone riding a golf cart between the seventh and eighth holes. Adjacent to the striped asphalt that marked a crossing over what seemed to be a small road, a wooden sign read:
YIELD TO AIRCRAFT
In Florida, as everywhere else, developers prefer raw land because it spares the expenses of demolition. Accordingly, they’d ignored the Pine Creek messet for years, regarding the World War II airstrip at its center as a liability. With plenty of undeveloped land available, they saw the complex of runways as an extra expense – something that would have to be busted up. Which meant a lot of labor and heavy equipment.
But where others saw a lemon, Pine Creek’s eventual developer saw an opportunity. Dubbing his creation the Pine Creek Fly-In, he created a haven for owners of small aircraft – people like John Travolta and Gene Oberdorfer. The central hangar at the tiny airport and the tie-downs on the adjacent tarmac were nothing special – much, in fact, like the facilities at the little airport where Oberdorfer used to keep his Cessna.
What made Pine Creek unique were networks of taxiways in front of the houses, and the hangars that looked like oversized garages. Owners like Oberdorfer could jump into their planes as easily as some people get into their cars. In a minute or two they could be out of the driveway and onto the taxiway. Five minutes later they could be airborne.
So it was perfect for Oberdorfer, whose mission required both a small plane and a private hangar.
As usual, he got up at five-thirty, did his morning exercises and meditation, then walked to the clubhouse to tee off at seven with his new friends. Most days, he enjoyed golf, though the truth was, he wasn’t very good at it. And today he was distracted. None of the forecasts predicted rain, but clouds were piling up on the horizon, and it worried him.
On the other hand, he thought, sending a spray of dirt and grass into the air, if the rain did hold off, the meteorological conditions would be just about perfect. Temps in the eighties, high humidity, light winds out of the east. Not that it mattered, really. He could go today, or he could go tomorrow. Which day he went was up to him, so long as the conditions were right. Still, it was distracting. And the distraction hurt his game. Especially his short game. His drives had gone to pot, and as for his putting – forget it.