Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  There was a large-screen television built into the wall. Not against it, but in it. He’d seen one that size in a sports bar. There were no lamps in the room. Not one.

  They had been led through the house by Gene Penmark. Through something that looked more like a hotel lobby than a foyer. From the outside, the building had resembled the Overlook Hotel from The Shining … a kid inside riding his Big Wheel through the hallways, trying to dodge the little girl ghosts. But they got inside and realized it wasn’t like that. Not even close. Inside, it didn’t seem to resemble a home or even a hotel. It seemed more like a corporation, and not a very warm, cozy one at that. Glass, steel, screens. Lots of screens.

  Sitting in the room they called the study, Gene Penmark said, “I couldn’t trace the call.”

  Hastings said, “Excuse me?”

  “The call,” Penmark said. “I couldn’t identify the number of the caller.”

  “Well,” Hastings said, “we’ll look into that.”

  Murph said, “Did you recognize the man’s voice?”

  “No. Never heard him before.”

  Hastings said, “About how many people do you employ?”

  “Oh, gosh.” Penmark looked at his wife. “Well over two thousand. Why?”

  “Well, possible disgruntled employee, perhaps. Someone who knows who you are. Who your family is.”

  Lexie said, “Well, that could be anybody.”

  Hastings said, “You said that you didn’t believe the man when he told you he had your daughter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But he put your daughter on the phone, didn’t he?”

  “I think so,” Penmark said. “I’m not too sure, though.”

  “But you’d recognize her voice, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, I believe I would.”

  Hastings said, “Does your daughter live here?”

  “No.” It was Lexie speaking now. “She has a condo in the loft area.”

  Hastings said, “What does she do?”

  Penmark said, “She’s a student at Washington University.”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “Oh…” Penmark looked at his wife for an answer.

  Lexie said, “I’d say about once a week.”

  “Sunday dinner?” Murph said.

  “No,” Lexie said. “It’s not formal, like that. What I mean is, she drops by here and there.”

  Hastings said, “When was the last time you saw her?” directing the question to Penmark again.

  Which made him look at his wife again.

  Lexie said, “We saw her last Tuesday, right?”

  “Yes,” Penmark said, “I think that’s right.”

  Hastings said, “Do you have other children?”

  “Yes. I have another daughter. Her name is Edith. She’s called Edie.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s about twenty-five, I think. She was going to school in Pennsylvania. Penn. But that didn’t work out and she was married for some time. They divorced about a year ago.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She lives here now.”

  “Here in this house?”

  “Not in the house. She stays in one of the bungalows. Outside.”

  “Are she and Cordelia close?”

  Gene Penmark seemed to snort. He was a man of power and authority and he was not used to blunt questions.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

  “How about you? Would you say you and your daughter have a close relationship?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  Hastings made a shrugging gesture with his hands. Like, Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t, but work with me here. “It might help me, Mr. Penmark.”

  “Well, we don’t talk all the time. But my daughters … my children know that … I’m…” He was looking at his wife again.

  Lexie said, “They’ve grown up, Mr. Hastings. You know how that is.”

  Actually, Hastings thought, he didn’t know. His only daughter was twelve and she’d never had to live in a glass box.

  Hastings said, “Mr. Penmark, is your daughter … wild?”

  “Which one?”

  Hastings paused for a moment, looking at the man they said was a genius. “Cordelia,” Hastings said.

  “Wild? No, I don’t think so. She’s never … been in trouble. Used drugs … not that I’m aware of.”

  “Who does she hang out with?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “But you met Tom Myers before?”

  “Yes. I remember him.”

  “You know he’s been killed?”

  “I know that now.”

  “So, knowing that, do you think this is a prank?”

  “I don’t know. Before, I did. But now—well, now I just I don’t know.”

  Murph said, “His name was Tom Myers.”

  Hastings gave Murph a look. Hastings had not been unaware of Penmark’s tone himself. He was a cold fucking piece of work. But he was not a suspect.

  Tim Murphy had been on the receiving end of gunfire. Delivered from another, much colder piece of work. Still, when he saw Hastings look his way, he shut it down.

  Penmark was aware of something between the two policemen, but he didn’t know what it was. He said, “Pardon?”

  “Nothing,” Hastings said. “You told me before that the man said they had given your daughter a tranquilizer.”

  “Yes.”

  “He used that word—tranquilizer?”

  “Yes.”

  Hastings said, “Well, sir. It may well be a kidnapping. In cases like this, the FBI is notified.”

  “The FBI? Is that really necessary?”

  The detectives were looking at him again.

  “I mean, at this point?”

  Murph said, “Please understand, Mr. Penmark, it’s not a question of us trying to pass it off. This is part of their mission. They have resources and manpower unavailable to us.”

  Lexie said, “Would you still be involved then?”

  It took Hastings a moment to realize that she was directing the question to him.

  He said, “Us?”

  “Well, you.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. It’s not my call. But I’ll try to do everything I can.”

  Gene Penmark said, “But what will they do?”

  “To start, they’ll come here and set up tape-recording equipment on all your phones.”

  “I already have that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I already have that,” Penmark said. “On all my phones.”

  “Including your cell phone?”

  “Well, not on that one. My homes and office.”

  There was a pause. And Lexie Penmark said, “His lawyer told him it was okay. As long as he’s one of the people on the phone.”

  Murph glanced about the room. He wondered if they were being videotaped.

  * * *

  Driving down the road, Murph said, “What now?”

  Hastings said, “We wait.”

  Murph said, “We’re in the dark, man. And that guy didn’t help one fucking bit.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, “he’s a strange bird.”

  Murph said, “Makes me wonder if she was trying to upset him. If such a thing was possible.”

  The guard waved at them as they drove past his booth.

  Later, Murph said, “His wife.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “No.”

  “She used to be Lexie Lacquere. Sexy Lexie?” Murph said. “She used to be on Channel 9 before she became Lexie Penmark.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hastings said. “Vaguely.”

  “Real cute thing with the fake boobs. Remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sexy Lexie. She’s aged a little, but she still looks good.”

  Hastings said, “I usually watch the news on the other channel.”

  �
��Which one?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Murph said, “I remember she was married to some other guy. A firefighter, in fact. And then all of a sudden she wasn’t married to the firefighter and was married to this guy. Just like that.”

  “Yeah, well, her funeral.”

  The car was on the interstate again, the twin green bridges coming back into view.

  Murph said, “You want me to take you home or back to the crime scene?”

  “Crime scene.”

  NINE

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  Hastings said, “Hi, it’s me. Are you up?”

  “Yeah. I just got out of the shower. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some time. I just wanted to see if you’d like to meet for a cup of coffee.”

  “You mean before work?”

  “Yeah, if you can.”

  It was a little after seven in the morning. Hastings knew that Carol usually set her alarm at 6:15 A.M. during the week. Her reading glasses were always by the bed.

  “I can,” she said. “I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes?”

  * * *

  Carol McGuire was an attorney whose primary clientele were criminals. She used to be a public defender, providing legal representation to those who could not afford an attorney. She was a good lawyer, tough and bright. When she met Hastings, they were both, so to speak, on the clock. He was trying to get information out of a witness while she was trying to protect the witness’s rights, and maybe something more. Voices were raised, fronts were presented, neither of them faking things or getting self-righteous. A couple of days later they had dinner together and confirmed that they shared a strong, mutual attraction. So they tentatively began working out something they never quite gave a name to. A long-term affair or a courtship or simply seeing each other. Being fairly wise people in this modern age, neither of them tried to define the relationship. Hastings was recently divorced and, in his way, relatively inexperienced at this sort of thing. He had hardly been monastic before he married Eileen, but things had been different then. Before his marriage, there had been no complications with children.

  He had been involved with Carol McGuire for only a few months. They were around the same age and they appeared normal, as far as couples can appear normal. They were similar and different. In some ways they acknowledged their differences, and in some ways they did not. Hastings was, like most cops, of a fairly right-wing sensibility, while Carol could not contemplate ever voting Republican and had trouble understanding why anyone would. But they both had a healthy interest in sex and their conversation was rarely uncomfortable or forced. Carol McGuire was also divorced. She had no children. So far, she had not said much about having children.

  * * *

  A delivery truck rolled by on the cobblestoned road, a small noise of hammering wheels and stretching springs. Then it was gone and they could hear the murmur of people chatting while they stood in line to order their morning lattes. The coffee shop was on a corner in the Central West End, near Carol’s apartment.

  Carol was dressed conservatively in a blue skirt and jacket and white blouse. Hastings imagined she had court today. She was not a sexy dresser, not a glamour dresser. But Hastings realized, with some comfort at this age, that that didn’t matter much to him. She was undoubtedly feminine and the garments beneath the business attire were more often than not lace. This morning, her hair was pulled back and she was wearing her glasses.

  Hastings did not want to discuss the murder of Tom Myers or the abduction of Cordelia Penmark with her this morning. Not now. And without giving it much thought, he told her about his frustration with matters pertaining to his home life. In particular, his frustration with Eileen. He did not stop to ask himself if Carol wanted to hear about it. He did not think about that. It was with him and he needed to let it out.

  Carol said, “Well, are you really surprised?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “This is not the first time you’ve told me something like this.”

  “I know.” Hastings looked up, aware of her now. “I’m sorry. Is it getting old?”

  “Well, yeah, a little.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You keep saying you’re sorry. But…”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? She’s the mother of my daughter.”

  “Divorce her.”

  “I did divorce her.”

  “I mean, divorce yourself from her.”

  Hastings sighed. “Not this again,” he said.

  Carol gave him a balanced smile. “I’m not accusing you, okay? I’m not accusing you of carrying a torch for Eileen. But it seems like every couple of weeks, I have to hear a bad Eileen story. Can you understand that I would be—well, I’m not going to say jealous, but, well, tired of it.”

  “You have nothing to be jealous about. You know that.”

  “I do know that. I know she’s not your lover. I do, George. But there’s an intimacy there.”

  “No—”

  “There’s—”

  “No. There’s not.”

  “There’s something there, George. A connection.”

  “Yes, there is a connection. Her name is Amy. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s our daughter. We have to—”

  “Okay.”

  Carol leaned back in her seat. A silence between them. Before it could stretch, she said, “You’ll work it out.”

  “I know,” Hastings said. He took comfort in the contrast between her blouse and her neck. “This is my fault. I’m dumping my domestic squabbles on you.”

  “It’s not your fault. Forget it.” She smiled. “I’m glad to see you.” Saying it and meaning it.

  “I’m glad to see you too.”

  “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Carol shook her head. “Shit,” she said, feeling bad now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, George. It’s a homicide?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “You’ve been up all night and you take time out to see me and then I give you heat about … I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You should’ve just come straight over this morning. We could have at least made love.”

  “But you were already out of the shower when I called.”

  She smiled almost sadly and gave a small shrug. “Maybe tonight,” she said.

  “That’d be nice.” He said, “When do you leave for Chicago?” She was spending Christmas there with a sister.

  “The day after tomorrow. My sister’s first Christmas with her second husband. It should be interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, “I imagine it will be.”

  And he left it at that.

  It could be weird, this business of dating. There was as much focus placed on what was not said as what was said. Hastings had never told Carol that he loved her. Nor had she said such a thing to him. He liked her very much and knew that she was not wily or adolescent in her dealings with him. He knew that when she had brought up her sister’s second marriage, she had not been angling for a marriage proposal herself. They never discussed marriage. Never had an occasion to. But she was a perceptive woman, and after she had let out the reference to her sister’s second husband, she was well aware of the effect it had. They were both of them cautious, always cautious. As if sensing the discomfort she had caused, Carol McGuire said, “I’ll miss you.”

  Hastings said, “I’ll miss you too.”

  “But we’ll see each other before that. Tonight?”

  “Tonight sounds great.”

  * * *

  Matt Lauer was standing next to a young black man wearing baggy pants and thick black shoes, cap worn backward. Matt in a suit, the
other guy in his uniform. Matt asking him a question about his refusal to change his shoes for the television show where celebrities waltzed around with professional dancers, the guy responding that his refusal to change his shoes somehow put him on the same level as Rosa Parks.

  The interview was drowned out as a woman in her late thirties turned on the kitchen sink and rinsed milk and orange juice out of cups. She set the cups upside down on a towel, close to the small television set.

  The woman was wearing sweats and a white T-shirt. She had blond hair, cut short, and she had an athletic build. Her name was Terry McGregor.

  Outside, a Jaguar XJ6 rumbled to a stop. The rumbling cut off and Hastings got out. He walked to the front door of the house and knocked.

  He was holding a bag of coffee. Terry McGregor came to the door and let him in.

  “Hi,” Hastings said. “I brought this for you.”

  “Oh,” Terry said. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “Well, I appreciated you taking Amy in. Especially on such short notice.”

  “Forget about it. Anytime you need to drop her off, she’s welcome. Come on in and have a cup of coffee. The girls are upstairs getting ready.”

  He followed her back to the kitchen and took a seat at the table.

  Terry said, “You take anything in it?”

  “A little milk.”

  She poured enough milk in the bottom of his cup to cover the bottom. Then poured the coffee on top of it. She set the cup of coffee on the table in front of him.

  Terry and Chet McGregor had moved to St. Louis a few months ago. They were from Knoxville, Tennessee. Chet was a big fellow, military-looking with his hair cut high and tight. Talked big too, and often. He was a sales engineer. Hastings did not like Chet much, when he gave it any thought. But he liked Terry well enough. She had been a teacher and a girls’ basketball coach for some time, but had given that up when she had Randi.

  She went back to the kitchen sink, turning to George as she conversed with him.

  “Were you out all night?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  Hastings shrugged. “I’ll get a nap later today. Chet gone already?”

  “Yes,” Terry said. She still had her Tennessee accent. Hastings thought it was pleasant. “He left at six thirty. He’s flying to Cleveland today. He should be back late tonight.”