“We’re meeting with Alicia tomorrow,” Elizabeth said.
“We?”
“Sandy and I.”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t know. To remind her that someone cares. To let her know there are people seeking justice for her. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s a lot, actually.”
“And maybe, if we’re lucky, she’ll remember something else.”
“Maybe. Good luck.”
“We’ll need it. She’ll need it.”
Gordon nodded. After a moment of silence, he took Bob’s list out of his pocket and stared at it again. Elizabeth finally gave him a light jab in the ribs.
“You really know how to make a woman feel like the center of attention, Gordon.”
“Sorry.” He set the list on his lap. “I keep thinking that if I look at it long enough, and in context, maybe it’ll come to me — who Wheaties is.”
She took the list off his lap and looked at it intently.
“The only thing that strikes me is that everything else on the list had to do with his show. A song to play, a sound effect for a commercial, a reminder to give the time, a guest for later in the week. Maybe we should be asking how Wheaties has anything to do with Morning Coffee with Mountain Bob.”
“You may have something there, but what?”
They considered the idea for five silent minutes and came up empty.
“Or maybe,” she said, “it has something to do with Wheaties and radio in general.”
Gordon stirred.
“That makes sense, too,” he said. “Bob was a great student of radio. He knew all about the old-time radio shows and personalities. He very easily could have drawn on that for one of his nicknames.”
“Too bad there isn’t another radio expert in this county.”
Gordon stood up and began pacing around the room.
“No, but that gives me an idea. My college roommate works for the San Francisco Chronicle, and a couple of months ago, at a party, he introduced me to one of their columnists, Gerald Nachman, who’s working on a book about old-time radio. We talked for a while and exchanged phone numbers after I told him my father knew the whereabouts of an old radio actor.” He took out his phone and began scrolling. “He’s still here.”
“Would he talk to you? Does he even remember you?”
“Only one way to find out.” He dialed the number. Nachman answered on the third ring, and Gordon introduced himself.
“Ah, Gordon,” Nachman said. “I was just thinking about you the other day, and that I should get around to following up with you about that actor … his name is in my notes here somewhere.”
“I’d be delighted to help when I get back to San Francisco next week. Would you like me to give you a call then?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“But in the meantime, I was wondering if I could pick your brain about something having to do with radio history.”
“I’m always happy to talk about radio. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, it’s kind of an open-ended question, but anything you can do would be appreciated. What can you tell me about Wheaties and radio?”
“That is a big subject. How much time have you got.”
“All night, if that’s what it takes.”
“Let’s try not to go that long. Why don’t I throw out a few major points and if one of them is close to what you’re looking for, we can keep going in that direction.”
“Fair enough.”
“To begin with, Wheaties — in fact, General Mills, the parent company — was one of the early big advertisers on radio. They pretty much had a strategy, which they still use today, of associating the product with sports and athletes. In the early 1930s, they signed on as the sponsor for radio broadcasts of the Minneapolis minor league baseball team …”
“The Minneapolis Millers.”
“Not surprising you’d know that, being an athlete and all. Anyway, for sponsoring the radio broadcasts, they got a billboard on the outfield wall of the ballpark. So they decided they needed to come up with a slogan for that space. Care to guess what it was?”
“Breakfast of Champions?”
“That was too easy. In any event, they made a point of sponsoring radio broadcasts of athletic events, associating with athletes, in fact, putting athletes on the front of the cereal box. I’ll bet you didn’t know that at the 1939 baseball All-Star game, almost every ball player there did an endorsement for Wheaties.”
“I did not know that.”
“There you go. You’ve learned something already. And along those lines, they developed a radio drama program that had quite a run, with the express purpose of selling Wheaties. It was about a clean-cut young hero who ate Wheaties and vanquished all sorts of bad guys. They figured that if their hero ate Wheaties, other young men would want to as well.”
“Interesting.”
“You may have heard of the title of the show. It was called Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy.”
“What?!” Gordon sat straight up, and Elizabeth shot him a sideways look.
“No need to shout, Gordon. I can hear you perfectly well. Jack Armstrong was actually a college buddy of the man who created the show — it’s in my notes somewhere — and he took a lot of ribbing about it. But it sounds as if the name registers with you.”
“Well, without boring you with details, we’ve been trying to figure out who around here could be connected with Wheaties. One person we hadn’t thought of, but who’s been hanging around the periphery of the discussion is a man named John Armstrong.”
“This sounds very mysterious, Gordon, kind of like one of those 1940s spy shows with secret codes and everything.”
“You could certainly say there’s a lot of drama going on.”
“In any event, I was just getting started on Wheaties. Would you like me to go on, or do you think you have your answer.”
“No, I think this is it. Thank you so much.”
“I hope it helps some.”
“It’s a great clue. The only trouble is, I don’t know if anybody is going to believe it. But that’s my problem, not yours. So, about that phone number I promised you: I’ll be getting back to the City late Monday night. I’ll get the number from my dad and call you Tuesday or Wednesday, if you’re going to be around.”
“I will, and I’ll be looking forward to your call. Perhaps you can tell me more about your little mystery then.”
“I hope so. We’ll talk next week, and thanks again.”
Gordon turned off the phone and leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He said nothing for a full minute, and Elizabeth finally jabbed him in the ribs.
“So are you going to tell me, or do I have to beg?”
Gordon shook his head.
“Sorry. This is so big I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it. I think we have an answer to the meaning of Wheaties, and if it means what I think, it’s both huge and terrifying.”
“Well.”
“Wheaties created and sponsored a radio show called Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy.”
“Oh my God. My father used to listen to it when he was a kid back in the forties. I remember him mentioning it. But I don’t see …”
“John Armstrong. The Highway Patrolman who wrote up my speeding ticket a week ago. Who was at the crime scene when Jessica Milland was found. Who looks like an All-American boy.”
“Oh, Gordon, no.”
“If I’m guessing right, Bob saw him drive up to the radio station Monday morning, and the nickname popped into his head. He wrote it down to keep it in his mind, and it was about the last thing he did.”
“This certainly goes with your theory about someone in law enforcement being trusted by a hitchhiker.”
“I’d say Armstrong is more trustworthy, based on appearances, than Howard Honig — wouldn’t you?”
“No contest.”
“It fits, Elizabeth. It absolutely fits. B
ut it’s only a vapor of a clue, with nothing solid to go on. And after leading the sheriff down a path with Howard, I’m almost afraid to mention this. I mean, I have to, but how do I do it without being laughed out of her office — laughed out of town?”
“You know, Gordon, you don’t have to make a decision right now.”
She leaned into him, hooked a finger under his shirt collar, pulled it out slightly and began nuzzling the back of his neck.
“Maybe we should sleep on it,” she said.
Friday November 14
I DIDN’T SLEEP ALL THAT WELL, and at around four in the morning pretty much gave up trying. There was too much going on now, and I found myself trying to sort it out, even though the county has a sheriff who’s being paid to do that. Gordon was off conjugating verbs with the English teacher, and I had a hotel room, which suddenly seemed very large, all to myself. I listened to the hisses and rattles of the radiator and the sound of the occasional truck rumbling down Chaparral Boulevard below. A little after five, I decided there was no point maintaining the fiction that I could get back to sleep. I got up, threw on some clothes, made sure I had my phone with me, and set off to brave the elements for a cup of coffee at Danny’s Diner, open 24 hours.
It had stopped raining, which was good, and the clouds had parted enough to show patches of stars in between. The sidewalks were still wet, and the streetlights were reflected in pools of water on the road. It was cold, that damp cold that started a couple of days ago, and I was glad to get into the warmth of the diner.
Four or five tables were occupied when I got there a little after 5:30. I didn’t know how long I’d be there and didn’t want to tie up a table by myself when the rush started, so I sat on a stool at the edge of the counter, where no one could sit on my right side. The waitress was a perky blonde of about 19 who didn’t go easy on the makeup. She’d have been fawning all over Gordon, but it took me a while to get noticed and get a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll (from Kemper’s, if I’m not mistaken). I knew I’d hate myself later in the morning for having all that caffeine and sugar, but it was what I needed at the time.
As the coffee began to take hold, my mind flitted about from this to that. I have a friend who likes to say that expectations are resentments waiting to happen, and my expectations for this fishing trip certainly hadn’t materialized. It turned into another opera altogether, and I am but a spear-carrier in the background. As such, however, I have had the opportunity to watch the principals in action and perhaps learn a bit more about them than they might know themselves.
Somewhat against my better instincts, I am beginning to warm to Elizabeth. Just a bit, but still … I now feel that she’s more solid than I gave her credit for at first, and that, in some ways, she might be a good fit for Gordon. But therein lies the rub. For reasons unclear to me, even after knowing the man nearly two decades, Gordon seems to get involved with really good women only when they’re unattainable. He can talk a good talk about learning to fly and getting a pilot’s license, but he and I both know it isn’t going to happen.
As for the criminal drama going on around here, I simply have no idea. After seeing that party video, I’m hoping that smug, entitled quarterback gets his comeuppance, yet I have no expectation that he will. I’m no lawyer, but I’ve seen enough about how important football is in this town to conclude that at least one juror would probably buy his story, however far-fetched and inconsistent it might be. And his parents can afford a good lawyer, so there you are.
When it comes to the missing students, I am similarly baffled. Some psycho in this town has been cleverly disguising himself as a responsible adult, and until he gets caught with a body in the trunk of his car, well, odds are he’ll keep getting away with it. It’s hardly the sort of thing that makes you feel good about the state of the world, and, sitting alone in a small-town diner, with sunrise more than half an hour away, that’s not a thought you want to linger on.
At 6:45, I had finished the cinnamon roll and my fourth cup of coffee and was seeing the beginning of a good case of the shakes. I was about to leave, when my phone rang. Gordon — who else?
“Sam,” he said. “Big news. I’ll pick you up at the front door of the hotel in half an hour, all right?”
“Sure,” I said, and that was the extent of the conversation. Gordon is apt to forget the niceties when he gets excited, but on the other hand, what else am I going to do, stuck here without a car? And maybe he’s made some headway on the meaning of Wheaties.
I paid the bill, leaving a generous percent tip, and trudged back to the Danube. I could see my breath in the pre-dawn light, which meant that with the cloud cover breaking up, it was getting colder. I should have brought a scarf.
GORDON’S CHEROKEE ROLLED UP to the main entrance of the Danube at 7:17 a.m., and Sam was out the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop. He headed for the front passenger door, but stopped when he saw Elizabeth there, next to Gordon. He jumped in the back, and they took off.
“We’re heading to the Rodeo Café,” Gordon said.
“Why the Rodeo?” Sam asked.
“Because we can talk on the drive out there. What I have to tell you isn’t something I can say where we might be overheard.”
“Good morning, Sam,” Elizabeth said.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Sam said.
Once they were out of town, Gordon told Sam about the conversation with Nachman and the conclusion drawn from it.
Sam nodded.
“Speaking as Akers and Pains to Flyboy, that sounds exactly like something Bob would have come up with. Now what?”
“We’re going to get something to eat,” Elizabeth said, “and then we’re coming straight back to town. Gordon is going to the sheriff with this … ”
“You’re welcome to join me, Sam,”
“ … and Sandy and I are meeting with Alicia. She has study hall from 10:27 to 11:19, and we’re talking to her in the nurse’s office. Her lunch break’s after that, if we need to keep going.”
“Are you going to come along, Sam?” Gordon asked.
“Of course I’m coming. For two reasons. One, I don’t have anything else to do, and second, I wouldn’t miss the chance to see the sheriff’s reaction to that theory.”
CHRIS AND DIANE STARED AT GORDON without saying a word for a full 30 seconds. They were in the DA’s conference room, where Caitlin DeShayne’s video had been played on Wednesday, and the blinds were drawn. Gordon finally squirmed in his chair, and said:
“Is it really that dumb?”
“I don’t suppose I’d exactly call it dumb,” Diane finally said. “I’m just trying to imagine what a jury would say if I tried to put that in front of them as evidence.”
“Not a fair comment,” Gordon said. “It isn’t evidence. I know that. But it could be a lead, and if you followed the lead, it might generate some evidence.”
Chris and Diane looked at each other.
“You have to admit he has a point,” Chris finally said. “We can make discreet inquiries into Officer Armstrong and see if anything turns up. But I’ll tell you right now, Gordon, looking into someone in my own department was bad enough. Approaching another law enforcement agency with the suggestion that one of their officers might be a serial killer … well, let’s just say that isn’t something they spend a lot of time on when we get our training.”
“And what Chris didn’t mention,” Diane said, “is that she’s not exactly popular with the Highway Patrol right now. The area commander’s an old friend of Howard’s and thinks he should have been appointed sheriff.”
“Never mind that. It’s been four days since Bob was killed, and the trail’s going cold. This is all we’ve got, and I’ll have to figure out how to follow it. And fast.”
After another period of silence, Sam spoke up.
“I don’t know how these things work, but could I ask a question?”
Chris nodded distractedly.
“I’m wondering what you’ve don
e to find out if anyone saw something at the radio station the morning Bob was killed. When Gordon and I were driving on that highway, there were cars on the road just about the whole time. I mean, it wasn’t the Bayshore Freeway at rush hour, but still. You’d think somebody must have seen something.”
“Funny you should say that, Sam,” Chris said. “Howard made the same point yesterday afternoon. But it doesn’t work that way. Sometimes a criminal gets lucky, and sometimes he gets unlucky. It reminds me of a case in Santa Cruz County back in the seventies.”
She saw she had the room’s attention and continued.
“There was a serial killer at work there — two of them, in fact, as it later turned out — but the one I’m talking about was killing people at random and with various weapons. The victims had nothing in common, unlike here, where they’re all female college students. He killed over a dozen people, and the police had no leads whatsoever.
“Then one morning, the killer did a drive-by. He drove down a quiet residential street, saw a man in front of his house, and shot him to death. Only this time, there happened to be a neighbor watching. The neighbor got a license number, called the police, and minutes later they’d pulled the perp over and arrested him without incident. He now has a life tenancy in one of our fine correctional institutions.
“Which brings me to the moral of the story, if you can call it that. A serial killer, even with the edge of having no connection with the victims, has to be lucky. He can’t be accidentally seen by anyone; he can’t leave something at the crime scene, and so forth. And here’s the thing: The killer has to be lucky every time. The police only have to be lucky once.”
“That’s true, of course,” Diane finally said. “But people around here are getting angry. They want to know what the sheriff is doing now to find Bob’s killer and Jessica’s killer. How long can you wait for luck, and how many more women are going to die before it shows up?”
“I’m not waiting for luck,” Chris snapped. “I’m doing my best to speed it along. And I’m a great believer in the notion that the more you tie up your loose ends, the more you create your own luck. So I guess I’d better get back to my office and resume tying up loose ends.”
The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4) Page 22