Flame Out (13 page)

None of the boxes in the first room dated from the important years, and we ducked into the second. I pulled a box marked “HR March 1983–June 1983.” Threads of spiderwebs pulled away, and a fine layer of dust coated the pile of yellowed papers. I pulled a file at random and paged through it—carefully typewritten sheet, thin and mimeographed, including the employee's name, Social Security number, birthdate, start date, end date. This place would be a gold mine for an identity thief.

Hale's phone rang.

“Hale Bascom,” he said and walked out to the hallway to talk. He had a lot of business outside this case, and I wondered how he was getting it all done. He came back, hand over the mouthpiece.

“June, can I borrow some paper?”

I considered handing him a piece from one of the thousands in these boxes, but pulled out my pad and pencil. Using the wall as a writing surface, he wrote down a time, thanked the person on the other end, and hung up.

“We got a line on the burned woman,” he said. “Possibly. Louann Bazelon of Taos, New Mexico.”

The name Bazelon was familiar to me. They weren't local, so maybe they were from one of my FBI assignments? I'd never been to New Mexico, and I doubted they were from Missouri, but maybe Los Angeles?

“From the TV show,” Hale said. “
Global Adventure
. The two brothers, both park rangers, who made a name for themselves saving that idiot CEO who went on a vision quest with only his personal chef as a guide and got himself stuck on top of a mountain. It was high drama, and that CEO made sure they got plenty of attention.”

I'd seen the TV show several times, and I'd caught the newscasts that covered their daring rescue.

“They definitely had the whole hero thing down,” I said. “Plus they were pretty hot.”

“And they had loyal steeds, cute puppies, and they loved their mother.” Hale took a breath. “That last part's true. They're pretty wrecked about their momma's disappearance.”

“Did they have any idea how she might have ended up here?”

“No idea. Last time she was seen or heard from she was at home, gardening with her rocks.”

“Gardening with rocks?”

“Yeah, it's high desert up there. No hydrangeas, so if you want something decorative and environmentally sound, you go for rocks and pine trees and cactus.” Hale tore the page out of my pad and returned it to me. “As it happened, the CEO they saved still has a fond spot for them, and he lent them his plane. They should be here in a few hours.”

I returned to my document search, and found Vera's HR records without too much effort. She had two stints at the factory—one for fourteen months a few years before she died, and the second for six months right before she went missing. I didn't find the timesheets, but I did find the payroll records. Double-checking the dates, I was able to pull payroll for every employee who worked at the factory at the same time as Vera. The fifth room held nothing of interest, and the sixth was a jumble. There were pens and pencils, old safety signs and a lost and found box, which contained a jumble of old shirts, three brown shoes, all matching, and a red purse.

“I'm taking this,” I said, holding up the purse. “It doesn't match the one described in the missing persons report Dave filed exactly, but I could see where a twelve-year-old might confuse vinyl for leather.”

“These you definitely want.” Hale held up two of the shoes, boring beige lace-ups that were a practical choice for the factory floor. His finger traced the edge, where a name was written.

Vera
.

If what Tanya's mother said was true, Vera walked out of Sleep-Tite the night she died in a red dress and high-heeled boots. No need for practical rubber-soled brown shoes where she was going. But who picked her up for the party at the Medveds'? And did they kill her?

THE BUZZ HUMMING THROUGH THE HOSPITAL ALMOST
drowned out the beeps and hisses of the machines. A low murmur, an awareness of celebrity muted by the attention to the patients.

“Did you see them?” I heard someone ask as our group passed the nurses' station. They weren't talking about Hale and me. Theo Bazelon had light brown hair and green eyes, and he was tall—almost 6'3''. Nate, the younger of the two, had red hair, but the same green eyes and was short and muscular. Their eyes could be the same color as the burned woman lying in the hospital bed, but it was hard to tell.

It was odd to feel like you knew someone you'd never met. In
preparation for meeting the men I'd read a
People
magazine article in which Theo talked about his love of popcorn and Nate cuddled with his pixie-cute girlfriend. I'd watched the show: Theo was the wiser of the two, advising caution. Nate would push, faster and faster, forcing Theo to keep up. The combination allowed them to save that CEO and worked to an even greater advantage when they were on
Great Adventure
. Nate provided the speed, and Theo made sure they didn't make a mistake.

With them was a tall African-American man, gray dreadlocks spilling over a fine blue linen shirt. Theo introduced him as the woman's husband.

“Can we go in now?” Nate said.

After donning the paper scrubs and face masks, we went in. Our burn victim had stabilized in the two weeks since her injury, and the smell of rotting flesh was almost gone, a blessing for these young men who might be identifying their mother. Even so, the nurse remained, monitoring the victim's fluids and checking her vitals. The patient looked even smaller than before, the nutrients in her saline drip no replacement for real food. Pink hard skin obscured her facial features, but her hair had started to sprout, a light red fuzz.

“She might be Mom,” Theo said softly. “Same . . . size. I think.”

Nate disagreed. “Red hair. Mom's hair is kind of dishwater blond. Like Theo's.”

Darius went around the other side of the bed. “She dyed her hair.”

“Her hair went gray ten, fifteen years ago?” Nate said.

“No, I mean she dyed her hair from the day I met her.” Darius stepped close, examining her. “She was a pretty down-to-earth woman, never vain, but she spent money on hair dye. She didn't need it. She was a knockout.” He reached for her, taking her unburned hand in his. “Still is.”

“Do you believe this is your wife, sir?” Hale asked.

Darius paused, running his finger gently over her fingertips.
“These hands. I watched those hands do everything, from potting plants to changing your diaper, Nate.” He caressed her wrist. “It's her.”

“But she's hurt so badly,” Nate said, near tears. I got the sense it wasn't that he didn't think the burn victim was his mother, but that he didn't want it to be.

Theo walked around the bed, resting his arm on his brother's shoulder. “Look closer, Nate.” He traced her arm, inches from Darius's hand. “Freckles. She could never tan.” Nate sobbed, and Theo hugged him. “It's her, Nate.”

The nurse stood up and checked the monitor. “I'm supposed to change the dressing, but—”

“Now?!” Nate stalked toward the nurse. “We just find out our mother is almost dead . . .” He stopped, taking a step back. “I'm sorry. You don't deserve my rudeness, miss.”

Theo spoke, his voice kind. “We're sorry for inconveniencing you, nurse . . .”

“That's fine,” the nurse said. “It's a difficult day.” While younger, she was no more taken with these minor celebrities than nurse Gayle was. Spending enough time with doctors who had huge egos made anyone unflappable.

Darius had started to hum a song, sweet and low. “Coma patients have their hearing, mostly. I figure if she hears some Marvin Gaye, she'll know I'm here.”

After agreeing to take the brother's statements the next day, Hale and I decided to leave, giving the men time alone with the woman they'd been searching desperately for, no matter how damaged. We exited to the sounds of Darius singing “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING, CHIEF DONNELLY WATCHED WARILY AS A
dozen seventy-year-old women arranged a roast, cold cuts, dumplings, and coleslaw on the pink plastic fake lace tablecloth, food for fifty rather than the twenty people roaming Natalya's house.

“I served in Vietnam,” Donnelly said. “And I can safely say less planning went into the TET offensive.”

Two women walked by, each holding one handle of a soup tureen, their hands shaking. I almost stepped in before they safely hefted it onto the table.

During Vera Batko's requiem mass at the Ukrainian church, these same practical women had been the source of a sublime sound, their voices layering in song, filling the empty corners of the church and bounced off the icon panels, the gold leaf, and the deep reds of the pictures, giving the saints more gravity than the stained-glass variety.

Dave's family had huddled close to the casket. It was small, Vera having shrunk to the size of a child while in the barrel. The bushy-bearded priest spoke over her casket in Ukrainian, his robes spilling over his 6'5'' frame, skimming the floor and wearing a hat that put his final height over 7 feet, easily. The Ukrainian rolled out of him, a
steady thunder of words, and the women joined in, their voices light, skidding around his voice. I wondered if their masses always had this much singing or if it was saved for funerals. Bells tolled through the song, and the voices rang out, followed by one last chime.

A contingent from Jake's Social Club had showed up, a group of men who refrained from drinking long enough to get through the service. The rest of Dave's friends and I sat in the back, including people from the station, several deputies from the sheriff's department, state troopers, and cops from neighboring towns. It was only respect for Dave that kept law enforcement from arresting the guys from Jake's bar, but I did receive several passed notes with their suggestions of who had stuffed Vera in a barrel, most of which said “Jake Medved.” Even my dad came, making a quick exit after the service with a lie about having to meet someone—my dad had no social life. Annie emerged as the go-to person on what to do. She wore a lace scarf, and it being church, the whisper she used was lower as she explained the different parts of the funeral mass. I was wondering where she'd learned all this. One of the state troopers asked.

“Dave's aunt.”

Annie now hustled through Natalya's house carrying a basket of rolls, politely obeying an older woman who told her to move the bread to the other side of the table.

“Help yourself!” Dave said. “Aunt Natalya's been cooking for days. She's got a bit of a reputation to uphold, having been the unofficial caterer for the Island over the last forty years.” He waved his hand in front of the table. “I give the bar crowd twenty minutes to get here. Eat up now, before the locusts hit.”

I laughed.

“I'm exaggerating. Slightly,” Dave said.

We loaded up plates and grabbed a corner, the chief sitting at a small table and the group from the station crowded around. Next to us were two pictures of Vera, the frames surrounded by six religious icons. Both Vera and the icons were beautiful.

I picked up a picture of Vera that I guessed was from the late 1970s. Dave, probably five, beamed from the seat of an amusement park train, his mother sitting next to him, gripping him tightly. In the seat behind Vera and Dave slumped young Lucas, an island of misery in a sea of candy-colored gaiety, his straight hair feathered back in a way that made me suspect he had a comb stuck in the back of the cut-off jean shorts he was wearing.

“Lucas wasn't enjoying the train ride?” I asked.

“He wasn't enjoying much of anything, I don't think.” Dave lowered his voice. “Mom was three days back from a few months . . . out of town. Me and Dad were ecstatic to have her back. Lucas was not.”

I picked up the second picture. Vera was much thinner than in the first, all high cheekbones and dead eyes. She was wearing a lime-green sleeveless shirtdress, the polyester clinging to her slim frame, and was perched in front of a handpainted sign that read H
APPY
J
ULY
4
^TH
1983 in childlike script, backward flags lining the edge. I looked closer, trying to get a hint of what would leave Vera dead before the end of the summer, but there was nothing. I placed the photo back in the nest of icons.

“Aunt Natalya took an icon-making class at the church,” Dave said when he saw me studying them. “She wasn't religious, but every time she made one it was a big ‘fuck you' to Khrushchev.”

“Stalin.” I hadn't heard Natalya coming. “And do not use profanity.”

The chief stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Batko, but I need to return to the station.”

Dave shook his hand. “Thanks for coming. The ladies auxiliary here”—he pointed to the women in the kitchen—“will be sorry to see you go. Fresh meat.”

Dave's joke couldn't have been farther from the truth. While the younger crowd welcomed us warmly, the older women who buzzed around Natalya gave us a wide berth, distrusting law enforcement on principle. I doubted if this group had so much as jaywalked in their
lifetime, but they looked at us as if they expected the chief and me to round them up and take them away. I think in their minds I was close kin with Stalin, which was not a comparison I appreciated.

Chief Donnelly had to fight his way past the crush at the door. Jake and Maxim Medved had arrived, accompanied by the barflies. Lucas greeted several of them warmly, introducing them to Tara, who spun tightly around her father's legs. Judge Medved carried a ring of lilies over his arm like a racehorse, the smell of the flowers filling the room.

“Our crowd was getting hungry,” Jake called. “Good thing we followed our noses.”

“It is a wonder you could smell over those flowers,” Natalya said. “Ostentatious arrangement, the scent overwhelms.” She waved to the backyard. “Put it out there, Maxim.”

The guys from Jake's bar that trooped in after the Medved brothers, sticking to the plastic path running through the living room, afraid to step off. One of Natalya's handmaidens brought the judge a plate, piled high. Clearly Natalya wasn't holding the fact that the prime suspect in Vera's death was Maxim's brother against him. No other plates were forthcoming, and Jake led a contingent into the dining room. The men weren't grief stricken, and there were happy sighs when they spotted the food.

Dave nudged Hale. “See that guy?” A man in his sixties, small and gray, made a sandwich and dropped it into his pocket. “That's Tomas Wolschowicz. Oksana's brother. The last woman who, maybe, possibly disappeared.”

“We should go get his contact info,” I said.

“He'll dodge you. Cops make him nervous. Grab him now and take him to the backyard. It's pretty quiet.”

We approached and introduced ourselves, asking to talk about his sister.

“Can I bring my food?” When we agreed, he followed us happily.
We slipped out the kitchen door to the porch, but even outside the judge's wreath was sickeningly sweet. We walked farther out onto the lawn.

“Natalya's house is such a sweet place,” Tomas said, taking in the land. “My parents would have killed for property like this. They were about Natalya's age, always afraid of starving. Our whole backyard was a garden.” He nodded approvingly at some asparagus that were pushing through the earth. “My mom was a housekeeper; no way could she afford a place like this.”

I looked at the back door where I saw Dave hovering. I dove into my questions about Oksana's disappearance, confident that Dave couldn't hear.

“I'm not sure why you want to talk about my sister,” Tomas said. “She moved.”

I relaxed, relieved there wasn't another missing person. “When did you last talk to her?”

“Talk?” Tomas shook his head. “It's been a while.”

“Since she left?”

“No. But she sends letters, all classy and typed. She's a legal secretary now.”

I pulled out my notebook. “What's the return address?”

“There is none.” He shoved a large piece of pork roast in his mouth, chewing and swallowing so quickly I worried about him choking. “She sends me a hundred dollars for my birthday every year, not on my actual birthday or nothing, but it's the thought that counts. I think she likes to show off a little, how good she's doing, but doesn't want my dad to track her down. Wish I could give her the all clear. The rat bastard died ten years ago.”

“She and your dad fought?”

“For a while, yeah. But she dated Jake Medved for a few years, and Jake threatened to kill my dad if he touched Oksana again.”

“He was scared of Jake getting violent?”

“Jake used to get his kicks beating the shit out of people, but that wouldn't have stopped my dad. No way Dad was going to cross the judge, though.”

“So just to clarify, Tomas, other than the letters”—
which could be faked by anyone
, I thought—“you haven't had any contact with your sister Oksana in over twenty years?”

“When you put it that way . . . no, I guess not.” He paused, food forgotten. “Do you think something happened to her?”

“It would be good if we could rule that out,” Hale said. “Any chance you'd be willing to take a DNA test?”

Tara bounced out of the house, her dark blue dress now replaced by a too-large cotton shift that was a swirl of hot pink and orange, a princess dress if the princess was from 1973. Lucas chased her outside with the judge and Jake on his heels.

“Oh, sorry,” Lucas said. “Didn't realize . . .”

“Tomas!” the judge called. “A smart man you were, coming out here on this beautiful day instead of being trapped inside.” He smiles at me. “I hope we are not interrupting, Officer Lyons and Agent Bascom.”

Jake stared at us. “A bunch of us are leaving, Tomas. Come now if you want a ride.”

“Be there in a sec,” Tomas yelled. “They're asking me a bunch of questions about Oksana!”

Lucas and the judge were trying to corral Tara, but Jake stopped, staring at us. “Oksana? Something happen to Oksana?”

“We should let you get back to your friends,” Hale said to Tomas, patting him on the back. “But let's keep this conversation just among us. And let me know when you're ready for the test and we can fix you right up.”

Tomas didn't answer, shuffling his feet.

“What's wrong, Tomas?” I asked. “It doesn't hurt if that's worrying you.”

“No, it's just . . . this woman I slept with says I'm her kid's father.”

I was at a loss. I wasn't too impressed that he was trying to dodge his parental responsibilities. “They didn't request a test before?”

“She didn't want much to do with me. But she could change her mind and come after me for child support.”

“How old's your daughter?”

“Twenty-four.”

While I still wasn't impressed, at least I had a solution. “Too old. No child support for a child over eighteen.”

“Then that's OK. I might even try to talk my daughter into getting one herself. Get proof she's my kid.”

INSIDE, THE CROWD HAD THINNED. THE LADIES HELPING WITH
food were still there, but the guys from the bar had left along with Dave's friends.

“You should take off,” Dave said. “Things around here are about to get real boring. They're talking about who has cancer, and in a few more minutes, we'll be discussing who died. I'd leave if I could.”

“Dave, we have the investigation, but we're also your friends,” Hale said and Dave grinned, too brightly. “I don't know if I said this before, but I'm so very sorry about your mother. To lose the person who was there from the first, who named you.” Dave's face softened, his smile blurring as he looked at the ground. “Well, it's a big loss.”

“We'd stay for you,” I said. Dave flinched. Everyone who remained was Island, and he knew they wouldn't relax until we were gone. I gave him an out. “But we do have a lot of work to do.” Dave met my eye again, and I knew I was on the right course. “Want to meet up later?”

Dave agreed, propelling us toward the door. I had to force him to stop so we could say good-bye to his aunt.

On the way home, I stopped at the station to type up my notes on the interview with Tomas. It sounded like Oksana had a lot of good reasons to disappear—violent father, ex-con boyfriend, and a brother
who at the very least was a deadbeat. My curiosity was piqued not because Oksana had left, but because she'd made the cursory attempt to stay in contact with her brother. Perhaps I was giving the letters she sent too much weight, but with Dave's mom showing up dead after being a missing person for so many years, I was beginning to assume the worst about Oksana.

I mapped out my plan for the next few days. I'd hit the dead end on Dave's mother, having gone through all the forensics and interviews, and planned to switch to Louann Bazelon's case. Now that we had a “who” with the burned woman, we could start to investigate the “how” and “why.”

I waved my good-night to Lorraine, who, based on radio codes, was arranging a welfare check on Ernie Hollaran, a mean drunk whose family didn't like him enough to visit but still cared enough to make sure he wasn't dead. The streets were dim and quiet—except for a few old-man bars, we didn't have much of a night life. I arrived home to find my spot in the driveway taken up by a new white Honda. As I opened the front door, I heard laughter from the kitchen, the conversation cutting off as I shut the door. I took off my shoes and padded in. My father was at the kitchen table, and Lucy was playing with a dream catcher, sitting on the lap of our guest. My mother.