Cemetery of Angels (30 page)

He knew he had seen something. And the something had slipped away. He walked with Alice to his car. Abruptly, Van Allen cocked his head.

“What’s that?” he asked. Alice looked at him.

“What’s what?” she answered.

“You hear some sort of music?” he asked. “Sounds like an old player piano?”

“No?” Alice answered, an eyebrow raised along with her inflection. “You do?”

He cocked his head again and it was gone. But he had thought that he had heard some kind of old fashioned music. Some noisy neighbor banging on an antique keyboard piano. Skewered notes dancing in his head, almost taunting him. He described it for her.

“Oh, great,” Alice said. “Now you’re hearing bells?”

“Okay, I imagined it. It’s gone now, anyway,” Van Allen said. “So forget it.”

“I already have,” she answered. “Otherwise, I’d have to note that first you think the Moores killed their own kids, then you waved to a man who wasn’t there, and now you hear music when none is playing. Eh?”

“That’s kind of the way my day has gone,” he said. “Maybe all three events are related. Have you thought of that, oh, wise young lady?”

“Hey, I had a crappy day, too. But I’m not imagining any part of mine, okay?”

“And I’m not, either,” he thought to himself. But he didn’t say anything. He figured at this point any syllable he uttered would only have made matters worse.

Double A, after all, was probably concluding that he was getting old. And — bless her! — Double A with all her thirty-something insight might have been right.

That night, in Van Allen’s home, after watching the Lakers bite the dust to the Celtics, after tuning in to a bootleg recording of a Grateful Dead concert from Dallas in 1986, and after going to sleep for the night, some more strange stuff happened.

First, Van Allen was sleeping soundly when something snapped him awake in the middle of the night. He found himself lying in bed, bathed in sweat, his sheet and blankets removed. He blinked at his clock. It was 3:00 A.M.

The sheet and covers were on the floor across from where he slept. It was as if a strong pair of hands had yanked them off his sleeping body and had given them a good hard throw. Van Allen snapped the light on.

There was, of course, no one else in the apartment so no one could have pulled the sheet and blankets away in the manner he had imagined. It bothered him nonetheless. It bothered him that he must have been having a violently bad dream he could just barely remember, and he thought there had been a touch of that piano music to it, and he must have kicked away his dreamtime bed equipment. He gathered everything, thought about it for a moment, and took a careful tour of his own apartment, gun in hand.

No one there that he could see. No one there at all.

Van Allen went back to his bedroom. He turned the light off and went back to sleep. He slipped easily into his rest. That’s when the second strange thing happened.

Quick as an acid flashback, he dreamed he was revisiting the Cemetery of Angels. This time he was standing in front of Billy Carlton’s tomb. It was as if he were confronting the grave itself, albeit another man’s. And he knew it was Carlton’s.

He knew because the angel was back in place. That big grand marker was upright, proud and back where it belonged, the winged one erect upon its granite block, wings extended, and its right arm raised toward Heaven.

Van Allen’s eyes flickered and suddenly there was a face inches in front of him. The face was almost hermaphroditic with chalky skin, pink lips, and two eyes that were as wide as the night, peering intently into Van Allen’s own soul. Asking him something? Or telling him something? The policeman couldn’t determine which.

Then the eyes blinked.

The face was gone. Next, there was a vision of moonlight sweeping across a legion of tombstones behind Billy’s resurrected angel. Then that tableau faded also, and Van Allen’s mind went to black. The next thing he knew, it was morning. As he woke up, he was wondering if he would ever be able to summon up the nerve to ask Double A out for dinner as a prelude for getting her to sleep with him.

He rose and had coffee. He felt as if his brain was coming apart at the seams. The vision that had been in front of him in the darkness kept bouncing back to him, much like an earworm, a tune that won’t go away.

“I’m getting old,” he grumbled to himself. “And I’m losing my mind, also. Life sucks, then you die.” And once again, Ed Van Allen wondered if that was one of the only things he was correct about these days.

The technician’s name was Maria Valdez, and she had been a civilian employee of the LAPD for fifteen years. For the last seven of those years, she had administered polygraph examinations.

It was Saturday morning and time for the lie detector test. Melissa had brought Rebecca by car to Ed Van Allen’s office. Once again, Bill had disappeared to work on a set of architectural plans at McLaughlin & Co.

Rebecca sat down in a sturdy chair by the desk in an examination room at police headquarters. Detective Van Allen sat on the edge of the desk as Mrs. Valdez carefully placed the proper cuff, sensors, and wires on Rebecca’s right arm.

Already, Rebecca felt violated.

What had she done? She, her husband, and her children were victims, not perpetrators. Why was she being treated like a criminal? As the machinery of the polygraph examination was set in place, Rebecca felt her resentment rising.

“It’s simple, Mrs. Moore,” Ed Van Allen explained in a soothing voice. “The test is painless and easy. You and I talk: I ask you questions, you reply honestly and to the best of your ability. That’s all this test is about.”

“I don’t even know why I’m taking it,” Rebecca said. Van Allen shrugged.

“Sometimes it’s more helpful than anyone might imagine,” he answered.

“Such as a case where parents might actually have harmed their own children?” Rebecca said. The detective gave her a grimace, mixed with a knowing smile.

“I know that’s not the case here,” he said, a statement for which he might have flunked his own polygraph. “But if you have any doubts in this department, this is your chance to dispatch them.”

“So you’re only interviewing me because you think I’m a suspect,” she accused.

“If that’s your concern, you can eliminate it within a few minutes, Mrs. Moore. That’s the value of this session for you.”

Mrs. Valdez gave Van Allen a nod. Everything was ready. Rebecca saw a light illuminate on the machine, indicating that the power was up. Rebecca felt herself turning fully against this entire procedure.

“Can we start?” Van Allen asked.

“I wish you would.”

Mrs. Valdez pushed another button and the examination was under way. Melissa waited in the next room. Van Allen began with basic background questions, then gradually moved toward the point.

“Have you ever been in trouble with the police, Mrs. Moore?” he asked.

“No,” Rebecca answered.

“Has your husband?”

“I can’t answer for him.” Van Allen kept talking.

“Do you take drugs?” the detective inquired.

“No.”

“Maybe just recreationally?”

“No!” she snapped.

“Have you ever?”

“Years ago. In college.”

“And not since?”

“Hardly ever.”

“What about your husband?”

She paused before answering. “Same,” she said. “Years ago. In college.”

“When is the last time you took something?” he asked. Rebecca gave him a withering look.

“What does this have to do with my children?” she asked.

“You can decline to answer that one if you wish,” he said.

“I don’t even remember,” she said.

“And your husband?” She paused.

“He used to dabble,” she said. “Same as half the people in the United States Congress.” Van Allen smiled sympathetically.

“So did I,” he said. “But I haven’t since I joined the police department. What I’m trying to establish is that you and your husband are completely drug free now. Can I conclude that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Absolutely?” he pressed.

She snapped. “Absolutely!”

The detective’s eyes settled on a pair of needles tracking the responses in ink on a strip of graph paper. Mrs. Valdez watched it, too. The needle’s line was flat on the graph paper. So far, according to polygraph wisdom, Rebecca Moore was honest.

“And do you know your husband’s business?” he asked.

“He’s an architect.”

“That’s all he does?”

“What are you suggesting?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m trying to establish you and your husband as completely blameless in the disappearance of your children.”

“Well, we are. Completely blameless!”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good,” the detective said. He posed a few side inquiries. The test reached the ten-minute mark. “Only a few more questions,” he said. Rebecca gathered the final part of her strength and courage.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Are you hiding anything, Mrs. Moore?” the detective asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Anything at all. Is there anything the police would like to know that you or your husband haven’t told us?”

“No,” she answered firmly.

“Do you know where your children are?” Rebecca thought of the ghost.

“No,” she said.

“Do you think you know?”

“No!”

“Does your husband know?’

“No!” Mrs. Valdez’s eyes were fixed upon the needle. Van Allen kept talking.

“Is there anything about their disappearance that you haven’t told us?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Do you want them back?” Her voice was almost breaking.

“Yes! I love my children! Of course I want them back!” she answered. Now Van Allen’s eyes were intent on the needle. He was nodding.

“I only have one additional question, Mrs. Moore,” he said. “It’s an all-encompassing one: Have you told me the truth in all ways as far as you believe the truth to exist?”

Rebecca sighed. She brought her free left hand up to her face and rubbed her eyes with her forefinger and thumb. She looked at Van Allen with something close to fury.

“I have,” she said. “I’ve told you everything.” Van Allen nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s all.”

Mrs. Valdez turned off the machine then helped Rebecca to remove the strap from her arm.

“I found that whole thing insulting,” Rebecca said. “No wonder Bill didn’t want to take it.”

“A necessary evil,” Van Allen said, attempting to explain it away.

“An evil, all right. But I don’t know how necessary.” She looked at the detective. Van Allen made no further effort to communicate.

“Well,” she finally asked, “did I pass or not?” Van Allen shrugged.

“The results have to be analyzed and interpreted,” he said. “If we need to speak with you further, we will. Do you need a ride home?”

“A friend came with me,” she said. “She’ll drive me back.” Her fury was at its peak, “Now, I’ve answered all of your questions,” Rebecca said, “so you answer one for me. When are you going to find my children?” Van Allen sighed and looked her intently in the eye.

“I like to think we’re getting closer, Mrs. Moore,” he said. “But I really can’t tell you yet. I really can’t.”

“I’m free to go?” she asked.

“You’re free to go,” Van Allen said.

Rebecca looked angrily at both Van Allen and Mrs. Valdez. Then she turned and stormed from the room. She let the door slam behind her.

The detective watched her go then glanced to the polygraph chart that the technician had already removed from its monitor.

Van Allen’s eyes widened. Maria Valdez looked at the chart knowingly. Van Allen studied the entire track of the polygraph needle past his thirty-six points of interrogation. Then he looked up.

“So she’s lying like a rug,” Van Allen concluded. He looked at the results from beginning to end. “Know what, Maria?” he asked. “I think if we got her husband in here, he’d probably lie even worse.”

Rebecca parked her car at one of the meters west of Drake Stadium. Even in November, the midday sun in Westwood was strong. On the UCLA campus it poured down brightly. Undergraduates in shorts and t-shirts strolled unhurriedly from one class to another along Bruin Walk.

In Drake Stadium, a sun washed field with concrete grand stands, the running track was sprinkled with runners and joggers. Rebecca entered the stadium from an entrance that led to the top of the seating area. Down on the running track circling the green infield, she saw a familiar figure, Dr. Chang Lim, completing a lap.

She walked down several dozen stone steps and stopped in the front row closest to the track field. She watched Dr. Lim. He was trim and lithe, remarkably fit and fast for a man in his mid-forties.

Lim ran three miles a day, always at noon, always at Drake Stadium, which was ten minutes from his office across the campus. His secretary had told Rebecca exactly where to find him. Rebecca sat down in the front row of the seating area and waited.

Lim kicked into his final trip around the oval, completed it, and slowed to a walk. He picked up a towel that he had left by the side of the running track, mopped himself, and walked another lap to cool down. When he returned to the grandstand side, he walked directly in front of Rebecca. He picked up a one liter bottle of Arrowhead water that he had wrapped in a white towel.

He opened the water and swigged.

From a distance of thirty feet, his eyes met Rebecca’s. She gave him a slight wave of a hand.

“Hello, Doctor,” she called to him. He looked at her curiously, not yet recognizing her.

“Hello,” he answered. He thought about it for a moment.

“I know I know you. From where?”

“You came over to my home a few weekends ago. With a colleague. Dr. Maurice Lerner.” A moment, then…

“Ah. Yes. For certain. Now I remember.” The doctor closed the water and set it aside. He walked over to his visitor. There was a trace of Hong Kong left in the way he chose words.

“My secretary say you called. She say I might see you here.”

“I wanted to meet you privately,” Rebecca said.