City of Secrets (32 page)

The waiter appeared suddenly at their table, eyes caressing Miranda.

“Your ravioli, signorina. And your spaghetti, signor.” He bent forward, voice a purr. “Wine, signorina? We have more of the Sangiovese.”

She shook her head, gave him a smile. Rick said in a louder voice. “Thanks. That'll be all for now.”

The waiter tossed him a contemptuous look, stalked off toward the counter.

Miranda sipped her water, looking at Rick over the rim.

“Your cover holding up all right?”

“Don't you worry about my cover. Listen—that night—Monday—Parkinson threw around a lot of money. Scott saw a couple C-notes change hands. He was curious because the men with Parkinson looked like stir-birds, not the vest pocket, country club kind of company he normally keeps.”

“Your friend's got good eyes. How're his ears?”

Rick grinned, crushed the Lucky out in the tray. “He caught a couple of words that made him curious: ‘government place' and ‘rocket's red glare.' That last bit is what really made him listen, since he said they weren't the type to be singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.'”

Miranda made a note in the back of her
Chadwick's Guide
. “‘Government place'? You sure that's what they said?”

“That's what Scott said he heard. Why?”

She poked at the ravioli with her fork. “I don't know, Sanders. Memorial Day's got me worried. Whole goddamn thing reminds me of that Christian Front mob in New York. The trial's going on, not getting much coverage out here, and the defense attorney's making a joke of bomb plots. Not such a joke to the Jews getting beat up on the subway. I need answers, goddamn it, and all I come up with are more questions.”

Rick sprinkled Parmesan cheese on his plate and rolled up a forkful of spaghetti.

“I'm not saying I'd bet on you, Miranda—you're too much of a long shot—but you do have a way of closing in the last furlough.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I think. As long as that means I'm Seabiscuit and not a nag you lost a week's salary on.”

He reached over, picked up her hand, and held it. Eyes blue, crinkled at the corner. Goddamn lilt back in his voice.

“You'd be worth it.”

She pulled her hand away. “I know you don't like cheap blondes, but I don't think she's in the restaurant. You find anything else? Anything on Aalder's?”

He studied her for a moment. Dropped his eyes to the plate.

“Used to be Iacherri's. Something else before that. Nobody's ever seen a Dr. Aalder, and Scott said it's owned by a corporation. That's all anybody knows.”

She nodded, writing it down next to “government place” and “rocket's red glare.” Looked down at the words and sighed, deep and long.

“I'd better be getting back.”

He gestured to the uneaten plate of ravioli in front of her. “You forgot your dinner.”

“I'm not hungry.”

He leaned forward. “Listen, Miranda, if this is even close to what you think it is, there's more than one man involved—hell, it's a wholesale indictment. I did some checking—California's sterilized more people than any other state in the country. The Department of Institutions replaced the old Lunacy Commission almost twenty years ago, and all the state and private hospitals pretty much run things how they want. As long as the board of trustees signs off with a psychiatrist, the operation's perfectly legal.”

Her eyes fell to the clumps of red sauce and mushrooms on the abandoned ravioli. She stood up, shoved the chair in.

“Try parking at the old farm road across from the train tracks. Be seein' you, Rick.”

He looked up at her, mouth tight. “Be seein' you.”

*   *   *

Rap on the door at 5:45. Heavy, coarse hands. Gracie.

Travel cases near Miranda, packed and ready. Gracie stood in the doorway, eyed her up and down. Voice high soprano, body a gross non sequitur.

“You leave that here. I'll bring 'em, if'n the doctor decides to help.”

“Any reason he wouldn't? I brought money.”

The big woman chuckled, ran the scales up and down like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“He don't need money, girlie. I'm the one like that.”

Gracie wrapped a beefy hand around her upper left arm, and Miranda flung it off, angry.

“Don't touch me.”

The woman paused, sneer stretching her fat face.

“From the looks of things, you ain't used to sayin' that much. All right then, lady—come on.”

She turned her massive back and headed down the gravel path, twisting left.

They crossed the old farm road, poppies shut tight for the evening, drooping bright orange. Miranda hoped Rick was watching with the car. Crossed the railroad tracks, stepping through the overgrown thistles grown up between the wooden slats.

Same way Miranda walked earlier, on her way to Dr. Aalder's Sanitarium.

*   *   *

Gracie unlocked one of the freestanding cottages lining Gerard Street. Second from the end, dilapidated, paint peeling. Miranda's nose wrinkled from the smell of mildew. She turned to Gracie.

“This is where I meet the doctor?”

The attendant rubbed her hands down her muddy smock and nodded.

“You wait here. He'll be along directly.”

Gracie shut the door behind her, and Miranda heard the key turning in the lock.

So much for any change of mind.

Sagging single bed, ancient coverlet, one dresser with the wood veneer peeling off, one nightstand with a lamp, one wingback chair with torn upholstery. No radiator, no hot plate, no radio. Made Nance's look like fucking Biarritz.

She flung open the drawer of the nightstand. No Bible, no papers. Tried the dresser and found old newspapers lining the bottom, dating back to '35.

Miranda sank on the bed. Lit a Chesterfield, hands shaking. Another knock on the door.

Punctual. Six o'clock even.

Key turned in the lock, and she expected to see Gracie. A well-dressed man in an old-fashioned high collar stood on the cracked cement, hatless, oiled brown hair receding and faded gray at the temples. Slight double chin, full lips, careful blue eyes.

He murmured: “Miss Korbe?”

He gave it the Russian accent she'd pronounced it with at Aalder's that morning. Miranda nodded, stepped back. He walked into the room, one hand in a vest pocket. Checked his pocket watch.

“I like to be on time for my patients. Please sit down.”

She sat stiffly on the edge of the mattress. “Thank you, Doctor…?”

He smiled, dimples making indentations above his jowls. “‘Doctor' will be fine. You can understand, Miss Korbe, a man in my position must be very careful. And yet—cases such as yours interest me very much. I believe we are given gifts to help how we can, where we can.”

“You'll—you'll perform the operation, then?”

He nodded, still smiling. “There's a recovery period, of course. That will take place here at Aalder's, though”—he looked around the room with distaste—“perhaps not in this cabin.”

“You haven't mentioned money, Doctor. I'm afraid I don't have much.”

He waved soft, pudgy hands in the air, fingernails long for a medical man. A silver signet ring gleamed on his middle finger, left hand.

“As I said, we are given gifts to help, not to profit. I'm interested in helping you out of your, er, dilemma. One hundred dollars should be sufficient. Do you have that much?”

She opened her purse. Counted out one hundred dollars in tens and twenties, thrust it at the doctor. He held up his hands.

“Oh no, not here, please. You can pay my associate in my—in my office.”

She mustered up one of those brave little women, Olivia de Havilland–type smiles.

“I don't know how to thank you, Doctor.”

He patted the knees of his striped pants, benevolence oozing from every manicured pore.

“I'm happy to help. And now it's time.”

She looked around the room in phony dismay. “Surely, not here…”

Small, professional chuckle. “Of course not, Miss Korbe. You'll be driven to a safe, sanitary environment.” He stood up, held out his hand. She took it, pretending to notice his ring for the first time.

“That your class ring, Doctor? Mine begins with an ‘M,' too—graduated from Mills.”

Soft, damp fingers squirmed like fat maggots.

“I won't be in the same car, you understand. Grace and another assistant will be driving you. Wait here.”

She nodded while he opened the door, glanced to his left, and shut it behind him. Key in the lock again.

Deep breath, in and out, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi …

Miranda counted thirty-seven Mississippis before the unmistakably heavy hand of Gracie rapped on the doorway again.

She opened the door. Gracie and the kid from Aalder's stood in front of her, holding her luggage. Gracie gestured with her head, growled: “Come on.”

Miranda picked up her purse and followed them. Walter was nervous, his shaved neck broken out with acne, head wobbling back and forth like a carnival doll. Led her to a black Plymouth two-door sedan, at least five or six years old. He slid behind the wheel, and Gracie squeezed in next to Miranda in the backseat. Car started up after four tries, the boy licking dry lips and muttering to himself.

He finally backed out of Aalder's parking lot. Headed down Lincoln past Nance's, turning south down a narrow gravel road. She craned a quick look behind. Clouds of yellow brown dust in between the poppies and mustard weeds, Plymouth kicking up gravel.

No sign of a car. No sign of Rick.

 

Twenty-eight

The road was long, dry, bumpy. Parts raw dirt, furrows still caked hard and deep from the rivulets of rain washing down from Mount Saint Helena and the Vaca Mountains in early spring. Miranda smoked three Chesterfields, one after the other. Tried to talk to Gracie.

The big woman looked out the window, grunted answers, while the kid sweated for twenty miles, the old Plymouth shocks bouncing them up and down on the seat. No Rick, no other cars except twenty-year-old farm trucks and a couple of tractors.

Not a road for tourists. Red-tailed hawks swooped down on field mice crouching in the tall grass, and birds warbled over the rumble of the car motor, rattle and clank of rocks and gravel rolling under the high rubber tires.

Miranda tried again. “Say, Gracie…”

Grunt.

“Did you suggest the doc to Annie or did Annie come to you? She never told me.”

The fat woman's eyes narrowed into folds, skin mapped in pink and red across her cheeks. Braids were still in place, though her hair was oily and coated with dust and grime.

“What's it to you?”

Miranda shrugged. “Just tryin' to pass the time.”

Gracie looked out the window again. “She your friend, 's up to her to tell you. I ain't gonna tell you nothin'. Leastwise not for the fifty bucks you gave me.”

“Just trying to pass the time, like I said, but I figured you should get the credit more than Annie. Figure on making her a present, soon as all this is behind me.”

The big woman snorted. “You lookin' to give out presents, lady, you should start with me. Your friend din't know up from down till I told her 'bout the doc. She just wanted to lay around and mope, like most of them big-city broads do when they come up here, whinin' and cryin'.”

Hard smile, and she cracked her knuckles, popping each of them in turn.

“I'm the one to set her up. I'm the one to give her the idea. An' I'm the one to make sure she goes through with it when she tries to back out.”

Her face fell together and flushed, wishing the squealed words of triumph back inside the fat red mouth. Darted a glance toward Miranda, who pretended not to notice anything.

Miranda said, unperturbed: “Well, I'll make a present to you, then, Gracie. You've been a big help.”

The big woman shoved an elbow into Miranda's wounded arm. “Make sure you remember that, lady. Jus' remember it.”

Miranda held on to her left arm with her right hand, looking through the dusty window. Wouldn't show pain, not in front of the woman beside her.

For the hundredth time, she wondered what the hell happened to Rick.

*   *   *

They finally reached the junction for 28 but turned east instead of west, rolling across another gravel road for twelve miles, heading toward Davis.

Walter tried to turn on the radio, couldn't hear anything but static and the tires vomiting up rocks behind them. Gracie refused to say anything else. Miranda kept checking her watch and the rearview mirror, hoping to see the outlines of her rented DeSoto. Caught eyes with the pimply kid. He looked scared, eyes darting back to the road, lamps of the old Plymouth bumping up and down the pitted surface, fighting the dusk.

They finally crawled to a paved road at the 37 junction, turning south toward Vallejo. Twilight almost over as the land opened up toward San Pablo Bay, fields of wheat and cattle stretching out on either side of the road, cars and trucks keeping the Plymouth company. They passed a sign for Imola.

Still no Rick.

Reached a small paved road and a hulking stone archway, illuminated by a light post and the headlamps of the Plymouth. The road beyond the gate was long and led into what looked like a fairy-tale castle, turrets and towers, tall, leafy trees lining the road. A California bear flag flew beside the pale stone arch, rippling in the steady wind.

Miranda caught a glimpse of the signpost as Walter swung the Plymouth through the arch. Gripped the handle on the passenger side of the car.

Stone plaque, etched with words.

NAPA STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE INSANE.

*   *   *

The kid pulled the car around a sweeping driveway to the back of the castle, to what looked like a service and delivery entrance of a mammoth country estate. Only the bars at the brick arched windows suggested you wouldn't find the Duke and Duchess of Windsor at home.