Cold Case (42 page)

“Personal,” Mooney said. “Like the kidnapper talks to Marissa, says to Garnet: Take the money to the place we went on our second date.”

“And
Tessa
would know that? Garnet would tell his mother where he went on a date?” I asked.

“Go ahead, scoff,” Mooney said. “Maybe Mama squeezed it out of his chauffeur, or his valet. Or his nanny.”

“He's forty-two,” I said. Mooney increased his stride.

It was still easy going, although running is not my sport. My wind's okay from volleyball and swimming. I'm not saying I was comfortable. My gun bumped up and down. The binoculars smacked my chest.

I kept checking my watch.

“Figure the kidnapper will show?” I asked Mooney.

“Kidnappers are after money,” Moon replied. “That's what the Bureau preaches. But kidnappers panic easily, and when they're scared, they kill. So we want to identify the kidnapper, follow the kidnapper, if we can. We do not mess with the kidnapper.”

“Gotcha.”

“Make sure you do, Carlotta, because whoever picks up the cash could be a gofer, some guy who got spotted a twenty to deliver a bag from Point A to Point B. We nab him, we've got zip, and the kidnapper kills Marissa.”

“And we get shot at sunrise by the FBI.”

“They won't have to wait long,” Moon said. “Geez, I'm thirsty.”

“Maybe we can use that tree as a vantage point. It's got location. Good climbing tree.” There aren't a lot of hefty trees along the Esplanade. Mainly spindly Japanese cherries, donated by Boston's Sister City, Osaka, and planted as a gesture of goodwill. Pretty enough, they're too young to climb, too short to offer much in the way of camouflage.

“I don't climb trees,” Mooney said.

“I do.”

A full-breasted blonde with a royal scarf tied at her throat charged past on Rollerblades. The scarf matched her plunging bikini top.

“Think she's FBI?” I asked Mooney.

“Are you going to climb or comment on the passersby?”

“Maybe I should have worn green,” I said. “To match the tree.”

“Shhh. I'm gonna try the radio.”

I wondered who Mooney'd bribed to get the broadcast frequency for the FBI.

“It's dead quiet,” he said. “This isn't right.”

“They could have changed frequencies.”

“See anything?”

“No.”

“Not even other bird-watchers? FBI could have commandeered a building with a view.”

“Without telling the Boston police?”

“I wouldn't put it past them,” Mooney said.

I dangled in the crotch of a sturdy maple and watched the sun rise over Beacon Hill, glinting on the golden dome of the State House. I was shielded by sufficient branches to make good use of my binoculars. My eyes worked while my mind worried at a sequence of events that had played out twenty-four years ago April. What might MacAvoy have told me if he'd lived another five minutes?

To earn truly big bucks, MacAvoy would have had to know where the real skeletons were buried …

“Mooney,” I said, “how's the exhumation order coming along?”

“It's August,” he grumbled. “My pet judge is on vacation.”

“Make another pet. It has to happen soon. As in now.”

The sun was rising quickly, almost blinding to the east.

“There he is. Garnet,” I said. “At three o'clock and closing. Carrying a duffel bag.”

“Not very sporty,” Mooney commented.

Garnet had made no effort to blend. In his pinstriped suit and knotted tie, he could have been hot on the campaign trail. He seemed to be alone, but half the feds in Boston could have been following.

“Where do you think he'll dump it?” Mooney asked softly.

“I don't know. It might be a direct hand-over.”

“Too risky.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but he can't leave the bag on the ground and skedaddle. Half these Rollerbladers are do-gooders who'd race three miles to return it. In that getup he looks like he'd offer a fat reward.”

“We should have brought Rollerblades,” Mooney said. “Dammit.”

“Or a boat,” I said, glancing at the dawn-lit Charles. “The kidnapper could be a sailor.”

“Dammit.”

“Get on your radio and see if Beacon Hill can spare a couple bicycle cops,” I said. “If I have to, I'll trip a skater and steal his blades.”

While Mooney was speaking into the radio, I saw him, saw
them
. I started my descent faster than I should have, skinned my elbow on a stray branch. In seconds I was tugging at Mooney's shirt.

“Look!”

“What?”

Two people approached Garnet, one on foot, one on blades. In spite of the added height of the blades, the pedestrian was taller. Thin and muscled, he carried a well-stuffed camper's backpack like it weighed nothing. They were heading outbound, Garnet in, toward the city. Each party in the threesome seemed aware of the others, pacing themselves, so they'd pass underneath the bridge at the same time, the two strangers splitting to flank Garnet.

“Don't try anything,” Mooney cautioned.

I had the scene centered in my field of vision. I was trying to remember every detail for later Identikit use. Ears, eyes …

“Mooney,” I said excitedly. “The Rollerblader's a girl. Short hair tucked into a cap. Blond. Shit.”

“What?”

“I've only seen her once, but I swear to God, it's Marissa. It's Marissa goddam Cameron! Garnet knows it's her. Look at his face.”

“Stop jumping to conclusions!”

“She's not built like a man, Mooney!”

“The first guy could have a gun on her.”

“From in front?”

“Stockholm Syndrome,” Mooney muttered. “He could have turned her, like Patty Hearst. She could think he's on her side.”

“My God, look at his fucking ears, Mooney.
You can move on him
. You've got a legit warrant.”

With that parting shot, I took off. Not fast. Just like the rest of the joggers, pacing myself for a burst. I wanted to get close enough to lunge, to knock Marissa Gates Moore Cameron on her cute little fanny.

It had never been a real kidnapping
.

Mooney moved next to me.

“Alonso's the guy,” he said, no question in his tone.

“Wanted in Marblehead. He looks exactly like his mother.”

“Extortion for past wrongs?”

“We'll ask him when we nail him,” I said. “I'm going to bump Marissa off her blades. Cover the guys. Get backup.”

I knew Mooney'd already taken care of everything, called in both silent-approach and siren cars. I just couldn't help myself.

Moon picked up the pace.

The Harvard Bridge passes low over the path, a half-moon shape, sudden darkness in its shadow.

I hadn't counted on the moment of blindness, coming in from the sun. Garnet must have seen me.

“Run!”

I'm sure it was his voice.

“Hold it,” Mooney said. “Boston police!”

Marissa moved just as I lunged. She had a good long stroke and I was lucky to grab her by the skate blade. She fell headlong on the grass, wrenching her leg away from me, kicking at me with her heavy footgear.

The marked units arrived, sirens screaming. Uniforms jumped out, guns drawn. There was yelling. I stayed frozen, hanging on to Marissa's blades till a young cop ordered me to my feet.

Everything was going like clockwork. Until Garnet Cameron refused to press charges. Point-blank refused.

Mooney had to let him go, let Marissa go. It took Garnet five minutes to persuade Marissa not to level assault charges at me.

Garnet would not allow the police to open the duffel. He held grimly to its strap.

Marissa made a grab for Alonso's backpack. I was ready to tackle her again, but Mooney got there first.

“My clothes are in there,” she offered lamely.

“Then we'll return them to you,” Mooney said, “once they've been examined.”

“Oh, Garnet,” Marissa cried, apparently losing her admirable composure, “are you all right?”

It would have been more convincing the other way around, but I got the feeling she was coaching him, feeding him his lines.

“Darling,” he said, “I'm so glad you're back.”

Alonso shot her a killing look. If he'd had a gun, she'd have been dead on the path. I was glad two policemen held him at bay.

Marissa, now openly weeping, clutched her husband's shoulder. Almost reluctantly, he squeezed back.

With the voice of a man in command, Garnet said, “That backpack is my wife's property. I insist on its immediate return.”

“No way,” Alonso said. “No fuckin' way!”

“If it belongs to your wife, Mr. Cameron, we'll return it in due course,” Mooney said, with full marks for politeness.

“I don't believe you have any reason to hold this young man,” he said, referring to Alonso. “I said I wouldn't be bringing charges. I have my wife back. I don't want to create a public—er, the campaign and all …”

Mooney smiled. Then he formally arrested the young man. On a John Doe warrant issued in Marblehead. Patted him down and stuck him in the backseat of an unmarked unit, ordered the driver to take the suspect to Area D. The backpack traveled in the trunk.

As soon as it disappeared, Garnet and Marissa hailed a cab. Neither said a word of thanks to me or Mooney or any other cop.

“Mooney,” I said.

“What?”

“First, you might want to have somebody follow the cab, make sure it doesn't head straight to the airport. If it does, be ready to hold them as material witnesses.”

He gave hurried orders. Another unit screeched away from the curb into Storrow Drive traffic.

“Material witnesses to what?”

“I'm not sure. You can always say it was a bureaucratic snafu.”

Mooney said, “Yeah, like I need the bad press.”

“Mooney, think about it. Did Garnet look like a man deliriously happy to have his wife back, his campaign on track, his money saved?”

“No on all counts.”

“Did he look like he'd willingly trade his wife and his dough for Alonso's backpack?”

“Now that you mention it, yes. So what's in the backpack?”

“What I was hired to find in the first place,” I said. “Thea's novel.”

“A novel? This is about a
novel?”

“Moon, please, if there are notebooks in the backpack, may I read them?”

“They're police property,” he said automatically.

“Yeah, but is someone going to read them right now? The minute they're ticketed and placed in the property office?”

“You know how it goes,” he said. Which meant no.

“Let me sign them out. Please, Mooney.”

“We'll give them a look,” Moon said. “Together.”

53

Mooney and I sat shoulder to shoulder, baking in his overheated office. It was barely nine o'clock and I didn't want to contemplate what new heights the temperature would reach by afternoon. Mooney had no office window and the station had no air conditioning; it wasn't worth thinking about.

It takes time to read. Just as it had taken time to book Alonso Gordon, run a records check on him—no previous convictions—print him, take him to a holding cell. He'd claimed indigency, so a public defender was currently sought.

It takes time to remove notebooks from a backpack, sort through them, arrange them in order from two to thirty-eight.

Takes time to digest dense poetry, prose. The story seemed to be Beryl's, the daughter called “b,” the one who could perceive snakes twining under the dining room table, but couldn't hear the hum of insects.

I'd already given Mooney the gist of the first chapter, the one buried beneath kitty litter. He was not familiar with the “magical realist” school, and I could tell he felt that put him at a disadvantage. It made him read more closely, reluctantly removing his glasses from his desk drawer, perching them on his nose.

I have to admit that what intrigued me most were not daughter “b” 's searing nightmares. What I found most compelling were the errors—the places where Thea had written “i” instead of “her,” slipped into first person for a long narrative or a short poem, only to drag herself back to third person, to “b” 's unusual world.

The first chapter had been a much easier read. The second was choked with rewrites, cross-outs, changes. I wondered if Thea had written the first draft of this, her second novel, long ago, if something had recently occurred to make her start work on it again.

I thought I might have found the trigger: a newspaper clipping from the
Seattle Daily News
, barely a column-inch long, stating that Garnet Cameron, son of the late Franklin Cameron, had announced for governor of Massachusetts.

Was that small mention enough to drag Thea to her forbidden memory books? Was the tantalizing sight and smell of paper enough to send her to the store for fresh ink?

During the revision process had she found her frequent slips into first person curious? Curious enough to ask a therapist about, a therapist who might have mentioned the possibility of recovered memory syndrome, of long-repressed memories coming home to roost?

I reread a passage, glanced at Mooney to see if he'd completed it yet.

“at night i emerge and merge, a butterfly jettisoned by her cocoon, uncontrollable, uncontrolled. passion while not fruit can bear fruit. the monitors stalk. monitors of aisles of bedrooms nile monitors would be more welcome than these aisle monitors, snapping at bare toes.

“giggling in delight at unexpected hairy places, fuzzy animals delighting in passing fluids, warm and silky fluids, back and forth back and forth through the night.”

That would seem to be Beryl's story. Except for the initial “i.” Beryl spending the occasional night at Weston Psych, with “monitors.” Thea had been a day student at Avon Hill. But “monitors” seemed more a school word than a hospital word.