Cold Case (9 page)

I hollered upstairs, but it seemed Roz had not returned with information on the Camerons or Adam Mayhew. Damn. I should have trusted her with the notebook and done the research myself.

Most likely, Roz had not trotted directly home from library hour. She'd met a new pal, gone boozing and dancing. She might even be upstairs, awake, alert, and nonresponsive because she and her pal were now between the sheets, except you can't really say “between the sheets” with Roz because she doesn't have sheets. Washing clothes is anathema to her. No sheets; less laundry. Her karate tumbling mats, which double as futons, have started to stink like a used cat box, but I haven't figured out a tactful way to approach the subject, and I probably never will. I keep hoping she'll grow out of it, this constant need to bring home a new boy-toy every afternoon, every night. Maybe she's going for
the Guinness Book of World Records
.

If Roz was home, I'd hear her soon enough. Yowling alley cats have nothing on Roz in heat. I
have
spoken to her about condoms.

Aha! She had left a message. A single page of elegant penmanship, prose marked “B.U. Archives—Acid-free paper.
Do not remove from stacks!”
lay centered on my desk.

A sample of Thea's handwriting. I read it eagerly.

Her matter-of-fact description of sea, shore, and fog made me feel the tickle of tiny fiddler crabs racing over my bare feet, smell the low tide. I removed a magnifying glass from a chamois bag, compared the B.U. Archive's page to one from the notebook given me by Mayhew. My glass does not have the reliability of, say, the renovated and repaired Hubble telescope, but the flowing script seemed remarkably similar in tilt, structure, and style.

I'd be willing to hazard a guess that the notebook was authentic. If that were possible …

Damn. I wished Roz had given me more, left detailed information about Adam Mayhew, alive or dead, so I'd know with whom I was dealing. I couldn't pursue the Thea Janis manuscript business, sort out truth from hype, real from counterfeit, unless I could trust my client. Once, I came close to helping an abusive husband locate his fleeing spouse. Nothing like that's going to happen again. Not to me.

Paolina's admonition to feed “her” bird carried me into the kitchen in search of seed. The bird's a touchy issue. I wouldn't own a parakeet by choice; I inherited Fluffy from my aunt Bea, not expecting the pet to long outlive her mistress.

Fluffy's evidently going for the Guinness Book, too. Not under that name. I will not share quarters with anything named Fluffy. She is now Red Emma after Emma Goldman, a hero of mine. Paolina does not approve. She calls the bird Esmeralda, because she is indisputably green, although not in the way any emerald of value is green.

The bird is a nasty lump of feathers no matter what you call her. I filled her seed and water dishes while she tried to peck off my fingers. Feeding her made me recall other responsibilities, Such as the cat, T.C., who actually earns his keep by virtue of being listed in the phone book at this address. Thomas C. Carlyle gets fewer harassing phone calls than Carlotta Carlyle would. He gets tons of junk mail, too, but I don't have to read it. If it's addressed to Thomas C., I toss it in the trash.

T.C. deserves better care than I give him. I scratched his ears thoroughly before serving him a can of Fancy Feast Beef & Liver.

Activity agrees with me. Sitting, unless I'm earning money doing surveillance, does not.

I went back to the Avon Hill faculty list. “Adam Mayhew” could have taught there, retired. I opened the desk drawer where I'd stowed Thea's photo. Her knowing eyes stared me down. If I ever got moving on this case, would I start with the presumption that she was dead or alive?

Mayhew had given me the Berlin poem. He'd seemed to believe in Thea's current health. The document Roz had snatched from B.U. looked as though it had been executed by the same person who'd written in the chocolate notebook.

When I was in high school, my favorite teacher stunned us all by running away, deserting a wife and two kids for a student. Sixteen-year-old AnnaBeth O'Reilly with yellow braids and ice-blue eyes. Wonder what happened to her …

Her family hadn't held a funeral, that's for sure.

Seventeen names on the faculty list, followed by lots of prestigious initials. How many of them had been teaching at Avon Hill when Thea pulled her vanishing act? Any teacher who'd left Avon Hill the year of Thea's disappearance would be suspect. Thea could have changed her last name to his.

But what about her writing?

Freedom to write, that's what my client had said Thea valued most of all. Would she run off with a forbidden man if it meant the loss of her freedom to write?

I wanted cold facts. I wanted Roz's report on Mayhew and the Camerons. I wanted a fat file of newspaper clippings detailing the disappearance or death of a prodigy.

I checked my watch. Five thirty-two. Five whole minutes since the last time I'd checked. I wished Gloria was back in business. I have a dozen cards from cab companies on my desk. I could drive a shift for any one of them, but it's not the same. Driving for Green & White was more than a job, it was a second home until the place got torched, with Sam, former lover, and Gloria, dispatcher and friend, inside. Gloria's doing okay, fussing over construction at the new garage, but the company won't be handling business for months.

The phone rang. Roz, I thought. Hallelujah!

Mooney didn't bother to identify himself. He said, “Is it true that the Cameron guy's thinking of quitting the race? Is it some kind of public relations stunt? Does he expect some kind of reaction, a public show of confidence?”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Don't you ever listen to the news?”

“No. Run it by me again.”

“And here I thought you could give me the lowdown. Garnet La-di-dah Cameron, of the very same family you're so interested in, says he's considering withdrawing his name from the November election. And I was actually gonna vote for the bastard.”

“You like him?”

“As much as I like any pol. Every jerk running for office yells about more money for law enforcement. I figured with Hailey, he meant megabucks for jails and prisons, maybe a new electric chair, if he could slip it by the Great and General Court. With Cameron, we'd have a chance for more street cops, more computers. I even sent the bastard money, like he needs it.”

When Mooney uses the word “bastard,” he's about as upset as he gets.

“Why would he want to quit, Moon? I thought it was in the bag.” Democrats outnumber Republicans in this state. Of course our Democrats act like Republicans and vice versa, so it gets tricky.

“I'm not privy to that information,” Mooney said, making like a court reporter.

“There's got to be station house gossip.”

“You want gossip? What I heard, the sweet young wife plans to divorce him. Extremely bad timing.”

I didn't see how the timing would affect me. I hadn't been hired to force Marissa and Garnet Cameron to kiss and make up for an adoring public. That kind of thing turns my stomach.

I hadn't been hired for anything yet. I'd refused Adam Mayhew's money. Face it: My client was a possible forger, maybe entirely off his rocker.

I could hear Mooney breathing on the phone. He's not one for long phone calls. It made me suspicious.

“So you called to thank me for lunch,” I said. “Or just to share the speculation?”

“No.”

“You found me Woodrow MacAvoy's address?”

“No.”

“I give up.”

Mooney's voice sounded odd.

“Look, Carlotta, I found the files. Old MacAvoy kept every piece of paper he breathed on, I swear.”

“That's great, Moon. I'll be right over.”

“No! Carlotta, listen. Seriously. I've got the whole damned case in front of me.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Thea Janis … your ‘missing person'—”

“Yeah?”

“Forget her. She's dead.”

The girl in the photo stared up at me from the desk drawer. I smiled at her reassuringly.

I said, “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe MacAvoy got it wrong. He probably bought suicide. My client said there were clothes found near a beach—”

“No,” Mooney. said. “No. Forget it. No way.” His tone turned rough and gentle, the way it used to when he'd tell parents that their beloved children were gone, dead, shot. “Get this straight. She didn't kill herself. She was murdered. A guy is serving life at Walpole for doing her and two other girls.”

I stared at the sheet of archival calligraphy on my desk, at the Avon Hill faculty list.

“But, Mooney—” I began.

“Carlotta, listen! It's not an open case, it's not a cold case. It's a one hundred percent closed case.”

I swiveled my chair. My elbow whacked a cup filled with pens, pencils, odds and ends, sent it crashing to the ground. T.C. raced out of the room, startled by noise and debris.

“Carlotta, you okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

Whose verses, whose prose did I have in my possession?

At first I thought I'd slammed the receiver into the cradle so hard that the phone had clanged in self-defense. Then I realized it was the doorbell. Not Roz. She has her own key. Not someone for Roz. Roz responds to three-buzz salutes.

I was hoping for Adam Mayhew.

Be careful what you wish for, my grandmother used to say.

10

I was ready to chew the man's head off. I expect evasion from clients, but there's a limit. I do not expect earnest requests to find women officially and formally dead. Murdered. The wound felt unexpectedly raw. I probed it gently, the way you'd inspect a canker sore with your tongue, found myself shaken by the depth of my belief in a living, breathing Thea Janis. I'd bought the entire gift-wrapped package. I'd yearned to find the lost prodigy, to be involved, even remembered, as someone who'd played a part in restoring Thea Janis to life and literary fame.

Now I had nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth, and the need to spit it out in words.

Adam Mayhew shuffled through the door like an old man, bunking owlishly. His skin was blotchy, his clothes wrinkled. He looked and smelled like he'd spent time on a park bench sipping a bagged pint of Four Roses. His lips seemed thinner, stretched taut and pressed together as though he were afraid they might blurt sentences he didn't want to say. His blue eyes were cloudy behind smudged lenses.

“Thank you for receiving me without an appointment.” Whatever wrenching experience he'd weathered hadn't killed his instinctive politeness. I nodded toward the living room and he followed, sinking with a weary moan into the same chair he'd occupied so jauntily last night.

“What can I do for you?” I asked when the silence turned squirmy and uncomfortable. The man was gazing at the walls, the windows, the fireplace, counting the repetitive motifs in the oriental rug. His right forefinger traced concentric circles on his left palm.

“I'd like the manuscript back.” His eyes stayed riveted to the floor.

“Why?”

Sweat beaded his forehead. It was no hotter than yesterday.

He lifted his head and stared at me. If misery were contagious, I'd have caught it. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said stiffly. “I've changed my mind. It was nothing—a game, a joke, whatever. A client—er, a student of mine—thought I'd find it amusing. Really, my dear, you were right to be skeptical. ‘I'm just a foolish fond old man.' I didn't realize how stupidly foolish I'd become.”

His voice shook with suppressed emotion. He seemed close to tears.

“Would you like a cup of coffee? A drink? Whiskey?”

“No. Nothing, thank you. I need the notebook back. Tonight.” He made as if to stand. I wasn't ready to let him go.

“You said you'd changed your mind,” I said. “Exactly what do you mean by that? Changed your mind about the authenticity of the new work?”

“I no longer wish to engage your services. Isn't that clear enough?” Misery was changing to anger. An improvement. Angry people talk, occasionally let things slip.

“Have you shown anyone the manuscript?” he demanded intently.

“Not yet,” I hedged. I hadn't decided how to play this one.

His shoulders lowered abruptly, as though he were a marionette and his puppeteer had suddenly relaxed the strings. The corners of his mouth drooped and he swallowed hard. Compared to the substantial gentleman I'd met before, this guy was a deflated tire. A different presence altogether. Different mannerisms. Different speech patterns.

Bipolar disease?

I've been seeing, dating—well, truth be told, sleeping with a psychiatrist. Maybe that's why bipolar disease crossed my mind, the mental illness shrinks used to call manic-depression. Was Mayhew off his normal medication? Had he been taking a pill vacation yesterday?

“You don't look well,” I said. “A doctor lives two doors away. Would you like me to call him?”

“No! Absolutely not. The notebook … Give it to me, and let's finish this sorry business once and for all.”

I didn't want to surrender Thea's notebook. I searched for a way to stall, found it in a lie. Lies don't bother me when I'm the one telling them.

“I'm sorry. It's no longer in my possession.”

“No longer in—”

“I can get it back. It may take a little while.”

“Who has it? What have you done with it?”

“I sent it to a friend at the FBI lab. In Quantico, Virginia. You asked me to authenticate the document. I don't have the necessary equipment. She does.”

“Call your friend,” he insisted. “Now. Have her return the envelope immediately. She needn't open it.”

I studied my watch. The man's panic didn't fit with what he'd been telling me, that he'd made a simple “mistake.”