Crazybone (18 page)

The first thing I saw when I reached the end of the access lane was that the carport was empty, the VW van nowhere in sight. It put a knot like a fist under my breastbone. I barreled up the driveway, jammed on the brakes, and came out running.

I was on the stairs when I heard the house door open. I slowed then, looking up, as light footfalls sounded on the deck above. Emily. She appeared and stood looking down at me, brushing her hair out of her eyes, smiling a little tentatively.

The knot loosening, I went up the rest of the way. She seemed all right, the same as before except that there was animation in her face, relief in her smile.

“You came back,” she said.

“Where’s your aunt?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. She packed some of her clothes and some money she had in a jar and went away.”

“Just left you here by yourself.”

“She said she wasn’t coming back and I should wait here until Mom comes.”

These people — damn these selfish people! “How long has she been gone?”

“A while. Not too long after you left. I’m glad she didn’t try to make me go with her.”

“So am I.”

“I knew you’d come,” she said again. “I don’t know how, I just knew like before.”

“I shouldn’t’ve left you in the first place.”

“I can go with you now, can’t I? Now that Aunt Karen isn’t coming back?”

“Well, you can’t stay here by yourself, no matter what she told you.”

“I’d like to go home.”

“I know you would. I’ll take you if that’s where your mother is. But you can’t stay there alone, either.”

“Then where will I stay?”

“I can’t answer that yet. Someplace safe. You’ll have to trust me, Emily.”

“I trust you.”

Child’s mouth to God’s ear. I said, “Okay. Let’s go in and get your things together.”

While she went after her coat and suitcase I took a quick look around. Karen Meineke’s bedroom was in an even worse state of disarray than before, drawers pulled out, more clothing and empty hangers on the floor. The .38 was no longer hidden on the closet shelf. In both the front room and kitchen I hunted for a note, anything the woman might have left for her sister. Nothing. Getting away from here, fast, was all she’d cared about. Maybe later, when she was holed up somewhere and the grip of panic had eased, she might try to reestablish contact. Just as likely, she wouldn’t. I had only contempt for her whatever her intentions. The important thing was, she was all through putting her niece in harm’s way.

On the back of a business card I wrote “Contact me about Emily’s whereabouts.” I cleared a space on the breakfast bar, propped the card there against a glass. For good measure I laid another card, printed side up, next to it. If Karen Meineke did decide to come home, or if her sister showed up, maybe I’d get a call. But I’d be damn surprised if I did.

On the way to the car I asked Emily the question I’d neglected to ask earlier. “Do you have keys to your house? For the front door and the alarm system?”

“No, not anymore. Mom took them away when she found out I talked to you.”

“Some people hide spare keys in case they lose the ones they carry. You know, in the garage or under pots, places like that.”

“We never did.”

“Did she keep a spare house key in her studio?”

“I don’t think so. I never saw one there.”

“What about friends who might have one?”

“We don’t have many friends,” Emily said. “Why are you asking about keys?”

“If your mom’s not home, the house will be locked and the alarm system turned on.”

“But you said I couldn’t stay there alone... Oh. You want to go in and look around.”

“Would you mind?”

“No. I just want to find her.”

We were both silent until we rolled down through the woods to the intersection with Highway I. Then Emily said in a small, thin voice, “Something bad’s happened to her.” It wasn’t a question.

I had no response that didn’t sound phony or fatuous.

“I think she’s dead,” Emily said. “I think the man she was afraid of killed her.”

Smart — too smart for her own good. It was possible Sheila Hunter was dead, all right, though not by the hand or order of Philip Cotter. But it was equally possible she had decided to abandon her daughter, just as her sister had, to go on the run alone or with somebody else. The second explanation would be almost as much of a hammerblow to Emily’s fragile young psyche as the first.

Get her off this tack, for God’s sake, I thought. I said, “Emily, we just don’t know what the situation is. It’s easy to imagine the worst, but it doesn’t have to be that way. You know the phrase ‘Keep the faith’?” Fatuous as hell, but it was the best I could do.

“Yes.”

“Do that, then. Think good thoughts.”

“All right.” But her voice was listless.

After a little time I asked, “Do you know a lady named Dale Cooney, Mrs. Frank Cooney?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t ever remember hearing the name?”

“No.”

“How about a Mr. Lukash — Doc Lukash.”

“He’s our dentist.”

“A friend of your mom’s, too?”

“No, just our dentist.”

“Did he ever come to your house?”

“Dentists don’t make house calls,” she said seriously.

“That’s right, they don’t. Tell me about Trevor Smith.”

“I don’t know very much about him.”

“He came to see your mom last Thursday night, didn’t he?”

“Yes. She was really upset that night.”

“She’d already told you by then that you were going away?”

“That morning. Mr. Smith made her more upset, but I don’t know why. Mom locked me in my room. She didn’t want me to hear what they were saying.”

Not a word about her mother smacking her. No teller of tales, this little girl. The value of privacy was one good lesson she’d learned from her parents.

“Could you hear anything they said?”

“No. They were in the living room and my room’s in the back.”

“So they didn’t raise their voices, make any noise?”

“No.”

“Did your mom say anything about Smith after he left?”

“No.”

“But she was still upset?”

“A little calmer, I guess.”

“Did anyone else come to the house before you left on Friday?”

“No.”

“Anyone call?”

“There was one call, but I don’t know who it was. Mom made me go in my room again.”

“Did the call upset her?”

“No.”

“Make her happy, relieved, anything like that?”

“No. She was the same afterward.”

We were out of Gualala now, heading down Highway I through the northern reaches of Sea Ranch. The fog was in and the afternoon had darkened perceptibly under its heavy gray pall. Almost five by the dashboard clock. Eight or so by the time we reached San Francisco, and then what?

I hauled up the mobile phone, punched out Emily’s home number from memory. A dozen rings, no answer. Emily was watching me; I could feel the weight of her eyes. She knew what number I was calling.
Something bad’s happened to her. I think she’s dead.
I held on to the receiver, looking straight ahead, trying to think through the mental echoes of Emily’s voice. Going on nine o’clock before I could get her to Greenwood — pretty late to be showing up on somebody’s doorsteps.
We don’t have many friends.
But there had to be somebody... the family of one of her classmates?

“Emily, who’s your best friend at school?”

“I don’t have a best friend.”

“No girlfriends? No one from the riding academy?”

“Well, there’s Tracy Dellman, I guess.”

“Tracy Dellman. Do you think her folks might let you stay with them for a few days?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never stayed there before.”

“What’s Tracy’s phone number?”

“We don’t talk much on the phone.”

“Where does she live?”

“Poplar Avenue. Number two-fifty, I think.”

I called directory assistance for the Greenwood area. No listing for a Dellman family on Poplar Avenue. Which meant I’d have to show up at their home at nine P.M., a stranger with a little girl in tow. Explanations, fuss... the prospect left me cold. There had to be somebody else...

“You know Mrs. Purcell, don’t you?” I asked. “The lady who runs the art gallery?”

“Not very well.”

“Do you like her? Does she like you?”

“I guess so. Do you want me to stay with her?”

“If you’d be comfortable there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Emily said. Then she said, “Are you married?”

“...Married?”

“You are, aren’t you? You wear a wedding ring.”

“Yes, I’m married. Emily...”

“Then wouldn’t it be all right if I stayed with you?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? Doesn’t your wife like kids?”

“Sure she does. But she has a job, she’s even busier than I am...”

“I don’t mean for a long time,” Emily said. “Just for tonight. Wouldn’t that be okay? I don’t want to go anywhere else tonight. I don’t want to be alone with somebody else.”

I knew what she meant and I could not think of a way to say no: couldn’t quite bring myself to look at her. I stared out at the road and the mist curling and uncurling in the headlights. Time went by, what seemed like a lot of it.

“It’s all right if you don’t want me,” Emily said. “I understand.”

Goddamn it, I thought. I said gruffly, “Just for tonight. And don’t ever think you’re not wanted. Anybody who wouldn’t want a nice young lady like you around ought to have his head examined.”

“Thank you,” she said.

That mist out there was getting thicker. I had to rub my eyes and squint to see the damn road.

I called the condo, didn’t get any answer, and then called Bates and Carpenter. Kerry wasn’t there, either; her secretary said she’d gone out for drinks with a client. I waited a while and tried the condo again. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Emily had been quiet for some time. I glanced over at her. For most of the ride she’d sat primly with her hands in her lap; now she was curled up on the seat, had done it so quietly I hadn’t even noticed, and was asleep with her head pillowed on one arm against the door. Poor kid; she probably hadn’t slept much the past few nights. She looked very small and fragile and vulnerable, and I felt a fresh cut of anger at what her family had done to her. Maybe I was a fool for taking on the role of her protector, but she needed somebody to look out for her, somebody to put her welfare first for a change. Why not me? I knew what it was like to be alone, all right; I’d been alone a lot of years before Kerry came into my life.

I tried the condo number a third time from Jenner, a fourth when I picked up Highway 101 north of Santa Rosa, a fifth waiting to pay the toll on the Golden Gate Bridge. Still no Kerry. Oh, babe, I thought after the last call, just wait until you see what papa’s bringing home for you this time.

Kerry beat us to Diamond Heights by about three minutes; she still had her coat on when I walked in with Emily. She couldn’t help but be surprised, but you’d have to know her as well as I do to tell it. Poise is one of her best qualities, and compassion is another. She did a better job of making the kid feel at home than I could have: introduced her to Shameless, showed her the guest room, fixed her a sandwich even though Emily said she wasn’t hungry and stood over her until she finished most of it, and then got her settled in the living room with the cat on her lap.

My turn, then. In our bedroom with the door shut she said, “All right, explain.” She didn’t sound upset.

I explained. In detail.

“You did the right thing,” she said. “You couldn’t just leave her up there alone — my God, no. Or take her to Greenwood and drag her around until you found somebody to care for her.”

“It’s just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll talk to the Purcell woman—”

“No you won’t,” Kerry said. “Emily can stay here as long as she needs to. I’ll take tomorrow off so she won’t have to be alone. I don’t have anything pressing on the calendar.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure.”

“Couple of mush-hearts, huh?”

“Never mind that,” she said. “You just find out what happened to her mother.”

Tuesday morning, early: a cold, gray day, fog and low-hanging clouds staining the rustic elegance of Greenwood with a gloomy brush. And nothing had changed on the Hunter property — gates open, house windows blinded, doors locked, alarm system activated, Sheila Hunter’s Audi parked in the garage.

Being there again depressed me. It was more than the sameness, the air of permanent abandonment; it was a feeling of hopelessness based on the truths I’d learned yesterday. Dream house and gracious lifestyle built on a foundation of theft, lies, and deceit. A home that was no longer a home to Emily. The only one she’d ever known and now lost to her forever, no matter what had happened to her mother, because her life was irrevocably damaged. It made me all the more determined to find Sheila Hunter, put an end to that part of the child’s anguish as quickly as possible.

The question was how.

Something in the house might give me an idea of where she’d gone and why; my best option right now, or it would be if I could get past that alarm system and inside. Frustrating that the thing was turned on...

Well, there
was
a way to shut it off, neutralize it. Sure there was, if I could set it up. Risky, but not very, and probably expensive, and if it worked out it would allow me to break-and-enter just like Samuel Leatherman.

I drove back to Greenwood Road and into a supermarket parking lot; better to make my call from there than hang around the Hunter property. The first name in my address book was the one I wanted: George Agonistes. I tapped out his combination home and office number. His wife, who doubled as his assistant, answered; George wasn’t home, but she knew me, and when I told her I had a job for him she gave me his pager number. I called it and then sat back to wait.