Damsels in Distress (35 page)

I was relieved that none of the ARSE members dropped by the store to confide in me during the next three hours. At ten till four, I locked the store and sat by the back door to wait for Luanne. Neither Peter nor Corporal McTeer had peeked around the corner when Luanne drove up. Resisting the urge to dive into her backseat and throw a blanket over myself, I took the more decorous approach and got in next to her.

“I hope we aren’t being followed,” I said as I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could watch the traffic behind us.

“There’s a purple wig in the backseat on the floor. I wore it for Mardi Gras. Shake the spiders out of it before you put it on.”

“I do not need a disguise. I am not an escapee from detention.”

Luanne moved the rearview mirror back into place. “Fine, then stop squirming around and staring over your shoulder. The kid’s name is Max. I already picked up the chips and soda, and you owe me six dollars and change. And if I’m arrested for aiding and abetting a fugitive, I expect to be reimbursed for bail money. Every penny of it.”

“Just drive,” I muttered.

Luanne’s ex-suitor lived in the historic district. As we walked to the front door, I glanced up the street for patrol cars. It seemed I had made good my escape, at least for the time being. The teenager who answered the door did not fit the stereotypic geek role, although he was short and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was clean, his skin clear, and he was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt extolling the prowess of some band.

“Thank you so much, Max,” Luanne said as she handed over a sack from the grocery store. “I’ve been telling my friend how clever you are. She’s very impressed. Anything new at the DOD?”

“You sure she’s okay?” he asked nervously.

“She’s a bleeding-heart liberal, a bookseller, and a stalwart defender of freedom of information.”

“I can show you my ACLU card,” I offered.

“No, that’s all right,” said Max. “Follow me.”

We went into his bedroom, or what I supposed was his bedroom, since the bed was hidden under a mound of dirty clothes and magazines. He had more electronics equipment than a discount store. Some of it was vaguely familiar, but the majority could have been almost anything, including a communications center for an alien race.

“Sit anywhere,” he said as he perched on a stool in front of a computer.

Luanne and I looked around, then I said, “We’ll stand, if you don’t mind. I’m interested in an adoption that took place about fifteen years ago or so. Since it involves a minor, the records may be sealed.”

Max flipped some switches. “Details.”

“The child’s name is Edward, and he was adopted by a man named Cobbinwood. I don’t know where, but my best guess is California. I’m sorry I don’t know the year, but...”

Max was already attacking the keyboard, his fingers moving like those of a concert pianist. Screens flashed onto the monitor for nanoseconds, then were replaced by others. I thought I caught a glimpse of the word “California,” but it vanished. After no more than a minute, he rolled back the stool and said, “You want to read it yourself?”

“Uh, yes,” I said. “The records weren’t sealed?”

“Does it matter?” he asked. “This was hardly worth the time. Now if you want to see the CIA reports on terrorist cells in Saudi Arabia, that’ll take a little while. I’m going to get something to eat.” He was opening a can of Mountain Dew as he left the room.

I sat down on the stool. “The adoption took place in Oakland sixteen years ago. The petitioner was Charles Stewart Cobbinwood. Edward’s biological father was listed as unknown, and therefore without parental rights. His mother’s name was Michelle Antoinette Galway.”

“Who called herself Serengeti,” said Luanne. “Good guess.”

“It wasn’t a guess. I just didn’t know her name until Peter told me yesterday. Coincidence, my foot. Edward told me that she moved away while he was at Berkeley, and that he hasn’t had any contact with her since then. I think it’s more likely that eventually she came to Farberville because Salvador Davis was living here. My science fiction hippie told me earlier today that Stark Reality’s real name was practically common knowledge. If you knew one, you could find the other. Either Edward told her, or she found someone like Max who could produce the information between sips of soda.”

“Did she come here to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “and I don’t know that she did. She must have found out from one of her old friends that Edward had been accepted at the college. She got here first and managed to weasel her way into her ex-lover’s life. Who knows what she planned to do when Salvador was forced to acknowledge paternity? Humiliate him, for one thing. Peddle her pathetic story to a tabloid. Better yet, demand twenty-one years of back child support. That could make for a nice sum, considering Salvador’s financial situation.”

“No kidding,” Luanne murmured. “He was making scads of money from the Stark Reality comic books.”

“Graphic novels,” I corrected her. “When I was talking to her yesterday before we were so rudely interrupted, she said something about how ‘we’ could sell his early work. That could only make sense if she expected to have influence over the estate.”

Max came back in the room with a handful of chips and a jar of peanut butter. “Are you done? I need to get back to work.”

Luanne gave him a suspicious look. “Work, Max?”

“Yeah, I intercept e-mails from brokerage firms, politicians, and celebrities, and sell them to interested parties. I’m saving up for a Carrera GT when I turn sixteen. I falsified my birth certificate, but my father still won’t let me get a driver’s license.”

“Can you print this out?” I asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I need a copy of it.”

“No problem. I used my Turkish account, so no one can trace it back to me.” He started the printer. “Hey, Luanne, you still mad at my father?”

“I’m afraid so, Max,” she said. “I expected roses and jewelry on Valentine’s Day. It may take me years to recover from the trauma.”

He raised his eyebrows, but remained silent while he took a page from the printer and gave it to me. “You single?”

“Engaged, with a wedding date in two months. Thanks for your help, Max.”

He was already back at the keyboard, typing at the speed of light. Luanne and I let ourselves out and retreated to her car. Neither of us spoke until we were on Thurber Street.

“What next?” Luanne asked.

“I don’t suppose you want to take this to the PD, do you? Tell Peter that you had a brainstorm and-”

“Do I look like the village idiot?”

She dropped me off at my duplex and drove away before I could come up with a persuasive argument. I went upstairs and reread the document. Charles Stewart Cobbinwood and Michelle Antoinette Galway were legally wed at the time of the adoption. I had no idea how long their marital bliss had lasted. Maybe Charles Cobbinwood’s death had refueled her fury at Salvador, who’d effectively prevented her from finishing her college degree.

Especially if she were a dance major. If there were roles for pregnant ballerinas, I was not aware of them. The dying swan did not waddle. The Sugarplum Fairy did not pause to practice Lamaze breathing techniques. Not even Nijinksy could heave a hundred and fifty pounds (or more) of perspiring flesh above his head. What’s more, she could have decided to ignore the more pedestrian name of Michelle and call herself Antoinette. And when her career was cut short, more simply Ann. Ann Galway, ergo Angie.

I went into the kitchen and looked out the window at the charred remains of the blue house. Angie had hired Rosie Neely as a companion, or as a front. She’d blown it when she called Lanya. It was hard to figure out why she’d done so, although she might have seen it as a way to get in touch with Edward. It had worked well—Edward had been on her porch after the ARSE potluck. Had he been furious that she might sabotage his relationship with Salvador? Furious enough to burn down her house? And then to slash her throat when he found out that she hadn’t died in the fire?

It was too horrible to consider. I started a kettle of water for tea and went into the living room to watch the news. Ken and Barbie had nothing new to report about Salvador’s murder, but they were salivating over the scene with the Japanese media at the PD. It was, as Jorgeson had said, a madhouse. Rental vans blocked the street. Earnest Japanese reporters stood in front of their cameras, speaking excitedly and gesturing at the door of the PD, which was blocked by uniformed officers. The mayor, safely inside his office at city hall, insisted that he was doing everything possible to cooperate with the foreign press but could not comment on the investigation. More Japanese reporters were at the curb in front of Salvador’s house. I wasn’t sure how long the yellow tape would keep them from charging the front door.

Ken and Barbie were puzzled by the yellow tape, but they were too well coiffed to admit it. The chief of police had promised to hold a news conference in the morning. KFAR would be there, front and center, to keep us viewers informed of whatever startling new developments were announced. When the weatherman came on, I returned to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea and a sandwich.

I touched neither as I tried to think how best to pass along my information to Peter without admitting I’d disobeyed his directive. Not, of course, that he had any right to tell me where I could and couldn’t go. Had he been no more than an ordinary detective, I would have had no qualms about calling. I believe strongly in doing my civic duty, which includes informing the police of potential criminal activity. I never skip an election, be it a primary or a bond issue. I obey the speed limit in school zones. I do not litter, and I recycle newspapers and cardboard.

The tea was cold and the sandwich was beginning to curl when Caron returned. After dropping her wet towels on the kitchen floor, she went down the hall to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later she emerged in clean clothes, her hair dripping on her shoulders. Her nose was red, but she’d survived any perilous encounters with lake monsters.

“Did you have a nice time?” I asked.

She picked up the sandwich, examined it, and put it back on the plate. “Can I order a pizza?”

“I thought I’d make a stir-fry with all the lovely fresh vegetables you bought at the grocery store last night.”

“You couldn’t stir-fry your way out of a paper sack,” she said as she flopped across a chair. “Why are you just sitting there like that? Shouldn’t you be picking out napkins and candles for the wedding reception? Lining up a photographer? Rehearsing your vows? You’ve only got two months, you know.”

“In theory,” I said.

My darling daughter gaped at me. “What have you done, Mother?”

“I went to see a kid named Max. Go ahead and order a pizza if you want. I think I’ll sit on the balcony.”

“Max who?” she demanded.

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “I don’t know. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“What does this have to do with your wedding?”

I took the plate and cup into the kitchen and tossed the sandwich in the trash. I could hear Caron on the phone, whispering madly, and not about Italian sausage and mushrooms. Unwilling to intrude, I went out onto the little back porch and listened to the sounds of Thurber Street. This being a Monday, there was not a live band in the beer garden. On the weekend evenings, they could be heard as far away as Bud’s Automotive Emporium.

Caron appeared in the kitchen and cleared her throat. “Inez and I are going over to Emily’s house. She got new CDs in the mail today. You aren’t going to do anything crazy if I leave you alone, are you? I’d hate to be stuck in a foster home for two years. I’d have to sleep on a bunkbed and do chores.”

“Run along,” I said. “Be home by midnight.”

She grabbed the car keys off the kitchen table and skittered down the stairs. Once she’d driven away, I went through the living room to the balcony. The information I had about Angie and Edward gnawed at me like a live culture. I came up with a screwy plan to go to the copy shop and fax the adoption page to Peter. All I needed to avoid being identified was Luanne’s purple wig (or Angle’s yellow one) and sunglasses. And the means to get to the copy shop, which was at least two miles away. If Corporal McTeer was lurking in the shadows, I could ask her for a ride, but that would defeat my need for anonymity. Luanne had mentioned a date with yet another lawyer, so she was unavailable.

It was all too much. I was staring at the dark buildings on the campus, waiting for inspiration, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? CID Detective Peter Rosen, parking at the curb.

What I said at that point need not be recorded.

Chapter Seventeen

W
hat are you doing?” he asked me as if I were poised on the edge of the roof.

“Waiting for Romeo. He must have stopped off to fight a duel with those pushy Capulet guys.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Let me get my purse and we’ll go out for sushi.”

He came in through the downstairs door and up the stairs. I let him in and offered beer, but he did not seem to prefer idle conversation. “Tell me what’s going on, Claire. Have you had another ‘chance encounter’ with the suspects? Are they huddled in your bedroom, waiting for me to leave so they can resume group therapy?”

I pointed at the paper on the coffee table. “Read it, Sherlock.”

As he read, his brow wrinkled. “Where did you get this?”

“I can’t tell you, but it’s legitimate. The woman who was killed in the early hours of the day was Edward’s mother—and it happened in Edward’s father’s house. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

“Where did you get this?” he repeated slowly.

“I think I’ll have a drink,” I said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beer and a sandwich?”

“How do you do it? We ran a standard background check on Michelle Galway, but nothing like this occurred to us. Sometimes you astound me—as well as exasperate me. Yes, I’d like a beer and something to eat. It’s been a difficult day. I had Japanese film crews trying to follow me into the men’s room. The captain finished off his private stash of bourbon and sent an officer out for another bottle. The mayor thinks we’re stonewalling, when in fact we have no idea what to do next. There’s no forensic evidence. The autopsies haven’t told us anything we didn’t already know.”