Gnosis (26 page)

“You reap what you sow in this life, Eric,” Milt said. “That’s something I firmly believe.”

“So do I. But, still, to have no one grieve for you when you’re gone. Man, that’s so . . . sad.”

Laurie said, “Did you see Barbara Tanner, Eric? That was no act. Those tears were real. She’s gonna miss the man.”

“Think Cheryl Likens will miss him?” Milt said, grinning.

“Are you kidding? She’ll have a new sugar daddy within a week, if she doesn’t already have one.”

“Maybe you should make a play for her, Milt,” Scott said. “Obviously, she prefers older guys, and you certainly fit into that category.”

“Scott, I’d go broke buying Viagra trying to keep up with a woman like Cheryl Likens. No, no, Scott. I need a woman, not grief or trouble. She’d be grief
and
trouble.”

Dantzler entered the room and the mood suddenly turned somber. He went to the end of the table, pulled back a chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his dark, tired eyes staring into space. After a minute of silence, he pushed away from the wall, sat, and scooted the chair forward.

“Sorry for putting you through an ordeal like this,” he said. “I know you all had better ways to spend your time than hanging out at Colt Rogers’s funeral service. Sean Montgomery warned me it would be a waste of time. I should’ve listened to him.”

“The next big dinner tab is on you,” Milt said. “And the bar bill. Speaking of which, I could certainly use an alcoholic beverage right about now.”

“Later,” Dantzler said. “What I want from you now are thoughts or ideas about this case. That goes for all of you. Give me anything you’ve got, no matter how out there you think it might be.”

“It’s really not very complicated,” Laurie said. “If you’re convinced the killings in ’eighty-two and these two recent killings were done by the same person, then we just need to dig deeper to find the missing link. If there is one.”

“I still say you should pressure Eli for a name,” Milt said. “Give him your assurance that if he coughs up the name, we’ll protect his family. We’ll make sure they are never in harm’s way.”

“How can I make that assurance, Milt?” Dantzler argued. “I have no clue what we’re up against here. For all I know, the killer could be part of Murder Incorporated or the Russian mob. At any rate, you can forget about Eli giving us a name. It’s not gonna happen.”

“Well, then, our only option is old-fashion hardcore detective work. Tell us what you want us to do.”

“Same plan as before,” Dantzler said, standing. “Eric and Scott on the obits, Laurie digging into Devon Fraley’s past, you going through Colt Rogers’s files. Check with Barbara Tanner. If she’s up to it, get her to assist you.”

“What about you?” Eric asked.

“Rachel Foster phoned me a few minutes before I came in. She has me set to meet Tommy Whitehouse tomorrow afternoon. He was a hard dude to track down, and given his checkered past, I’m not sure what to expect from him. I doubt he’ll give me anything worthwhile, but who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise me. Then sometime on Thursday, Milt and I are going to talk with Johnny Richards.”

“He wasn’t at the funeral today, was he?” Eric said.

Dantzler shook his head. “No. And based on the names listed in the guestbook, he didn’t come by the funeral home last night, either.”

“Some friend.”

“Hell, after what I saw today,” Milt said, “I don’t think Colt Rogers had any friends.”

Of the three Whitehouse children, the one who most intrigued Dantzler was the one he had yet to meet—Tommy.

There was no mystery why this was so. Tommy Whitehouse’s story was a mirror image of Dantzler’s uncle Tommy Blake, another charmed golden boy who stumbled somewhere along life’s road and became a lost soul.

Tommy Blake had been Dantzler’s idol, his hero, his mentor. It was Tommy who taught him how to play tennis and baseball. It was Tommy who instilled in him a love for learning. It was Tommy who helped him become a man. Tommy Blake was one of those charmed individuals who had star quality written all over him. Graceful, strong, quick, fearless, and intelligent, he was seen as a can’t-miss Major League shortstop or a Rhodes scholar. All doors were open to him. All he had to do was pick the one he wanted to enter. He chose baseball, signing a contract with the Los Angeles Dodgers on the day he graduated from high school. His impact was immediate, his talent enormous, and within two years he had moved rapidly up the ranks within the Dodgers’ organization. Then, while playing for the Triple A club, disaster struck.

A career-ending knee injury and the death of Sarah Dantzler, his beloved sister, with whom he was especially close, slammed those doors shut. After his playing career ended, an addictive personality emerged. Tommy Blake, disillusioned and adrift, traded his dreams of glory for drugs, alcohol, and a series of unsuccessful relationships with women. He was, Dantzler knew, a haunted, tragic figure.

Not unlike Tommy Whitehouse, who, according to Rachel, was so devastated by Eli’s situation that he “shut down, checked out, and extinguished the light of brilliance that shone within him.” Rachel had used words like lost, haunted, and tragic when describing Tommy. They were the same words Dantzler often used when describing his uncle. Tommy Blake and Tommy Whitehouse were, in Dantzler’s mind, two of life’s great magnificent maybes, men whose vast potential would never be realized.

Dantzler spent a week trying to connect with Tommy Whitehouse. He phoned numerous times, and stopped by the duplex at least once a day. Tommy never responded to Dantzler’s calls, nor did he answer the door when Dantzler went by the place, even though on at least three of those visits, Dantzler was certain Tommy was inside. Only through Rachel’s efforts did Tommy reluctantly agree to meet Dantzler.

Pulling up in front of the duplex, Dantzler saw Tommy peering out from a front window. Based on what he had learned from Rachel, Dantzler wasn’t sure how much pertinent information he would get from Tommy. But he was sure of one thing. An hour from now, when he walked out of the duplex after meeting Tommy Whitehouse, he would be sad and depressed. Exactly the way he felt every time he walked out of Tommy Blake’s apartment.

When Tommy opened the door and stepped onto the small porch, Dantzler felt as if he were looking at the face of his uncle Tommy. The similarities were eerie, almost identical. Dantzler wondered if perhaps they were for all lost souls. The sad eyes ringed by dark circles, eyes that seemed to view everyone and everything with suspicion. The gaunt face and pale skin, the black hair sprinkled with gray, the body thin but still muscular. The aura of lost hope. And yet, Dantzler recognized something in Tommy Whitehouse that he always saw in his uncle—despite the damage inflicted by time and abuse, more than a hint of youthful beauty was still present. The golden boy was lost, but not completely vanished.

Tommy nodded and waved Dantzler in without speaking. He followed Dantzler into the den and sat in a leather chair. Dantzler awkwardly stood in the middle of the room for several moments before finally settling into a wicker chair across from Tommy.

Dantzler could tell Tommy had been drinking. There were no overt signs, no alcohol in sight, no smell, but Dantzler had enough experience dealing with his uncle to know almost instinctively when an alcoholic was covering up his drinking. Tommy Whitehouse had probably begun hitting the bottle early in the day. Or maybe he had been drinking all night. With alcoholics, so good at concealing their symptoms, it was often difficult to know when the first drink of the day was taken. Tommy was not yet drunk, but he was heading in that direction.

Tommy cleared his throat, said, “I remember you from when I was a kid. You were this big tennis hero, the court prince who won all those tournaments. You were one of my idols. You and Johnny Bench.”

“Johnny Bench, huh? That’s heavy-duty company you’re putting me in with. The guy was the best.”

“Yes, he was.” Tommy dug into his shirt pocket, pulled out a roll of Certs, and popped one into his mouth. “Baseball was my best sport, but I did play a lot of tennis, too. I was pretty good, in fact. Not like you, of course, but, you know, I could hold my own. I have a racket somewhere—Rachel probably has it stored at her farm—that Pancho Gonzalez autographed for me. He was in Cincinnati for a tournament and I got him to sign it. Did you ever meet him?”

“I hit with him once at a juniors tournament in Las Vegas when I was twelve. After I’d won a couple of early matches, I was on one of the practice courts when he showed up. He watched me hit for a few minutes, then asked if I would mind hitting with him. I couldn’t believe it. Pancho Gonzalez asking to hit with me. I’m thinking, okay, this has to be a dream. But it wasn’t . . . it was real. I hit with him for about an hour. One of the great moments in my life.”

“Did you win the tournament?”

“Runner-up. Lost seven-five in the third set. Skinny little left-hander named McEnroe beat me.”

“Bummer.”

“Did Rachel tell you why I wanted to speak with you?” Dantzler asked.

“Something to do with my father, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe he is innocent and I’m trying to uncover the truth.”

“Good luck.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

Tommy shrugged. “No, I don’t. But a ton of evidence says he is.”

“True,” Dantzler said, “But after looking into it—”

“Would you excuse me for a second?” Tommy said, standing. “I’m in desperate need of a drink of water.”

“Sure. I’m in no hurry.”

Tommy was gone less than two minutes before returning to his chair. He popped another Certs into his mouth, leaned back, and hands clasped behind his head. “What were you saying, Detective Dantzler?”

“When did you start drinking again?” Dantzler said.

“What makes you think I’m drinking? Didn’t Rachel tell you? I haven’t touched a drop in almost six months.”

“Cut the denial act, Tommy. You had a drink. I know you did.”

“I had water.”

“You had booze.”

“Okay, so I had a drink. So what? It’s not the end of the world. Anyway, I’ve got it under control now. I know when to stop.”

“You’re an alcoholic, Tommy. You should never start.”

“When did you become my AA counselor?”

“I’m not.”

“Then put the brakes on your stop drinking lecture and get back to being a detective. You want to know about Eli, ask about Eli.”

“All right. Let’s talk about the night of the murders. Where were you when they happened?”

“At home, in my room, watching TV.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“When the phone call came, I heard a lot of noise coming from downstairs. I went down to see what was going on. Mom told me something terrible had happened at the barn on Eli’s property. She said Eli was on his way to the scene. I didn’t find out about the two guys being killed until the next morning. I think Isaac came by the house and told me.”

“Did you know either of the two victims?”

“Never met either one.”

“Do you think Isaac knew them?”

“You’d have to ask him. But I rather doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Tommy laughed. “Because Isaac only associated with the upper crust of society, if you get my drift. Those two guys were a few levels below his standard.”

“What’s your relationship with Isaac?”

“We have the same DNA.”