Hocus (24 page)

“I’m so glad Frank had you there to help him deal with it,” Bea said. “Brian felt so bad later.”

“Frank’s dad wasn’t around that day?” Cassidy asked.

“Not until later. I don’t even remember now where he was, but Greg and Cookie called here, trying to find him. When Brian realized what had happened, he was very upset that he hadn’t been there.”

“Probably better that he wasn’t, really,” Greg said.

“What do you mean?” Bea asked.

“Frank was on his own, and he did fine. In fact, he really proved himself that day. He moved up to detectives not long after that. For the first time, I think a lot of people saw him as somebody who was more than Brian Harriman’s son.”

Seeing Bea bristle, I said, “Frank is so proud of his dad, I don’t think he would have minded anyone thinking of him as Brian’s son.”

Bea looked at me gratefully. She stood up. “I’d better check on dinner. It’s nothing too fancy, Detective Cassidy.”

“Ma’am, my mouth has been watering since I walked in here this evening. Heaven can’t smell any better than whatever you’re cooking in there.”

“Just chicken,” she said.

“Don’t let her fool you with that ‘just chicken’ stuff,” Greg said. “Bea’s a fantastic cook.”

The momentary tension between them was gone. “I’ll help you,” I said to Bea, and followed her into the kitchen. Cassidy offered his help as well and was politely refused. He began talking to Greg about his years on the local force.

I was thinking ahead by then, about what I needed to do before that “one injection.” In order to help Frank escape, I might have to plan one of my own.

“Bea,” I asked after setting the table — the only interference she would brook — “mind if I use your phone?”

“No, go right ahead.”

I thumbed through the telephone book and found a listing for Regina Szal, speech therapist. I called and got voice mail. How appropriate, I thought.

The outgoing message presented several options, including “If you would like to mark this message for urgent delivery, please press the pound sign before you hang up.” I left my name and Bea’s number and added, “This is an emergency. Please call me as soon as possible.” I pressed the pound sign, got an automated, “Thank you,” and a click.

Figuring Bakersfield couldn’t be overrun with unrelated Szals, I called the other listing for that last name, a Bernard Szal. When a woman answered I asked for Regina.

“This is Regina,” she answered in a voice so sultry, I figured I’d pay a tidy sum if she could teach me to talk like that.

“My name is Irene Kelly. I need to talk to you about two of your former clients — Bret Neukirk and Samuel Ryan.”

I was expecting her to immediately respond with a speech about confidentiality. Instead she said, “Yes, I know. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Bret and Samuel wrote to me a couple of weeks ago. They said you would have questions about them. They also said you would be in a hurry.”

“That hardly describes it. I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“Hmm. All right. When?”

“How late will you be up this evening?” I asked.

“Oh, until about three in the morning.”

“Three?”

“Bernard’s an amateur astronomer. We’re both night owls. Fortunately, I’m able to schedule my clients late in the day. In any case, you’re welcome to come by this evening. I’ll give you my address, and if we don’t answer the bell, just come through the gate and into the backyard. You’ll see the tower. That’s where we’ll be.”

“Thanks.” I wrote the address and directions. “You’re outside the city.”

“Away from the lights,” she said.

“You’ll forgive me, but I wasn’t expecting this to be so easy.”

“Bret and Sam were favorites of mine. And they very wisely enclosed signed releases. But do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Perhaps that would be best explained in person.”

“What time should I expect you?”

I thought this over. “Do you watch the eleven o’clock news?”

“Sometimes.”

“Watch it tonight. I’ll be over sometime after midnight.”

“How very mysterious. But all right, we’ll see you after midnight.”

I checked the phone book for a listing for Eva Ryan or Francine Neukirk. There were no Neukirks at all and, although there were plenty of Ryans, nothing for Eva. On a whim, I looked for John Oakhurst. Zero.

I wasn’t surprised to discover that Cecilia Parker’s number was unlisted. I turned to Bea. “Could I get Cecilia’s phone number from you?”

“Just autodial number seven from the kitchen phone,” she said.

Autodial? I thought. I tried not to let myself get too steamed over that.

Cassidy came into the kitchen then, so I didn’t make the call.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said.

He smiled. He knew I was up to something. I knew he knew. I was hoping he was going to be sleepy before midnight.

A
FTER DINNER
, while Cassidy was busy preparing a report to send to Hank Freeman, I again asked Bea for Cecilia’s number. “I need to make the call from a pay phone,” I explained, not wanting Cassidy to be able to overhear — or tape — the call. Belatedly I realized he could have taped the conversation with Regina Szal, although I didn’t think he had.

When Bea raised her eyebrows I said, “Cassidy will need to use the phone line for his fax. And I don’t want to tie up the line here.”

There was no loss of skepticism in her expression, but she wrote down Cecilia’s number, then went to her purse. She came back with the car keys and handed them to me. “Be careful,” she said.

Surprised, I hesitated.

“A down payment on an apology,” she said. “But that’s something we can talk about later.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Although the patrolman from the Bakersfield PD was waiting outside, I didn’t see the reporter. I got into Bea’s Plymouth sedan, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and started the car. As I turned the corner I saw Cassidy coming out onto the front porch.

I drove to the second-nearest pay phone, hoping Cassidy would look for me at the nearest. The one I chose was at the dark end of a gas station parking lot. I dialed Cecilia Parker’s number.

Once I had identified myself she said, “Have they found him?”

“No. But we know who has him. I’ll get to that. Look, I may only have a few minutes here, so I’m going to make this quick. Are you working tomorrow?”

“No,” she said. “I have the day off. Why?”

“I’d like to meet you for breakfast.”

She hesitated. “Look, I’m not sure this is such a great idea….”

“This isn’t about your relationship with Frank,” I said. “But for his sake, I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t see what good it’s going to do him to have the two of us talk,” she said.

“What are you afraid of, Cecilia?”

“Not you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then meet me at the Hill House Cafe at seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock? On my day off?”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t have a lot of free time. Besides, we may need to do some traveling together.”

“Now, wait a minute — I don’t get it. Frank is missing and you want to waste time meeting with me?”

“Because I think you might be able to help me save his life. If that wasn’t true, I wouldn’t have gone sneaking out of Bea Harriman’s house to make this call.”

She was silent.

“Please,” I begged.

“Okay, sure,” she relented. “No harm in it, I suppose. Now tell me about Frank.”

I looked up and saw the cruiser that had been in front of Bea’s house pulling into the gas station.

“Oh, hell. Look, I’ve got to go. Watch the news tonight — Las Piernas is holding a press conference about Frank. Or turn on an all-news radio station in about twenty minutes. It will explain who has him, and you’ll probably be able to figure out why I want to meet with you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Cassidy sent the locals looking for me. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

I hung up just as the patrolman spotted me. He pulled up, rolled down his window, and said, “Ready to go home now?”

“If I’m not, what happens?”

“I follow you all over town.”

I got into Bea’s car and drove back.

Cassidy was sitting on the swing, arms folded, long legs outstretched. When I pulled into the driveway, he stood up and went into the house. By the time I got inside he was asking Bea to turn on the radio. He didn’t look at me. When he took a seat in the living room, he stared at the radio as if it were a television. Bea and Greg kept exchanging anxious glances.

“Can I get you anything, Detective Cassidy?” Bea asked.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said, his eyes never leaving the radio.

“Cassidy—” I began.

“Oh, please don’t bother, Irene. You come up with some cock’n bull story about how you ran out of here because you had a sudden hankerin’ for a NeHi strawberry soda, you’ll just end up insulting my intelligence.”

Before I could reply, the news announcer on the radio said, “Our top story this half hour: A Las Piernas homicide detective has been taken hostage, apparently by Hocus, the anarchist group that is blamed for recent terrorist acts in that city. We now go live to a press conference in Las Piernas, where police are expected to give further details….”

A statement was read by a public information officer. He was joined at the podium by Frank’s boss, Lieutenant Carlson. Carlson did not speak. The statement was just as Cassidy had predicted it would be: Frank Harriman had been missing since the previous afternoon, was now believed to be the hostage of the group calling itself Hocus; Neukirk and Ryan were wanted for questioning; anyone with any information on their whereabouts or the disappearance of Detective Harriman should call the LPPD.

Once the statement was read, a barrage of questions were shouted from the reporters. All but one of the questions were answered with, “We have no further comment at this time.” The one exception was, “Do you believe Frank Harriman is still alive?”

The answer was, “We remain optimistic.”

The conference was ended. The on-scene reporter, obviously reading from a release, described Samuel Ryan as being twenty-two years old, five eleven, muscular build, with reddish brown hair and brown eyes. Bret Neukirk was twenty-one, six feet tall, slender, dark brown hair and eyes. He described Frank in this same, spare way. It seemed unlikely that anyone would recognize any of them from these descriptions.

The anchorman recapped the information in a sentence, then cut to a commercial for a roofing company.

The phone started ringing. Each time, I thought it might be Hocus, but the callers were friends of Bea Harriman. By the sixth call, her own nerves worn thin, she turned over the task of answering the phone to Cassidy, who again and again said politely that Mrs. Harriman appreciated the concern but needed to keep the phone line free.

Pete and Rachel arrived with an overnight bag — and a package for Cassidy. I was surprised to see Pete — but realized quickly why Rachel hadn’t left him behind. He hadn’t shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders were drooping, his gait was tired and slow. He had the look of a man who had been holding long, unpleasant conversations with himself.

“Pete Baird,” Cassidy said from behind me. “Dang, I’m glad to see you. I really could use your help.”

“Sure, Cassidy,” Pete said, straightening. “Anything you need.”

Cassidy clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder and walked him back to his makeshift office.

Rachel stared after them. “Amazing.”

“What?”

“It took Tom Cassidy less than two seconds to figure out exactly what Pete needed.”

“What was that?”

“Something to do.”

I suddenly realized that if Hocus hadn’t decided I could find their enemy, I would have been in the same position Pete had been in over the last several hours. Waiting. Only waiting.

Bea began to lobby Rachel to stay overnight. “I’ve got three extra bedrooms here,” she said. “Two are spoken for, so you might as well grab the last one.”

Before long, Bea was feeding them at the kitchen table, convincing Cassidy and Greg to join them for dessert. I eased out of the gathering and went back to the bedroom Bea had set aside for me. The room held good memories for me; Frank had proposed to me there. I set the alarm for ten-thirty
P.M
. and went to sleep.

I awoke just before the alarm went off, no recollection of a dream, but my face damp with tears.

“Don’t start this shit,” I said to myself, blew my nose, and tried to pull myself together.

There was a soft knock at the door, and when I opened it Cassidy stood leaning against the jamb. He studied my face just a little too long to carry off his pretense of not noticing the tears. “Got a minute?” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

I nodded.

“Let’s go out back,” he suggested.

We walked through a side door to the backyard, avoiding the crowd in Bea’s house. Cassidy told me that my sister-in-law had returned; Mike had stayed home with the kids.

I heard motors running and saw that the front yard was bathed in light.

“Local TV news,” Cassidy said. “Hoping to get a reaction from the family. I think they’re going to have to be satisfied with a shot of the outside of the house. Ol’ Bea is pretty tough.”

“Yes, she’s had to be.”

He waited, and when I didn’t say more, he kept walking. We sat down on a couple of chairs on the back porch.

He stretched out his legs and sighed. “So how are we gonna work this out, Irene Kelly?”

“Work what out?”

“You seem to be feeling a little fenced in,” he said.

“More than a little. But I understand. You’ve got your job to do, I’ve got mine.”

“As a reporter?”

“No. As Frank’s wife.”

He tapped the tips of his fingers together, then said, “The conversation with Mrs. Szal was recorded, you know.”

“Don’t you think she should have been made aware of that?”

“Probably,” he agreed. “Why don’t you tell her that you knew we were legally recording calls on this line, but you failed to tell her?”