No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (30 page)

It was not worth arguing anymore. Ortiz knew that Weinstock was right; as a veteran of the LAPD, Ortiz had seen what could happen when a police department got hit with a couple of successful lawsuits. It wasn’t pretty. He knew that he didn’t have enough on Deitrich, not by a long shot, but he also couldn’t have let it go without trying. It was just a feeling, a hunch, as Weinstock had called it, but Ortiz had come to rely on his instincts over the years. They hadn’t failed him yet.

“Just to make sure, refresh me a little.” Weinstock’s tone was a little gentler now; he could probably tell he’d beaten Ortiz down. “Any evidence at all to show that Christine Daly was forcibly abducted?”

“No, sir. No signs of forced entry at her home. No fingerprints other than hers and a couple that belonged to her boyfriend. Nothing.”

“And you’re saying that her connection with Deitrich is that he may have possibly attended a Halloween party at the restaurant where she worked?”

Put that way, it did sound fairly ridiculous. Ortiz sighed and said, “Yes, sir. The man dressed as the Phantom paid the hostess two hundred bucks to sit at Christine’s station.”

Weinstock lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe a little unusual, but she’s a beautiful girl. Not really enough to go on, right?”

“Right.”

Apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, Weinstock resumed his seat and said, “I’m not saying don’t keep working on it. But you can understand the department’s position on this. Right now I’d need the equivalent of Deitrich’s fingerprints on Christine Daly’s front door to sign that warrant.”

“Of course, sir.” Ortiz picked up the unneeded piece of paper. “Sorry to have troubled you with it.”

“No trouble. I’m glad we could have this conversation.”

Yeah, I’ll bet
, Ortiz thought. Anything where Weinstock could take him down a peg or two. The man hadn’t been chief that long, and the rumor was he was a little intimidated by Ortiz’s service with the LAPD before coming to Pasadena. Still, he’d hoped that personal politics wouldn’t get in the way of this case—and if he had to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he would have signed off on the warrant if he’d been in the chief’s position. There was a lot of potential for disaster here if he stepped on the wrong toes.
 

That rationalizing didn’t keep him from being in a foul mood all the way from Weinstock’s office to his own much more modest work space. Although he’d only been working on this case for a little over a week, it was starting to feel more like a month. He knew these sorts of cases came along every once in a while, cases that could take months or even years to crack. Some were never solved. But even though he knew that intellectually, it didn’t make him like it any more when one came along.

He’d just seated himself behind his own desk and chucked the useless warrant into a desk drawer when Officer Campbell knocked on the door frame.

“I think I’ve got something for you,” she announced, her dark eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, what?” Right now the only thing Ortiz wanted was a vacation. A very long vacation, preferably someplace tropical. Sunny Southern California had been anything but these past few weeks.

“Well, Officer Torres busted this lowlife last night trying to jack a car from the parking lot at Pasadena City College. Guy’s been nailed before—he’s still on probation from the last offense.”

Ortiz gave her a disgusted look. “Yeah, and? How many car
 
thieves do we bust every week?”

“Enough. Anyway, he’s trying to make a deal seeing as he’s heading right back to prison on the parole violation. I thought you should talk to him.”

“What’s the deal?”

“He says he jacked a car a week ago—some guys paid him to do it.” She paused, obviously relishing what was coming next. “He says the car was Christine Daly’s.”

Chapter 22

The car thief was probably no more than nineteen, head shaved, stark bluish-black prison tattoos standing out on his knuckles and forearms. He lounged on a chair in the interrogation room, obviously trying to cover up his unease with a studied nonchalance bordering on insolence.
 

Ortiz had seen hundreds just like him.

“Antonio Vasquez?” he asked, dropping the kid’s case folder on the table and taking a seat across from him.

“Who wants to know?”

From her corner, Campbell stirred and laid one hand on the butt of her pistol. “Watch your mouth, jerk.”

“It’s okay, Campbell,” Ortiz said, and she settled back in her place, watching Vasquez with narrowed dark eyes. “Mr. Vasquez, I’m Detective Ortiz. Officer Campbell said you had some information relating to the Christine Daly case?”

Vasquez looked away for a moment. He could have been a handsome kid if he’d wanted to, but the gang influence had won out, from the concentration-camp hair to the spidery tattoos that covered his arms and wound their way up to his neck. “What kind of deal you gonna give me?”

“That depends. If you have information that leads us to Miss Daly’s kidnapper, then we’ll talk about extending your probation instead of sending you back to prison. But if it turns out you’re handing me a line of crap, then it’s back to Folsom—with an extra five years tacked on to your sentence.”

“It’s not crap,
pendejo
.” Vasquez straightened up in his chair, but the improved posture did nothing to erase the hostility in his eyes. Ortiz had seen it too many times before with these kids—to them, he was a traitor. A sellout.

Ortiz decided to ignore the profanity for now. “That’s for me to decide. So why don’t you tell me about Miss Daly’s car?”

Vasquez lifted his thin shoulders. “Seemed kind of stupid to me—the car was a piece of crap. Who’d want to jack a car older than I am? But whatever. Rigo told me he’d pay me a grand to lift it, so I did.”

“Who’s Rigo?”

“Guy who owns a chop shop in El Monte. Told me some rich guy gave him a bunch of money to jack the car and then take it apart and have it crushed.”

Which would explain why they’d never been able to find a single trace of Christine’s car. Ortiz made a few notes on his yellow pad, then asked, “Did you see the guy who gave Rigo the money initially?”

“No. Rigo told me where the car was, and then he gave me the cash after I dropped it at the shop.”

“And then he scrapped it?”

Another shrug. “Guess so. I took off after I got the money.”

“So where’s Rigo’s shop?”
 

Vasquez shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

Ortiz fixed him with what he hoped was a menacing glare. He tapped the kid’s case folder. “Cooperation, remember? Otherwise, go directly to jail—do not pass go—”

“I tell you where his shop is, Rigo’ll have his posse jump me for sure.”

The kid was probably right, but since he wasn’t the one who’d had contact with the guy who ordered Christine’s car stolen, he was of limited use. Ortiz leaned forward. “Tell you what—if you give me the address, I’ll let you warn Rigo that I’m coming over. He should be able to clean up before I get there. How about a day’s notice?” That much was true; give them even fifteen minutes’ head start, and these guys were like cockroaches when you turned the light on. The shop would be cleared of any incriminating evidence long before he appeared on the scene.

Vasquez leaned back in his chair, considering. It was the best Ortiz could do, and apparently Vasquez was able to figure that out; after a moment he said, “Yeah, okay. But you don’t go until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow afternoon, even.” It sounded like a concession, but Ortiz had a staff meeting in the morning anyway, and this way the kid would think he was bending over backward to be accommodating.

“Okay. It’s on Dodson, below Garvey. Don’t know the number.”

“Got a business name?”

“Rigoberto’s A-1 Auto Repair. It’s at the end of the cul-de-sac.” Vasquez sat back up, glaring at Ortiz. “Can I have my phone call now?”

“Be my guest.” Ortiz gestured Officer Campbell over. “Take Mr. Vasquez to make his phone call.” He knew he didn’t have to worry about Vasquez making bail and bolting; bail was almost unilaterally denied in the event of a probation violation.

He watched Campbell escort the sullen kid out of the room. Not as much as he’d hoped for, but at least Vasquez had given him a solid lead. It was more than he’d had for a few days, anyway.

Then he grinned. He was pretty sure exactly who would be the recipient of Vasquez’s one and only phone call...and he had the feeling that Rigo wouldn’t be exactly overjoyed to learn the police were about to come a-knocking tomorrow.

I had pleaded with Jerome each time he came to bring me food that I had to see Erik, speak with him as soon as possible. Each time I was rebuffed, and the next day began no differently—until dinnertime, when he told me that Erik would see me at nine o’clock.

At first I had just stared at Jerome, not daring to believe what he had just said. Then he added, “It looks as if Ennis will be coming home the day after tomorrow.”

Well, that made more sense. Probably Erik wanted to reach some kind of a resolution before Ennis returned to the mansion. The last thing a convalescent probably needed was the atmosphere of brooding quiet that seemed to have descended upon the house.
 

I said, “I - I’m very relieved to hear that, Jerome. He must be making a swift recovery.”

Jerome gave me a quick unreadable glance. Then, after a pause, he replied, “Oh,
Ennis
is doing very well.”

And with that he departed, leaving me to brood on his words. The implication was that Erik’s recovery had been anything but swift.

Nine o’clock. Luckily the announcer on the radio had given the time at the top of the hour, so I knew it was now just a little past seven. Less than two hours until I saw him again.

This could possibly be the most important meeting of my life, and suddenly I didn’t want to go to face Erik in a pair of jeans and a sweater. No, the occasion called for something much more striking. If I showed him how much care I took in preparing myself to see him, maybe he would be a little more inclined to listen to what I had to say.

For the first time since I had awoken in these rooms I went to the closet of beautiful clothing Erik had provided for me and really took inventory of what was there. I had ignored the rack of evening dresses because I had not thought there was any reason to wear them, lovely as they were.
 

One exquisitely embroidered and beaded gown caught my eyes, but it was red and had only thin spaghetti straps to hold it up. Somehow I didn’t think it was a good idea to wear red, and I had never worn something that bare. Gorgeous as it was, it just wasn’t my style. And black seemed so severe, even though there were several very lovely black cocktail dresses hanging on the rack as well. I wondered why Erik had even bought them in the first place. Where could I possibly have worn all these exquisite gowns? Had he expected me to dress for dinner?

Finally I located what I had been looking for—a gown of changeable midnight blue silk, very 1950s in style, with wide-set straps accenting a deep V-neckline and a full knee-length skirt. The bodice was snug and accented my curves without being overly revealing, and the deep blue silk made my skin look porcelain pale in contrast. I found a silver pair of strappy sandals—Jimmy Choos, of course—in the shoe rack, and then nothing else would do to complete the ensemble but a string of diamond-encircled sapphires for my neck and a pair of matching drop earrings. Another sapphire in platinum and diamonds fit the ring finger of my right hand well enough.

I fought the butterflies in my stomach as I sat in front of the mirror in the bathroom, applying cosmetics with a care I had never used before. Anything to fill up the time—anything to make him want me enough to forgive me.

By the time I was done I wasn’t even sure I recognized the girl in the mirror anymore—she looked as if she belonged in a different world than the slightly disheveled voice student who usually peered back at me. My curls were glossy and carefully arranged, my full lips stained a deep berry color, my eyes now a deeper blue, reflecting the color of the gown I wore. Sapphires and diamonds winked at my neck and glinted out from behind my hair. People had called me beautiful over the years, but this was the first time I truly believed them.

There wasn’t much time for me to sit contemplating the girl in the mirror, however, because the next time I lifted my eyes to my reflection, I saw Jerome standing behind me.

I started, and dropped the tube of lipstick I had been holding. Then I turned on the stool to glare at him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

For a moment he said nothing, but only stared at me. “You look—different,” he managed at last.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Erik will be glad to see you finally wearing some of the jewels he bought you,” he said evasively. “He went to a lot of trouble picking out things he thought you would like.”

I should have known Jerome would never admit to giving me a compliment. But I put one hand up to touch the sapphires that glittered against my collarbone and replied, “They’re exquisite. He’s been very...thoughtful.”

A strange expression flickered in the back of Jerome’s Delft-blue eyes. Was it my imagination, or was it a dawning respect? “No tricks this time?” he asked.

I met his gaze squarely. “No tricks. I promise. I’ve had a lot of time to think the past few days.”

He nodded, but said only, “Then we should go. It’s nine now.”

Carefully, I pushed away from the dressing table and stood, following Jerome to the door, where I waited for him to unlock it. I could only hope that there would be no need to lock it ever again after tonight.

He led me to Erik’s office, a room I had never been in before, although it was situated in the same wing as my chambers. Pushing the double doors inward, he announced, “She’s here, sir,” then gestured me inside, closing the doors behind me.

At first I had only a vague impression of a large dark-paneled room where a fire burned low in a vast marble fireplace. Besides the firelight, the only illumination came from a five-armed candelabra that sat in a far corner, its quivering flames sending odd shadows dancing around the edges of the space.