Reilly 02 - Invasion of Privacy (25 page)

"Where is my daughter?" Jonathan Sweet asked plaintively. "I pray to God she’s alive, happy. Tamara, if you see this, please ... just a note, a call ... I ... we need to hear from you ..." The lighting cast long shadows across his boyish face, making him look somehow fraudulent, and Terry London’s gift as a filmmaker was apparent. She let the man talk, but she interpreted what he said with the lighting; the jumpy leaps from his eyes to his hands to his mouth contaminating his sincerity.

Back to the yearbook picture. The camera traced Tamara’s face in claustrophobic close-up, alighting on her eyes and pulling in tightly, until the eyes absorbed the screen, and sucked the viewer in. "You want to know my honest opinion?" Doreen’s voice said coldly. "I think she was on drugs. She made that phone call, you know? I bet she was going to meet someone who was going to feed her head. She was getting a bad attitude, which hurt her family and her friends. Who cares where she is? Good riddance."

A scene followed that paralleled the beginning, starting inside a pickup truck. Now the words of a crooning country song followed the camera as the door to the truck opened and the camera moved outside into a dusky red-toned landscape.

The camera lingered on the image of a winding, ascending pathway, darkened by twilight, framed by pine branches. For a moment the image was blocked, then it became clear that the camera was behind someone. A girl whose back had filled the frame now walked away from the camera, toward the trail, getting progressively smaller as she got farther away.

"A reenactment," Paul’s voice said in the darkness. "Interesting."

The slow grace of the first few moments of the scene gave way to an increasingly frantic-looking series of cuts as the girl walked up the trail, fragmenting and distorting into the night, fading as she proceeded. On a big, wide, flat granite boulder, the girl who looked so much like Tamara Sweet sat down, looking around as if she expected someone. She wore a white rabbit fur jacket, black jeans, and cowboy boots. The camera moved in close, caressing the soft fur. In the gray gloom of the evening her body lost its shape and individuality, melding into the rock.

The camera moved back. The trail recaptured its empty peacefulness, as the strains of the music played out and the camera panned down, down, down, into the grit of leaves, rock, and dirt that made the pathway, and a final caption flickered on and off: THE END.

Credits appeared over black. In the background, a simple song sung by a little girl played, a song from the nursery: "Where, oh where, is sweet little Tammy ..." fading out before the final phrase.

BOOK THREE

Six Years Ago: Alice

For weeks before Christmas, Alice began to feel the dread wash over her, tarnishing her free time, absorbing all her waking thoughts. Was there no escape from this yearly pilgrimage into hell?

How she hated family vacations. Every year at this time, her family rented a cabin in the Bijou neighborhood of South Lake Tahoe, and her cousins and other relatives made sporadic appearances throughout the week. She was sixteen, almost seventeen. She didn’t want to go anymore and be stuck in that small, hot, overstuffed place, surrounded by their eyes, their criticisms, their constant attention, like needles through her thin skin, all day long, nonstop. She had approached them like the mature person she was this year when her family began preparations for the trip, making what she thought was a pretty strong, logical case for staying home on her own.

She explained that she would not invite any friends over. She would get a head start on some term papers coming up. She would be studious and good.

Her mother looked at her like she was crazy. "But that’s your problem, Alice. You don’t have any fun or any friends."

She didn’t talk through the long drive up into the mountains. When they arrived, Uncle Henry and Aunt Lorry were there to greet them. "Alice," they said, patting her on the head like a two-year-old, before she had even unpacked or caught a glimpse of the lake, "did you bring your boyfriend?" That was their favorite topic, her lack of a boyfriend. It would go on during the entire vacation. They would tease her and they would quiz her until she brought them an XY, stuffed and mounted.

The needling would go on during the entire vacation. She knew once she was in college, they would ask when she was going to find a husband. When she did that, they would start in on a baby. And when she died, they’d shake their heads and say what a homely girl she had been. She’d heard Aunt Lorry say that word to her mother. Homely.

"Why don’t you get off my back," she heard herself say.

Her mother hustled her into the house, whispering for her to behave herself, for goodness’ sake. Upstairs, Alice unpacked in the attic bedroom, took a long look at the big cold lake across the way, and flopped down on the bed, to hide and read for as long as they would leave her alone. Her sister, Ellen, came in after her, dragging a duffel, headphones glued to her head, faint tinny music surrounding her like a halo. Ellen was fourteen and popular, and remained cool under fire. She had adopted their father’s way of dealing with their family. She tuned them out, but Alice didn’t know how to do that.

They all had a candlelit dinner together, spaghetti with canned mushroom sauce, at a big table with a view lit by the porch light of the snow drifts lining the street. Her sister, Ellen, hummed through the din of inevitable arguments that arose when the adults all overdid the Zinfandel, while her dad kept his nose tight in the newspaper, ignoring all of them.

Her mother usually knew better, but Aunt Lorry and Uncle Henry were bad influences. She picked a hank of Alice’s hair off her back and held it up for all to see. "Geez, honey," she said to Alice. "At sixteen, I knew I was born a blonde. You ought to go blond, or at least frost hell out of your hair, honey pie." Her mother had been a hostess at a supper club in Pleasanton for twenty years. Proud of her job and the big tips, she worked hard to keep a petite figure, and prided herself on what she thought were her dazzling conversational skills.

Alice stood up, shaking off her mother’s touch. "Why, so I can walk around with black roots all the time, like you do?" She leaned next to her mother’s deeply shocked face. "Oops, sorry," she said, looking hard at her mother. "Gray roots."

"Alice, your mother is just trying to help you," said Aunt Lorry, steering her away from her mother’s tears and firmly upstairs to her room. "We all want what’s best for you. How could you be so mean?"

Lying on her bed, Alice felt deeply guilty and grieved for these things that came out of her mouth unbidden, like she had some evil devil girl speaking through her, someone cruel.

But why did they goad her like this? Nobody cared that she got good grades. Nobody saw her as a special person with a special mind, a brave and unusual person, who wanted more out of life than boyfriends and blond hair. She wanted so much more than they did. Exotic travel. Adventures beyond the books she read. Real life, outside of Pleasanton or boring old Lake Tahoe, and far, far away from the bosom of her loving, smothering family.

When she had tamped her emotions back down to the usual slow smolder, she went downstairs and did her best to make up with her mother, asking if she could take a short walk, just around the block. She wanted to get some air. Her mother, worn out with the day’s arguments, loaned her her beaver coat, and let her go.

She walked straight up the street toward the casinos.

She might even stay out all night.

25

"THEY KEEP THE LIGHTS ON ALL NIGHT," KURT SAID through the glass. "People talk, sing, cry. I don’t sleep. I can’t read anymore, either. Can’t concentrate. Things aren’t going well on the outside, either, are they?"

Nina had stopped by on her way to a court appearance at nine. Kurt was losing weight. His expression was despondent. It worried her. "We’re doing fine," she said. "But you have to keep your spirits up. I’d like you to see a doctor friend of mine. You may be going into a depression."

"Wake me when it’s over," Kurt said. "Drugs? Not my style."

"A checkup, then. I’ll get an order from Judge Milne to have you seen at Boulder Hospital."

Kurt didn’t agree, but at least he wasn’t disagreeing.

"Okay?" Nina said.

"Okay. It’s the powerlessness, not being able to help yourself. It’s crazy-making."

"I know. I know. Listen, there’s something you can do to help yourself. I left a video and film for you to watch. I’ll be back on Wednesday and I’d like to hear your reactions."

"What are they?"

"A video of your arrest. And the film Terry made about Tamara Sweet."

"Sure." Kurt looked interested. That was good. "What do you want to know?"

"I need you to tell me exactly, word for word, what you said to that cop when you were leaning against the police car. The video may help you remember. And ... just watch the film. You knew Tamara. You knew Terry. Why did Terry make it? What was she trying to do?" She tried to keep the frustration she felt whenever she thought about the film out of her voice.

"There’s one other video," she added. She told Kurt about the death video, watching him closely. He shook his head over and over as she spoke, as if he couldn’t believe it.

"Incredible," he said. "When can I see it?"

"We’re getting some copies made. Soon," Nina said. She was picturing Kurt lying on the cot in his cell ruminating endlessly. She didn’t want to overwhelm him, and the death video was overwhelming. Maybe after he had seen the doctor, she’d think about showing it to him.

"So how goes it with you, Nina?"

"Too much to do, not much time," she said. "The usual. "

"What do you do in the evenings? You see, I think about you, your life."

"I go home.... I live with my brother and his wife—"

"Matt moved up here too?"

"Several years ago. I take walks, ride my bike, swim when I can. I try to keep my life quiet." She watched her words, mindful not to say anything about Bobby.

"I appreciate Paul van Wagoner’s agreeing to work on the case," Kurt said. "Have you and he—that is—is there a wedding date?"

"What?"

"You know. Your marriage."

Then Nina remembered the trick Paul had played. "Kurt, Paul and I aren’t engaged. We’re just—"

"He lied?"

"Outright."

"Are you in love with him?" Kurt asked, his face intense and his jaw tight. It’s none of your business, Nina ought to have said politely. This was her chance to draw a line, but she couldn’t help responding honestly to him.

"I’m not sure," she said. At that moment she realized she had been unconsciously comparing Paul and Kurt all this time, weighing the two men. Kurt’s eyes told her clearly that he was glad to hear what she had said. She felt dizzy. Usually, a mother looks at her son and sees how he resembles his father. Here, she was looking at the father and seeing Bobby in him. "He has asked me to marry him, that part’s true."

"But you haven’t said yes. Why is that? Oh, I know I have no right to ask you, but—"

"It’s all right. I don’t know if I want to get married at all."

"You ought to be married. You ought to have children," Kurt said. The way he said it, so deliberately, as if there was a hidden message behind it, scared her and intrigued her at the same time.

She said, "I have to go interview Tamara Sweet’s parents now. Hang in there." She got up, knowing his eyes followed her, and rang the door buzzer to be let out into the bright world he might never see again.

On Tuesday morning, Sergeant Fletcher Cheney invited Paul into his squad car, showing off the new video camera shakily attached to a dashboard curled from many hours in the mountain sun. The schools had just let out all over the state, and traffic was heavy on Highway 50. "I’m just getting off patrol duty today. I read through my notes when you called, so I’m up on the case."

"Thanks for the ride. But aren’t you a homicide detective?" Paul asked, as the car lurched once, and then eased gently forward, responding to the smoothly confident touch of a man in full control of his vehicle.

"Yes, I sure am," he said, his eyes scanning the side-walks where the tourists were out in full regalia in various states of summer undress, lugging their vacation accoutrements: floats, beach chairs, brilliantly colored umbrellas tucked under their arms, and shopping bags drooping at their wrists. A few stunners in cutoffs and tight striped T’s ambled along, looking for trouble, but mostly moms, dads, and their perpetually grubby offspring owned the streets today. "Got two officers out with summer flu. I’m pitching in. Go ahead, ask away. I can drive and think at the same time, if I concentrate real hard. "

"Tell me a little about your connection to this case. When did you get involved?"

"Well, let’s see." Cheney’s face, a dark bronze sheen, wore the easy smile of a man who gets along with everyone but keeps his feelings to himself. "I got going a little late in life on this business. Started off working as a bouncer in a hotel bar. Plenty of action in that business. I got a real feel for low-life scum in that job, I tell you. I always felt dirty by the end of the day. Anyway, I wanted a business where I had a little more to do than grab an angry drunk by the shoulders and haul his sorry carcass out the door, so I went to the academy and got my first job as a patrol officer twenty-two years ago, when I was thirty. Did that for nearly ten years. Made a few good arrests. Testified in a few cases. I got promoted to detective just about twelve years ago. Tamara Sweet was my first case, so I guess you could say I’m connected."

"In the film Terry London made about Tamara Sweet’s disappearance, you said something interesting."

"Lord. Quick, call my wife. She thinks I never say anything interesting. What’d I say?"

"You said other girls besides Tamara Sweet disappeared from Tahoe."

Sergeant Cheney lost his smile and sighed. "Yes, that is so. Age range from fifteen to nineteen. Nothing else in common except being female and in that age range, that we could figure out. Different looks. Different situations. Different backgrounds. Different types."

"Would you mind if I sneaked through your files and made a few notes?"

"I’m finding it hard to figure out what the death of a middle-aged filmmaker who’s most probably been killed by her ex-husband has to do with these old files, but sure. I would dearly love to have your opinion, if you form one. I keep thinking something will break, someday."

They got out of the car and walked toward the city police offices. All roads led back here. Paul thought of Kurt Scott across the courtyard, sitting in a cell. "Let’s grab coffee," Cheney said. "I’ll set you up with the files while I fill out some paperwork." They spread out the paperwork in the main interrogation room.

"Before you go," said Paul, "give me your take on what happened to these girls."

"You know how many people visit South Lake Tahoe a year?"

"No."

"Three million. Now, remember, that’s coming into a town with maybe thirty thousand permanent residents. And we get all kinds, all kinds. Folks who like to entertain or be entertained. Ones that like to sweat up a mountain, or ski down it. Drifters, dreamers, and telephone schemers. They all hit Tahoe at some point. That makes for a lack of predictability in matters of behavior, you see what I mean? The locals vary from sedate to downright hazardous too. Easy for a girl with a sense of adventure to get mixed up with a bad dude.

"That makes it hard, really hard, to figure out what happens when a girl ups and leaves. Did she go to San Francisco to escape an unhappy scene at home? Even a girl working in a grocery store here has unlimited opportunities to meet people. Did she run off with friends? Or someone she thought she knew well, but didn’t? It’s hard to be a parent in this town. You can’t protect kids."

"That’s true anywhere," said Paul. "So, let me see. You’re saying that four girls are still missing, including Tamara Sweet. The police haven’t been able to get a line on a single one? And you feel there’s a connection, but you don’t know what it is?"

"That’s what I’m saying. Wish it wasn’t so. Only one linkage I’ve ever been sure about. They all went in winter. January and February, the coldest months. Strange, isn’t it?"

"They were all locals, like Tamara Sweet?"

"Oh, no. In one case, the girl was here vacationing with her family. Another girl lived in Cedar Flat, near Tahoe City."

"Families usually get some word from or about runaways eventually," Paul said.

"Yes, they do."

"You don’t think they ran away."

"Easy to bury a body in the forest in a place it’ll never be found. Or drop it in the lake. But that’s just sad experience talking. The truth is, I don’t know what happened to those kids. I stay in touch with their parents and study the files once in a while, just in case a clue’s hiding in there that I haven’t been able to find. I’ve got other cases. That’s all I can do." He left Paul to his files and tattered notebooks.

Four girls. Paul pulled the photos first and studied them. Susana Delaware, sixteen, an olive-skinned girl with a fine aquiline nose and high cheekbones, a cleft in her chin, and round black glasses, from Cedar Flat. She had gone skiing at Kirkwood one fine morning with her brother and two other friends eight years before and never returned. One snapshot actually showed her standing beside a ski lift at Kirkwood the day before her disappearance, sunburned and smiling in her blue fur-lined parka and tight white ski pants.

Alice Grizzetti, also sixteen, had dark eyes, pasty skin, mousy brown hair, and acne dotting her nose and forehead. She had been staying at a lakeside chalet in the Bijou neighborhood with her parents and another family for Christmas. She had taken a walk after dinner six years before and never come back. Her picture was the usual high school photo showing only her face and shoulders. She looked studious, serious in her white blouse.

Deirdre Jaekelson. From Colorado. Nineteen, with her hair cut in spikes and kohl lining her eyes, she had come to town with several other friends to party and hit the ice-skating rink up at Squaw, across the lake. A trained skater, with Olympic hopes, dumped by the boy who brought her to a party at a private home, she had left the party three years before and never saw Colorado, her friends, or her contrite boyfriend again.

And Tamara Sweet. The high school picture Paul remembered from the film, with black roots and eyeliner, and several snapshots he hadn’t seen in the film, presenting a different side of the girl: laughing, sitting on a towel at a lakeside beach; on horseback, wearing jeans, sweater, and cowboy boots; in front of mountains and sky. Prettier, more athletic than in the film. An alert, smart, adventurous face, regular features, big blue eyes.

She would have fought, scratched, kicked with those cowboy boots of hers, done some damage.

Paul laid out the photographs of the girls, side by side. Two pretty girls, two plain girls. Two worldly ones, and two seeming innocents. One local, three out-of-towners. He studied interviews with friends and neighbors, typed laboriously on paper that was dog-eared from years of Sergeant Cheney’s fingers traveling over and over the same ground. He found lists of shoe sizes, ring sizes, types of jewelry worn, styles of clothing preferred by the girls. He knew what perfume the ones that used perfume wore. He knew who, if anyone, each girl had dated, and when, and what they had reported after the experience to friends and family.

Among the files, Paul found that Cheney had questioned Kurt Scott twelve years before regarding the Sweet case. Kurt had claimed he hadn’t seen Tamara for a month before her disappearance. He claimed he was at the University of Nevada, Reno, main library the night she left, a claim he couldn’t substantiate. He had told Cheney that Tamara had ended their short relationship, the same story he had told Nina.

Many of the details of Cheney’s report on Tamara matched Terry’s film. They confirmed that Terry had set forth the correct sequence of events of Tamara’s last night at Tahoe. But they also confirmed that Tamara wasn’t the unhappy, angry little loser Terry had tried to make her out to be.

Sighing, Paul read everything twice. Time of day they disappeared: always different. Where they disappeared: always different. Character, social class, interests, all varied.

What did these four girls have in common other than vanishing from the face of the earth within a few years of each other from the Lake Tahoe area?

Quite probably, nothing. But he decided to talk to the girls’ parents. See if Cheney had missed anything. See if anybody had come home.

He made notes of phone numbers of the parents and other information.

He looked at the pictures of the four girls until his eyes blurred and his head pounded, wishing for aspirin but unwilling to give up. He would check the airline flight rosters into Tahoe for a few days before each of the girls disappeared. Scott had told Nina he hadn’t flown back to Tahoe for twelve years, but how could that be confirmed? To make a complete check was impossible. He could have flown in to San Francisco and used an assumed name to fly in ... but why fly so far to kidnap three girls nobody had linked with him? The D.A.’s investigators had already contacted the police departments in the places Scott had lived since he left Tahoe, and there was no similar group of disappearances in any of those jurisdictions. The pattern didn’t seem to connect to Scott.

But if not Scott, who? Terry London, maybe? Women thrill-killers were almost nonexistent, and they almost always killed men. The London woman had been unusual, there was no doubt about that, but she, too, wasn’t linked by parents or friends to any of the other three girls. Paul just plain couldn’t believe that theory.