The Cantor Dimension (13 page)

Brody hadn't realized until Max disappeared that some of Max's rocks might be meteorites or objects with mystical powers such as Albertus Magnus' reference to the 'power of stones.' The police had been pretty rough with them and Brody hoped that none had been damaged.

Max wore a ring that Brody now knew was made from a meteorite. Among the Cantor papers, Brody had found a copy of a letter that Max had written to a shop that sold crystals, fossils and a variety of minerals. Apparently Max was a very good customer and his letter thanked them for giving him first dibs on buying the unusual meteorite ring when they came across it.

Brody wondered if the ring was from the stolen Pallasite meteorite. Why else would Max have researched it with such precision? At least it was apparent that Max wasn't the thief, only the recipient of stolen merchandise. Somehow this didn't appease Brody who still harbored the guilt over his own petty thefts from decades earlier.

Brody put the papers down and flipped on the TV, hoping for a respite from Max's troubles. A newswoman in a grey suit stared out at him through a thick pair of glasses. The newswoman's plain attire did not detract from her comeliness. The librarian look was all the rage.

A picture of Max was in the upper right corner of the screen. Brody turned up the volume in time to hear the bad news "...and the search continues for Maxwell Cantor, wanted in connection with the First National Bank robbery. His accomplice, Edward Coggins, has already been arrested. The arrest took place early this afternoon."

The news broadcast showed a video of Coggins' arrest. Several policemen surrounded Coggins, roughly throwing him up against his car and handcuffing him. His face was a mask of utter bewilderment. For a brief moment Brody pitied the man even though he'd always suspected that Coggins would find trouble someday. The bewildered expression was probably a ploy, a put on. How had Max gotten so mixed up with this guy?

The broadcast continued: "Sources tell us that a set of blueprints found in Cantor's apartment led to the search for Cantor and the arrest of Coggins. The police won't say exactly how the two men got inside the bank without being seen by the cameras, but they assure us that a second arrest will be forthcoming." The picture of Max was replaced with the picture of a giant pyramid. "Fans are arriving from all over the country for the concert at the great pyramid..."

Brody turned off the TV with an angry jab of his finger and berated Max in absentia. "How could you put me in the middle of such a mess? I thought I was your best friend! Damn you, Max!" He was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. It was Cindy.

"Brody, I've found something! I think I know Max's secret..."

Table of Contents

Jimmy drove slowly along while Ellen looked for the house number. East Avenue was a main thoroughfare, one that boasted many a wealthy patron, so the snowplows visited with firm regularity. A thin layer of slush passed loudly under the tires like water on a rainy day. On either side of the street, snowbanks rose several feet high where the snowplow had been dumping its load. Cars sped down the road, oblivious to the slush.

"There it is!" Ellen pointed to an ivy-covered brick house with the name
Phillips
on the mailbox. There wasn't much to differentiate the houses. They were all elegant red brick or stucco manors fully encased in ivy from ground to roof. The vines were leafless in the winter, lending a desolate look instead of an aesthetic one. The stately brick manors gave the impression of being on the campus of an elite prep school and one could easily imagine coeds pouring out of their dormitories on the way to class. Only the well-to-do could afford one of these.

Jimmy pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. The co-conspirators looked at each other: Ellen expectantly - Jimmy apprehensively.

"Ready?" she asked.

Jimmy looked out at the house with its overwhelming air of wealth and aristocracy. "Ready," he declared.

Together they marched up to the door and rang the bell. The door was answered by a distinguished man in his fifties, greying at the temples and looking comfortable in a blue sweater and slacks.

"Mr. Phillips!" Ellen grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down. Jimmy was holding the box of photo albums. "You know me, don't you?"

"No, your face doesn't look familiar to me." He frowned slightly, pulling his hand away. "Say, you aren't the girl who called earlier, are you?"

"Yes! And this is my friend, Jimmy." Jimmy endeavored a feeble smile. Ellen continued, "I've come to show you pictures of Pat. You'll look at them, won't you? It's really important. She's missing and we've got to find her."

Mr. Phillips raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what we have the police for?"

Ellen hesitated a moment, recalling her conversation with the police. Then she remembered it had only been last night since Pat had disappeared. "Yes, but the person has to be missing for at least twenty four hours before they'll file a report," Ellen explained, "and I'm really worried that something awful has happened to her. I didn't want to wait and maybe risk her life or something. Can we come in, please?"

Mr. Phillips studied them for a moment. "All right. You seem harmless enough, if rather misinformed. Come this way." He led them through a large foyer with a flagstone floor. A silver Christmas tree with big red bows and professionally wrapped presents underneath stood regally in the foyer. He led them down a hall to a sitting room. Mr. Phillips walked with a pronounced limp.

The sitting room boasted a blue and red Oriental rug atop a highly polished wood floor. Two ornate wooden chairs with red velvet cushions faced a red and grey patterned settee. A flagstone fireplace adorned one wall of the room with glass-enclosed bookshelves lining either side of the fireplace. Five stockings hung from the fireplace: Fred, Jeanne, Edna, Muffy and Buffy. Another silver Christmas tree decked out in red and blue bows stood in the corner. Mr. Phillips motioned Ellen to one of the wooden chairs. "Please sit down. Would you care for some tea?"

"No, thank you," Ellen and Jimmy answered in unison, ignoring the wooden chairs, instead sitting side by side on the settee.
Safety in numbers
, Jimmy thought.

"Well I would, if you don't mind." As if on cue, a matronly woman entered the room. "Edna, just the person I wanted to see!"

Edna was dispatched to the kitchen for tea. Mr. Phillips hadn't really wanted any, he'd just wanted to let Ellen and Jimmy know that he wasn't all alone here, and he'd wanted to convey his disquiet to Edna, his housekeeper. This wild story about a daughter named Pat and a wife named Norma... who knew what these kids really wanted? He studied them unobtrusively as he made a show of sitting down. They looked to be in their late twenties. He really couldn't call them
kids
.

"Now about these photos," he looked at Ellen expectantly.

Ellen retrieved the photo albums from Jimmy and showed Mr. Phillips the pictures of Pat's childhood. Without comment she showed him the pictures of himself, Norma and Pat as a family. There was no doubt that the man in the photographs was the same as the man sitting in front of her now. Mr. Phillips stared at the pictures for a long time.

"Where did you get these?" he asked slowly.

"I told you. Pat and I grew up together. I spent a lot of time with you guys. We had dinner together two weeks ago only this wasn't your house." Ellen paused and looked around the room. She took in several expensive looking paintings and the furniture appeared to be genuine Queen Anne.

Ellen continued, "You lived on Farmington Road. You were always comfortable but you
never
had
this
much money! How'd you manage to move so fast, anyway? Two weeks ago you never even mentioned moving and I didn't see any boxes anywhere."

Mr. Phillips shrugged noncommittally. He had been staring intently at Ellen as she'd studied his home. He wondered if she were "casing the joint" as they put it. He looked down at the pictures again. Yes, that was him, about thirty years younger, but who was the woman and child? He had no idea. It could have been anyone.

It wasn't unusual for a person to go to a gathering and have their picture taken with total strangers. Could this be some plot to convince him that he'd fathered a child thirty years ago and extort money out of him? That must be it, he decided. "Do you have any others?" he asked.

"Oh yes, lots!" Ellen showed him album after album with he and this woman and child progressing through the years. Some photographic forgery, perhaps? He frowned. The most recent photos were obviously taken this past summer. That shirt he was wearing, he'd gotten it for his birthday last May. It had been too early in the season to wear a lightweight shirt and he hadn't worn it until late June or early July. One became more sensitive to temperature as one got older. He and Jeanne had spent the summer in France and that was the only time he'd worn the shirt. Nobody could have photographed him in it unless they'd traveled all the way to France. The photo appeared to have been taken at one of the Finger Lakes, Canandaigua perhaps.

Ellen's voice broke into his thoughts. "Well?" she asked triumphantly. "Can you explain these pictures? Can you tell me where this girl is?" She pointed to Pat.

Mr. Phillips didn't want to admit or deny anything to Ellen and Jimmy. He was sure this was some sort of blackmail scheme and he wanted to stall them until he could talk to his attorney and the police. With impeccable timing, Edna entered with a tray carrying his tea and a plate with lemons.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to have taken so long. Muffy was scratching at the door to go out. She needed to do her... um... business. Muffy's one of the dogs," she explained to Ellen and Jimmy. "I had to wait for her out there. It's chilly today," she shivered, turning back to Mr. Phillips. "Here's your tea." She set the tray down on the table beside him.

Mr. Phillips smiled. "Thank you, Edna. You were right to hold up my tea for Muffy. She does have this nasty habit of having accidents on the floor," he explained apologetically, glancing at Ellen.

Ellen grinned. "I understand." He appeared to be much more relaxed now, thought Ellen. What she didn't know was that Edna had correctly interpreted his signal to call the police.

Mr. Phillips stalled until the police could arrive. Instead of answering Ellen's questions he countered with a question of his own. "What exactly do you think happened to Pat?"

Ellen became agitated. "That's just it... I don't know! At first I thought some man had gotten her, maybe even murdered her, but it's so confusing. When you said you'd never heard of Pat or even Norma, your wife, and the police found some man's name under her address and phone number, and everybody thought I was crazy and making up this whole thing of Pat Phillips as if she didn't exist... why did you say you'd never heard of her? Have you two had a quarrel or something?" Ellen glanced pointedly at the stockings hanging from the fireplace. Both Pat and Norma's names were conspicuously absent.

"Well... er... something like that," he replied.

Ellen was wondering if perhaps he'd disowned Pat over this Michael Potter. Maybe Pat and Michael were shacking up together and Mr. Phillips didn't approve. That would explain Pat but what about Norma? Ellen searched the room for family photographs. There were several photos of Mr. Phillips with an attractive woman. No pictures of Norma or Pat, though. Maybe he was making a clean break from the whole family and starting over fresh. But why? In spite of her homely features, he and Norma had been one of the happiest couples Ellen had known. Pat inherited her looks and her wild streak from her mother and it was this wild streak, this readiness for adventure, and an attitude full of life and laughter that had attracted Fred to Norma in the first place. It didn't make sense.

All of them were startled by the doorbell, each being lost in his own private thoughts. Edna answered it and Ellen could hear muffled voices. Mr. Phillips became edgy. The voices moved closer. Edna ushered two detectives into the room, introducing them to Mr. Phillips. Edna ignored Ellen and Jimmy.

Mr. Phillips stood up, extending his hand to the taller of the two, Detective Gorman. The detectives were complete opposites, Detective Gorman's tall blond good looks overshadowing his short, dark partner, emphasizing the
good cop/bad cop
image. "So good of you to come," Mr. Phillips smiled, extending his hand. He was obviously relieved.

The detectives had been briefed by Edna before they'd joined Mr. Phillips, Ellen, and Jimmy. Edna had been listening at the door to Ellen's story and had been aware of the earlier phone call. Detective Gorman turned to the business at hand. "Now what seems to be the trouble, Mr. Phillips?"

"The trouble, yes. There seems to be a missing person or so these young people claim."

Mr. Phillips and the detectives sat down, turning their attention to Ellen and Jimmy. Detective Gorman studied Ellen, notebook in hand. "You claim there's a missing person, Miss ___?"

"Beamon. Ellen Beamon. Yes."

"Why didn't you report it to the police? Why did you come here to Mr. Phillip's house?"

"I did! I mean I tried to. I called the police last night and they supposedly checked on her address and phone number and they claimed she didn't live there but she does. I know she does. She's my best friend! I've known her all my life. She's Mr. Phillips' daughter - that's why I came here."

Detective Gorman was making notes on his pad. "What's the girl's name?" he inquired.

"Pat Phillips. Patricia."

"Do you know her birth date? Social security number? Driver's license number?"

"Her birth date is February 21, 1959. I don't know her Social security or driver's license number. I can describe her car though. It's one of a kind. You can't miss it!"

Detective Gorman looked up expectantly, pen poised. Ellen described the 1971 Volkswagen bug with all of its colorful body sections. "Yes, that would be an easy car to spot," he agreed. "Do you know the license plate number?"