Blood Bond (14 page)

Joe, watching carefully, didn't see anything that suggested Bartelak was lying. But there was another avenue to explore. “Would it be possible for me to speak with your mother, I wonder?”

“Well, I guess you could talk,” Bartelak said bitterly. “I can't guarantee she'll listen. You're a couple of years too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother has Alzheimer's, Detective Bashir. I've been living here, trying to take care of her, but she'll be in a nursing home by Christmas.”

JOE SAT
in the car, trying to program the next address into the GPS. The controls were completely different from his—someone ought to standardize these things—and he kept having to start over.

He hadn't been able to get anything further out of Bartelak, but Fisch had promised to lob a call into the Des Moines PD to see if they could help out. Mrs. Eva Bartelak had a pretty airtight alibi—Bartelak had let him look into the darkened bedroom that smelled of urine and chemicals, at the small form huddled under a thin blanket, her steady breathing a delicate rasp—and it shouldn't be too tough to check into Conrad's story, since he'd given Joe a list of the people he worked with who'd be able to confirm he'd been at work around the time Gail had been headed out the door to go to the gym.

As he stabbed at the GPS's buttons, Conrad came out of the house, wearing an overcoat and carrying a cardboard box. Joe watched with interest as he attempted to hold the box with one hand while he struggled with the lid of a brown garbage bin next to the house. It looked like whatever was in the box was heavy, or at least awkward.

Two years . . . Conrad implied that his mother had been noncommunicative for two years. Meaning, before that, she had at least some of her wits about her. Enough to send that last package?

Conrad nearly dropped the box before finally setting it on the ground and using both hands to tug at the plastic lid, and Joe was out of the car and at his side before he managed to get the lid off.

“Frozen?” he asked politely.

Conrad whipped around. “I'm not—I'm just . . .”

Joe didn't say anything for a moment. He used his foot to push the box's flap open. Inside were an array of colorful ribbons and buttons, the sort with a pin in the back, emblazoned with team mascots and messages. There was also what looked like a crumbling, dried corsage with a faded pink ribbon.

“Mr. Bartelak,” Joe said softly. “Let me assure you that no one is interested in prosecuting anyone for the, uh, packages. If it's only that. Gail Engler's dead, and—”

And Joe realized he was speaking for Marva, who for all he knew would want justice for the person who'd harassed Gail all those years. He was out of bounds here, making promises he had no business making, but he'd been moved by the image of the still, sleeping woman, by the evidence of the empty life Bartelak had been leading, trying to do right for his mother.

Seeing her had reminded him of visiting his father in the hospital late at night, after his mother had gone home, when the halls were empty and his father was silent and still in his pain-medicated slumber. Joe had sat in the chair next to the bed, the light from the hall giving everything an eerie glow, idly rubbing the binding of a hospital blanket between his fingers and wondering when his father had become so small.

“It wasn't me.” Conrad bent down, his back creaking, and picked up the box with both arms. Joe held the lid up so he could put the box into the can. It jangled when he dropped it, and Joe set the lid back on, pressing it into place. “I guess you should come in after all.”

Bartelak led him back into the house, through the cluttered living room into an equally messy kitchen. Boxes of cereal and pasta sat open on the countertop. In the sink were a few plates and the black plastic tray from a Lean Cuisine. On the table, more newspapers were open to the sports section. Bartelak folded them carelessly and shoved the stack aside, then motioned Joe to sit. Without asking he poured a cup of coffee and set it down in front of Joe.

“I'm afraid I don't have any milk.”

Joe shrugged. It would do.

“An aide comes around ten. It's just an hour, and Mom almost always sleeps through it, but I worry, you know?”

Joe nodded. “It must be very hard.”

“That last year, she was already forgetting things. I think I knew, deep down, this was it, but I kept putting off taking her to the doctor. And it was all just—just—” Bartelak lifted his hand and let it drop, tracing a wan arc that encompassed the sad kitchen, the air heavy with disappointment. Joe could sense the toxins of depression working on him.

“Your mother mailed the packages to Mrs. Engler each year on the anniversary of your sister's death,” Joe clarified.

“Not her death.” Bartelak was suddenly emphatic. He stabbed at the greasy tabletop with a stubby forefinger. “Her
murder
. There's a difference—it took her two days to die. Two days before Mom could bear to pull the plug. The doctors told us that first night that there was nothing left, that she'd been denied oxygen too long—”

Bartelak's face flushed red with emotion, and he tugged at his collar with a hooked finger, as though it were cutting off his circulation. A tremor ran through his body, causing his chin to tremble.

“I'm sorry.” Not part of the script, but Joe
was
sorry. Conrad Bartelak was thirty-four and aging fast—he could have passed for a man a decade older. But thirteen years ago he was twenty-one, barely a man.

“Not as sorry as me.” Bartelak bit off the words angrily. “Not as sorry as my mother.”

Joe let that sit for a moment. “How did you know it was Gail? The papers said—”

“Fuck what the papers said.” Bartelak stabbed at the table again. To Joe's eye, it seemed as though he was looking to sprain a finger. “And fuck what I said before. I knew my sister's friends, okay? She pledged Alpha Eta with two other girls from high school. They were all cheerleaders together. One of the guidance counselors went to San Diego State, got them all excited about the education program. And California. They just couldn't wait to go to California.” He glared at Joe balefully and added: “They all wanted to be teachers.”

As though that was the greatest injury of all.

“These other girls were there that night?”

“Hell yes, they were. All the pledges were.” A look of misery crossed Bartelak's face. “Anyway, her friends told us what really happened. That lawyer, Gail Engler's boyfriend, he was plenty slick. He played them all, only they didn't realize it until later. Until it was too late.”

“Did you know Deanne Mentis?”

“No, but Jess had talked about her. They were friends. Going through that hazing shit—well, we found out later, some of the stuff they had to do. Things you wouldn't wish on a dog. Guess it drew the girls together. You know? Misery loves company.” He paused, staring at nothing.

“Did you ever contact Deanne?”

“Mom wrote to her,” Bartelak muttered.

“After she left school?”

“Yeah, Mom wanted to sue, wanted to get Deanne on board, but the Mentises—well. They just wanted to put it all behind them. Mom tried for a while, but eventually her parents asked Mom not to contact Deanne anymore.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. That would have been a hard message for a grieving mother to hear. What would Eva Bartelak have done, then, with her desire for justice? Where would she have directed her grief and rage?

“All this happened during the year following your sister's death?”

“Yeah.” Bartelak smiled bitterly. “I know what you're thinking—Mom went off the rails. Well, you're right. She'd lost Dad the year before, and losing Jess, too—it was all too much. She had a lawyer, wanted to sue the Englers, but he said . . . what with the news coverage all focused on Deanne . . . and the Mentises got upset when Mom brought the subject up. She tried to get the media involved, too. Out there.”

He glared at Joe:
out there
—in California, bane of the heartland's existence. Joe was well aware of the bias much of the country held toward his state.

“I can understand how frustrated your mother must have been,” he said.

“Yeah, you think so?” Bartelak made no effort to hide the anger in his voice. “Well, when September rolled around again and Mom felt like there hadn't been any justice for Jess, she went a little nuts. I was starting my first job. I got on with a bank out in Porterville, that's two hours from here. I tried to get home most weekends. Especially
that
one . . . the anniversary. But by the time I got home, she'd already done it.”

“Done . . . what?”

Conrad sucked air, blew out his cheeks with frustration. “She took a box down from the attic. Jess had these old paper dolls, Girl Scouts from around the world, she loved those things. They had the uniforms from every country, and little stands on the figures. Jess would set them up like a pageant or something. I mean she hadn't done it for years . . . Anyway, Mom wrapped them up and put the postage and the address label on. She got the address from the school, lied and said she was Gail's doctor or something. That part got easier; she was able to use the Internet, pay some website fifty bucks every time Gail moved so she always had the current address. Anyway, she sent the whole thing to her sister in Wyoming and Aunt Jane mailed it for her, never asked her one thing about it. I mean, the whole fucking family knew what was going on.”

“They knew your mother was sending these packages?”

“Well, they knew
something
was going on, you know? There was talk, but I guess people thought it was harmless. Well, not harmless exactly, but if it helped Mom feel a little better, they weren't about to tell her to stop.”

“So every year . . .”

“She'd start getting depressed a month in advance. She'd kind of shut down. She used to volunteer at the hospital, but . . . Anyway, I'd ask her what she was doing. Believe it or not, I tried to stop her. I tried to tell her it wouldn't help. So it got to where she wouldn't tell me until it was done. And then she'd be like . . .”

Bartelak hesitated, staring into his coffee cup. Joe couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He remembered how his own mother had been following his father's attack, how he and Omar and Sakeena had taken turns with her, begging her to leave the hospital long enough for a shower, a nap. He couldn't imagine doing it alone.

“She'd always tell me eventually,” Bartelak sighed, some of the anger going out of him. “The stuff she came up with . . . like she was almost proud of it. She said she wished she could see the look on her face. On Gail's face. She said she hoped it made Gail suffer.”

Joe pictured Gail the last time they'd spoken, the defiant, predatory chill of her challenge. Wondered if there'd ever been a time that Gail could have been described as innocent.

He hoped Bartelak could continue to believe his mother had found a tiny piece of retribution. Joe wouldn't be the one to tell him otherwise.

GAYLA RAFFERTY
of the Des Moines Police Department turned out, ironically, to be from Oakland.

“I'd never go back,” she said, over a far better cup of coffee. “I'd miss the seasons.”

Joe looked out the window of her office at the cold rain coming down in hard pellets. He hadn't brought an umbrella, so the trip in from the parking lot to the door had left him sodden. He was incredulous that anyone would choose to endure this, but perhaps it made the sunny days that much more spectacular.

“Give me a day or two,” she said. “I'll have someone talk to Bartelak's coworkers, girlfriends, whatever. But for him to have gotten out to California and back—”

“Yeah, I know. It's a long trip.” Joe was only too well aware: the prior night's journey had left him feeling pummeled. “No way he could have made it out and back already. Should be easy to rule out.”

“Unless you're thinking he hired someone . . .”

The thought had crossed Joe's mind. Briefly. It didn't add up, not when you factored in Bergman's death, too.

“I appreciate your help on this,” Joe said, standing.

“Headed home?”

“Not yet,” Joe said. “I have another stop. But I'll stay in touch.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRYCE CAME DOWNSTAIRS DRESSED
and showered while Marva was still finishing breakfast with the kids. Lainey had been asking for her mother all morning; so far, Marva had been able to put her off. Let their father be the one to handle this part.

“I've made an appointment at the funeral home for ten o'clock,” Bryce announced.

Marva looked around her—Marshall in his high chair, sputtering bubbles of spit and Cheerios; Lainey carefully clearing the table, one item at a time, spilling juice and toast crumbs on the floor. “But Isabel's not back yet,” she protested. “And I haven't taken a shower or anything.”

Bryce's expression conveyed clearly that he found the complications unexpected and annoying. “Why don't you give her a call on her cell phone?”

“I don't think she has a cell phone,” Marva said, drilling him with a look:
and shouldn't you know?

But Isabel chose that moment to return to the house, carrying an old, peeling garment bag over her arm. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her skin mottled, but she forced a smile for the kids and took the rag out of Marva's hand, setting her things on a chair and getting right to work on the mess remaining on the table.

“All right, I'll go get ready,” Marva said. “But Mom won't be here until this afternoon.”

“Sharon's coming here?” Bryce's look of surprise seemed genuine. “Today?”

Marva inhaled sharply. “Her daughter is
dead,
” she hissed. “Where do you think she'd be?”

Isabel glanced up but quickly went back to her task. “I'll get the guest room ready,” she said.

Chagrined, Marva turned to the housekeeper. “I'll stay with Lainey again,” she said. “I'll bring a few things over from my place. If—that's okay.”

Aware of the way things were shifting beneath all their feet. Gail was no longer here to ask. Bryce was head of the house in name and power alone; Marva felt the connection between her and Isabel—they would do the women's work together, for now.

“I just think that Mom would like to help make the decisions,” she said, her voice as normal as she could make it.

Bryce nodded once, curtly. “We won't finalize anything. You can run her over there later this afternoon to make sure she's happy with the arrangements.”

Marva had agreed, and taken a hasty shower and gone through the motions of putting on her makeup and fixing her hair, but now she was in a room of empty caskets and she needed her mother. Or rather, she needed
a
mother, though not necessarily her own.

Gail had always been closer to Sharon. Sharon Groesbeck of Atherton; thirty years of PTA and Junior League and the Women's Club of the Peninsula, and countless dinner parties and golf tournaments and charity luncheons—that was Gail's training ground. Marva was an interloper, as uncomfortable in her parents' house as she was in her own home once she married.

So Marva didn't especially want to see her mother, but she couldn't stand to be alone. Or more precisely, alone with Bryce.

If he was grieving, he covered it well. Only his thin-skinned impatience, more pronounced than usual, seemed different. Oh, he said the right things—at the coffee machine this morning: “I don't know how I'll go on, Marva,” or last night: “I just can't believe she's gone.” But he'd slept through the night, hadn't he, alone in their king-size bed? He'd shaved at the counter that held her perfume and her cosmetics, perhaps absently touched her toothbrush, her comb; did he miss her then? Marva stood near the window of the too-cold casket room. Filtered through layers of sheer curtains, the sun did little to warm her. She watched Bryce make his way around the room, hands clasped behind his back, nodding to himself now and then. A pointless exercise—he would choose the most expensive.

Bryce eventually stopped his wandering in front of the casket Marva knew he would pick. Yawing open, the satin lining gleaming in luxuriant folds, it was glossy and rich and stately.

“I think this one . . .”

“Fine,” Marva said, slipping past him. Suddenly she just needed to be out of the room.

Nathan Laroux waited for them in his office, expression somber, hands clasped in front of him. Laroux or his brother had performed these same services for Elena Bergman just days earlier, but Marva was sure he wouldn't mention the connection.

Sitting in the ivory Queen Anne chairs, Bryce took over, and Marva was happy to let him. Frankly she didn't care what happened next; the family plot waited for all of them, her father would no longer be alone there. There was space for Bryce and an extra spot for Marva's husband, purchased long before Harmon came and went from her life.

It occurred to Marva that Bryce would probably be remarried within the year. So both those spots would go begging. A hundred years from now visitors would notice the gaps between the Groesbecks' headstones—would they wonder what had happened to the missing?

Marva let her eyelids flutter slowly down as the men talked, Nathan's comforting monotone smudging the gaps around Bryce's sharper voice. She was so tired; and her eyes burned from crying.

“All right with you, Marva?”

She sat up straight at Bryce's question; she got the idea he'd already asked once. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, “what were you saying?”

“Wednesday morning for the service and the interment?” Bryce frowned impatiently. “Assuming Sharon doesn't object.”

“Yes—yes, that's fine,” Marva said. What day was it? She had to think hard—the dinner party had been Sunday night. So . . . she ticked off the days, came up with Thursday. No—Friday. “There's nothing sooner . . . ?”

“Abiding Savior is quite full,” Nathan said apologetically. “Of course we are happy to arrange for the service here, but—”

“No,” Marva snapped, surprising herself. She and her sister may have attended Abiding Savior Lutheran Church only sporadically, but that's where the service would take place. Period.

“Wednesday it is,” Bryce said, making a note on his phone, thumb skimming the screen.

Marva watched him out of the corner of her eye, no longer sleepy. What kind of man enters his own wife's funeral on his phone? As though he'd forget, find himself in a client meeting and suddenly remember and say, “Damn, guys, I've got a conflict”?

The rage that she had felt at the restaurant returned, dragging with it the weight of a thousand past slights.

Tentatively Marva let the emotion take hold and blossom. She watched Bryce slip his phone back into his pocket. Watched him stand up with that little crease-smoothing gesture, shake hands with Nathan—and oh, he shook like a man, didn't he, like the top dog, firm and taking advantage of his size and strength, he could see Nathan almost wince—and realized she
blamed
Bryce. Somehow he had allowed Gail's death to happen; if he hadn't caused it directly, he'd certainly paved the way with his inattention and his infidelities and his detachment whenever Gail went a little bit off the rails. And why shouldn't he? Marva was always there to talk her down, to bring her back around.

And that's when Marva had to admit that as furious as she was, not all the blame could be pinned on Bryce. In fact, there was more than enough to go around, and now that it had sprung free from the dark corner where Marva kept it locked down, there was no telling where it might lead.

“HOW IS
Des Moines?” Bertrise asked, her cigarette-roughed voice deep and sonorous even over the phone.

“Looking good in my rearview mirror,” Joe said. “I'm on the way to the airport—managed to book a one o'clock flight.”

“Hmm. Sounds like the Bartelaks didn't have a whole lot to say, then,” Bertrise said.

Joe filled her in.

“You're sure he's telling the truth?” Bertrise asked. “About his mother's dementia?”

“Yeah—I saw her myself. Trust me, she had no idea I was in the room. But Rafferty's going to follow up. I just don't figure them—the son, anyway—for it.”

“So you're going to see Deanne Mentis.”

“Deanne Oberlin; she hasn't gone back to her maiden name.”

“Whatever. She knows you're coming?”

“Yes. I wanted to make sure she was home. How about you? What have you turned up?”

“Did a little more looking into Bryce Engler's campaign. Too early to tell, but there may be something to that. Turns out there's quite a bit of controversy over water. Not just that, but they want to build on a red-legged frog habitat and that's an endangered species. Also something called a pallid manzanita, but I think that's a tree. Also, I went looking for sheep blood.”

Joe grimaced. “Nice. Have any luck?”

“Yeah. There's an outfit in Farmington, packages it for research. But they say they'd know if any individuals had come trying to buy. There's all kinds of hurdles you have to go through, paperwork to fill out. No one's even tried in the last eighteen months who can't be traced to a lab or some other regular customer.”

“So where'd our guy get it? An employee?”

“Turns out that individuals get around this sometimes by going straight to the source.”

“To the sheep?”

That got him a dry chuckle. “No, the farmers, Joe. It's chefs, mostly. Making blood sausage and black pudding. You ever eat anything like that?”

Joe laughed. “No,” he said. “People think Indo-Pak cooking's exotic, but it's all pretty run-of-the-mill ingredients, except for the spices.”

“We should cook for the department sometime,” Bertrise said. “I'll make bully beef and rice. You make the
daal
and the naan. Odell can bring pigs' feet or whatever he was raised up on.”

“I don't cook much, unfortunately,” Joe said, not bothering to explain that when he did, it tended to be burgers on the grill or chiles rellenos. His tastes had run pretty far afield from the dishes of his childhood.

“Yeah, I don't think the world is ready for us anyway,” Bertrise said, and Joe knew she was only half kidding. “Anyway, I've got a list of sheep farmers to call, see if they remember anyone who isn't a chef making a buy recently.”

“Good luck. Better wear your mucking-about boots in case you have to trudge through sheep shit. Anything else?”

“I've got a couple of interesting interviews lined up for this afternoon. Trying to get a line on just how frisky Mrs. Engler was—going to talk to some neighbors and her hairdresser. See if she was up to anything else besides Bergman.”

“Have you been able to find out who her best friends are? I mean, besides Marva?”

Bertrise laughed shortly. “As far as I can figure, she didn't have friends. I mean she had her tennis partners and ladies-who-lunch types, but I haven't found anyone that sounds like a confidante.”

Besides Marva—it echoed in Joe's head. He didn't get the feeling Marva had many friends, either.

“All right. What about McKay?”

“Odell's on that. Said he'd have something for me tomorrow, his employment history or case history or whatever you call it. And contact info for his exes.”

“As in, plural?”

“Yes, he has a couple of ex-wives, two little kids.”

“Busy man.”

“Says the guy who flies all night and works all day.”

Joe grimaced. “That's me, all right. Married to my job.”