Bullet Beach (26 page)

The old highways between Eaton and the lake required more attention than the interstate expressways between Indianapolis and Des Moines. There was no way to view far ahead of where he was. There were trees by the narrow pavement, sudden turns, hills. And the gritty world of rural Indiana's rotting fences and collapsing barns was closer to him. He wasn't passing by; he was passing through, his attention focusing on the slow decline and isolation of these parts.

There weren't enough miles to clear his head, to cleanse his thoughts by the time he arrived. There was a lot of light and heat left in the day. And though he was uncomfortable in his suit, he was likely to stir less suspicion should someone see him enter the Taupin house, especially with police tape surrounding the home. He got out of the car, retrieved his coat from the back seat, straightened his tie, and walked to the front door.

He looked around. It amazed him how high-end the homes were, how well kept. The street that, for all practical purposes, circled the lake was quiet. He saw not one living being as he went about manipulating the tumblers in the lock at the front door.

Indoors was all light and cheer – a living room ready for guests. It was spotless and there was enough daylight seeping in from the outside that Cross didn't have to bother with lights. The place was sealed, soundless except for the low hum of the air conditioner. Why was that still on? Cross walked across the thick carpet toward the kitchen and family room – both with a wall of windows looking out over a glistening lake.

He walked to the window in the dining area, avoiding the kitchen where he had witnessed the cold executions. The lake was alive. Sail boats, small yachts out in the middle. Rubber rafts and swimmers closer to shore.

Cross, giving the killing area only a glimpse, went toward the area where the girl, the one who witnessed him taped to the chair as the shots were fired, had come from. But there was nothing there. Just a wall. Unless she was a capable of voluntary invisibility there had to be a physical explanation. He pushed at the wall and nothing happened. He knocked on the wall and heard the hollowness behind it. He applied pressure and moved his hand to the right and though it offered resistance, it slid open. The light from the kitchen revealed only the first couple of steps leading down and into pitch-black darkness. He felt for a light switch. He couldn't find it. He went down a few steps, still couldn't find a switch.

He stepped back and up. He wouldn't go down there. He went to the kitchen, checked drawers and cupboards, looking for a flashlight. None. He debated about going back out to his car, but decided he would be chancing discovery. He remembered that in the formal dining room, off the living room, was a candelabra. It had candles. He also found matches in the kitchen drawer.

It felt a little medieval to descend the steps with candles ablaze. With the light he was able to see that the sliding door could be operated with a remote control as, no doubt, the lights. Downstairs was one large room. There were three single beds and three portable closets. An industrial-sized washer and an equally large dryer occupied one wall near the ironing board. He investigated the closets. One was empty, except for a couple of uniforms. The other two had some street clothes as well as uniforms.

There was a bathroom downstairs as well as a small refrigerator and a hot plate. There were no windows. Before he was done shedding the miniscule light around the room, he saw another stairway. He climbed up to a landing, where the stairs turned and went up another flight. He followed the steps, came upon a wall, slid it and found himself in a closet full of linen, towels, toilet tissue and cleaning materials. There was a door that opened to the upstairs hallway.

‘Damn,' Cross said, now back in light. He remembered a trip to Charleston and a tour through a home built well before the civil war. What was astonishing then – and now – was that there were a number of back stairways behind the walls. They were unfinished, certainly not meant to be seen. They led to the kitchen and to the sleeping quarters of the slaves who served the household. They served almost invisibly, never using the main stairs, slipping in and out of rooms through closets so no one would see them making beds, cleaning fireplaces, lighting lanterns and drawing the drapery.

It was becoming clear to him now.

The Taupins lived rare and strange lives and needed to keep secrets. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound downstairs – a door or window shutting, perhaps. He had only to find out if the person doing the shutting had just left or just arrived. The situation seemed to demand both speed and caution. He chose speed, taking the stairs two at a time on his way down. But he was not fast enough.

He stood in the area between the living room and the kitchen-family room area, understanding more, putting the pieces together. Even so, it was difficult to shake the feeling that he was lost, that the future was hopeless. Whoever escaped from the house bore Cross's last chance.

He went to the window and looked out again. He looked at the boats, the frolicking good time of folks on a wholesome Midwest summer's day at the lake. He saw the Taupin's seaplane bobbing at the dock. Every last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

He found her there, in the plane, hiding in the back, under a tarp. It made sense. The girl had nowhere to go. Who would she trust? The neighbors? She had stayed by the house, going in for food and hiding in the plane when the house had visitors. She was obviously terrified, probably of him, probably of the prospect of being deported.

The drive back was difficult. He used the Taupin's still active phone line to call Kowalski and tell him what he was doing. While the young woman was convinced – she no doubt felt she had no choice – to accompany Cross back to Indianapolis, suspicion and fear showed in her eyes and cut deep across her face.

They met at Kowalski's office downtown, across from the 28-story box that housed the bureaucracy that ran the city and county including the police and the courts.

Kowalski had rounded up a professional translator, hooked up a small tape recorder, had a basket of sandwiches and sodas, and had calming music playing in the background.

Cross sat with them, listening to the young Carolina Perez tell her story:

The two women were cousins. Alejandra Toledo Perez was the woman who disappeared, she said. The two of them were running from death threats. The Perez family ran afoul of a Colombian paramilitary organization and were directed to an organization that apparently specialized in finding safe havens for people on the run. Often this meant a period of illegal status in the new host country.

She was told there would be a period of time when her freedom would be abridged, but she had no idea that she would be treated the way the Taupins had treated her. Was she ever forced into sexual situations? Kowalski asked through the translator. No. How did she find Raymond Taupin? He was rarely at the lake and ignored her. On the other hand Mrs Taupin was an ‘evil' woman. She would slap her and poke her when Carolina didn't understand the request or reacted too slowly.

And Alejandra, what happened to her? Kowalski asked. One day she disappeared. Nothing was said.

Kowalski showed her photographs of E. V. Lancaster. He was the one who worked with the organization to place both of them with the Taupins. Kowalski showed her a photograph of Marshall Talbot. She nodded. She saw him sometimes with the Taupin's daughter. Did she see the young man with Alejandra at any time? No, she replied, but she saw him the day Alejandra disappeared.

Carolina asked what was going to happen to her. Kowalski told her he was a lawyer. He would see to it that she would have an immigration attorney and that meanwhile he could guarantee she wouldn't be deported any time soon. She was a material witness. Kowalski also told her he would see to it that she would have some place to stay.

‘It won't be like before,' he said, patting her arm as the translator spoke those words in Spanish. ‘I promise.'

There were more questions. Cross was impatient now. He stood, went to the little table offering soft drinks and sandwiches and popped open a Coke. The truth was sitting right there. He could taste the exoneration. But it was tainted with the notion that people like Taupin walked the earth, took what they wanted, discarded what they didn't. Yet the authorities treated him like royalty.

‘I'm going out,' Cross said.

‘Where?' Kowalski asked, looking worried. Cross had never seen him look worried.

‘To do something foolish,' Cross said.

‘I figured. What?'

‘I need to talk to Sarah Taupin.'

‘The daughter.'

‘Yes.'

‘She's either guilty, in serious danger or about to have the shock of her life.'

TWENTY-SIX

Shanahan tried to sleep, but kept waking up. It was nearing 3 a.m. when he decided to see if they were still serving at the bar downstairs. There were a few hangers-on, most of them in the throes of melancholy. He ordered a Chang beer because it had elephants on the label. He would tell no one that fact.

‘I thought you closed at one, that's what the sign says,' Shanahan asked the rough-hewn Thai behind the bar.

‘That's the law.' He smiled. ‘There are many laws.'

Here's a guy, Shanahan thought, who was a lion tamer, keeping the belligerent locals, irrational criminals, and an assortment of crazy or clueless tourists from killing each other on the premises. It took a special kind of personality and a special kind of knowledge to do that. The other thing that wandered through Shanahan's mind was that the world was a small place. There were bars like this everywhere, places where outsiders, people off the grid, people who had nothing in common with the folks with regular jobs and reality show addictions, gathered.

The old detective was a long way from that glowing moment that drinkers feel, that ‘lit' period before caring slips away. He had no trouble identifying Channarong standing at the entrance to the bar, looking around. When he saw Shanahan he jumped a bit, then waved and headed toward the old detective's table.

‘I didn't expect you to be awake,' he said, a tired smile on his face. ‘I'm glad.'

‘I'm not. Didn't expect to see you. A drink?'

‘No, thank you.' He sat. ‘I came down because I was concerned. I couldn't locate the real Billy the Kid and from what you told me, I suspect there's something wrong.'

Shanahan nodded.

‘I take responsibility for my recommendations,' he said.

‘Thank you.'

‘You're not hurt?' he asked.

‘No. The maid died.'

Channarong shook his head. ‘Have you located your brother?'

‘Not really,' Shanahan said, equivocating on purpose. ‘Maybe you can help.'

‘Sure.'

Shanahan took a hit of his beer. ‘How'd you find me?'

‘You weren't where you were supposed to be. The owner told me the story. So close, you know, we never know, do we?' He looked at Shanahan. ‘Anyway you're becoming a legend around here now. And people talk about such things.'

‘It's not a big place, is it?'

‘Yet it appears people can get lost if they want to.'

‘You have something specific?' Shanahan asked.

‘Just wanted to let you know I was here. That I'm willing to help. Breakfast maybe?'

‘Sure.'

‘Coffee Shop at the Expat Hotel at nine?'

‘OK.'

The Expat, on Pee Road, was cheery – another of those places that could be anywhere, but it was in Phuket and inland a bit from the beach on a dead-end
soi
. Shanahan thought Channarong picked the coffee shop for its western-accommodating breakfast menu. Making Shanahan feel ‘at home' was unnecessary but considerate, he thought. The inside was dominated by red, a kind of American wholesome country look tempered by the Thai mind. He arrived early intentionally and had finished his first cup of coffee and got through the newspaper before Channarong got there at the agreed-upon time.

‘Decided on a little vacation?' Shanahan asked as Channarong, looking fresh and pressed, slid into the other side of the booth.

‘Why not enjoy my work,' he said.

‘Anything new in Bangkok?' A moment of puzzlement crossed Channarong's face. ‘Any new word on Fritz?'

He shook his head ‘no.' ‘And Maureen, where is your beautiful friend?'

‘Back home,' Shanahan said. ‘Work. Clients. She was feeling guilty.'

Channarong didn't buy it but he didn't argue. ‘Do you have any idea who is trying to kill you?'

‘I don't know. Someone who doesn't want me to find Fritz.'

Channarong nodded.

The charming waitress came. Channarong ordered tea and something called
johk
. Shanahan ordered scrambled eggs and toast.

The
johk
turned out to be some sort of porridge with an egg floating on top.

‘I couldn't call you,' Channarong said. ‘I was worried that somehow I wasn't living up to our agreement.'

‘And that agreement?'

‘To help you find your brother.'

‘You're off the hook, Channarong. You've done all you can do. I can reimburse you for your trip, but cannot continue to pay for services.'

‘It appears you are in danger.'

‘All the more reason to end the relationship.'

He nodded, more in the sense that he understood, not that he agreed.

The two of them talked very little and when they were done with breakfast, they shook hands. Channarong refused any money to pay for his trip down. It wasn't part of the agreement, he said. He couldn't take anything. As he turned to go, Shanahan stopped him.