Cold Case (28 page)

Wouldn't she need an accomplice? The digitized voice had sounded deep—definitely male—but couldn't gadgetry account for the bass notes?

Why hadn't I heard from Gloria?

I tugged at my hair and chewed stale bread. I was forgetting Thea. Thea was at the heart of everything, at the heart of the maze.

And who was Thea?

Her mother's perfect daughter? A hellion bent on seducing every male at Avon Hill? Manley's young woman of piercing intellect and prodigal prose? A suicide? A homicide? A victim, yes. A victimizer as well?

I unlocked my desk, removed the manuscript copy from the self-addressed envelope. Genuine? Fake? Old? New? I flipped through it, read:

perhaps a word shall fall

and then another

(silent as heat strangling

a cry

dark as a panther

whispering lullabies

to jungled dreams)

It seemed to me most likely that the extortionist would be a figure from the past, someone who knew that Thea Janis hadn't died at the hands of Albert Albion.

Woodrow MacAvoy?

I considered Al-Al's simple words: The five-oh starfish said Thea belongs in the sea. I pondered three scenarios.

One: Woodrow MacAvoy coaching Albert Ellis Albion to commit murder. I discarded it. Unlikely in the extreme.

Two: Woodrow MacAvoy, finding Thea's body—dead of a drug overdose, possibly with slit wrists—suborned by the Camerons into forcing a murderer to knife the already dead girl, dump her remains in the ocean. Why? So her death wouldn't be labeled “suicide”? Because some insurance policy might be invalidated by suicide? So she could be buried in holy ground?

Number Three: With no body on hand and no likelihood of ever finding Thea, Woodrow MacAvoy, given complete control of the Cameron case, convinces Albert Ellis Albion to confess to another murder. Why? So someone wouldn't have to wait the required seven years for her death to become official?

But there was a body in Thea's grave
…

If MacAvoy had gone out on a limb for the Camerons, had they sawed it off? Or were his angry accusations a front? Had the Camerons made it worth his while to cooperate? If so, why the crummy cottage?

With the giant-sized TV.

MacAvoy had laid down two twenties in the bar. Forty bucks might represent a sizable chunk of his monthly pension.

Dammit. I felt tugged in all directions. I had to get back to MacAvoy, find out what the five-oh starfish had really said to Albert Albion, why, and when. I needed to dig up enough dirt on MacAvoy to get him to talk to me. I needed to locate Drew Manley, to find sister Beryl. I wanted to know if Heather Foley's body had ever been found. I had the feeling that pieces of the puzzle were slipping through my fingers, plunging into my dream abyss.

My sleeping hours had been erratic of late, not to mention my meal intake. I rested my head on the blotter, just for an instant, because my hair seemed so inexplicably heavy.

The phone jangled. I opened my eyes into darkness. The street lamp down the block glowed yellow.

“
Señorita, por favor, sin nombres.”

I'd heard the voice before. Once. Deep, drop-dead sexy, from far, far away. This time it sounded as if Carlos Roldan Gonzales, Paolina's biological father, were in the next room.

“Hello,” I managed.

“
It is a good trick you play with Señor Miami, but muy peligroso.”

“I needed to know—”

“
Now you know.”

“Señor—”

“
Adios, señonta
.”

The line clicked. Paolina's father was alive. Alive where? Alive how? Alive for how long?

I stared at my watch, flicked on the desk lamp. It couldn't be, but it was past ten o'clock. I'd slept a full night's worth.

The phone rang underneath my hand, startling me. Maybe I'd get to hear the voice again. I inhaled, sucked in a good deep breath. I don't know why, but certain voices affect me in ways I can never understand.

“Miss Carlyle.” It was certainly not Carlos Roldan Gonzales. “This is Drew Manley.”

All the questions I had to throw at him, and he hardly gave me a chance.

“Listen, carefully,” he said. “I've found her.” His voice wavered, but a touch of the playful puppy quality was back.

“Where are you?” I asked quickly.

“The summer house. Marblehead. Can you come, please?”

“Why? Why not go to Dover, tell Tessa. If you've found Thea Janis, alive, they'll kill the fatted calf, the whole bit.”

“It—the situation—is not uncomplicated.”

“Call the police.”

“Please, Miss Carlyle. Help us.”

“Help me. Where is Beryl Cameron?”

“We'll discuss that when you get here. Please come.”

“Thea's really there?”

“Yes.”

“You've lied to me before.”

“I've lied,” he said. “I've been misled.”

“Are you lying now?”

“No. I need you. Thea needs you.”

It's easy to dissemble on the telephone.

He gave directions so clearly he must have read them off a printed card.

“There's a shack, a small shed, on the beach. Let's meet there,” he said.

“Why? Why not the big house?”

“No key,” he said easily. “Please hurry.”

“A public place,” I said. “A doughnut shop—”

He'd hung up. I was talking to myself.

“Roz,” I shouted up the stairs.

Nothing. Ten's too early for her to come home. She'd still be at the Liberty, if she hadn't already picked up a mate for the night.

I should have waited for morning. I considered writing down everything I knew about the case, locking my scribbled thoughts away as a life insurance policy. They do that on TV. I knew so many oddly assorted farts; I'd guessed at so many others. For all I
understood
, I might as well write my journal on toilet paper, flush it.

Before I left the house I loaded the S&W 40, checked the safety and the extra magazine, stuck them in a paper bag along with my waist clip. I wasn't planning to sit on hard metal all the way out to Marblehead.

At the last minute I grabbed the phone and dialed Gloria.

“ITOA,” she answered. “Where are you, and where can I take you?”

“It's me,” I said, because she can identify any voice she's heard before. “Who runs cabs in Marblehead?”

“North shore, north shore. Outfit called Clancy's. There's no Clancy to speak of.”

“Can you give me the garage address, call and tell them I might want to borrow a cab for a couple hours?”

“I know a few drivers there. Maybe I could work something out.”

‘I'll pay double rates.”

“Don't tell 'em that; it'll just make 'em think you're planning to bust up their cab.”

“Fix it for me, Gloria.”

“Consider it done.”

“Nothing on Marissa Cameron?”

“Not yet. Lots of cabbies at Logan. You take care now.”

Take care
. I glanced at my desktop, grabbed Paolina's postcard, rubbed it against my cheek, and stuck it in my pocket. A talisman, a warning.

If I get hurt, who'll care for Paolina?

The sky was hazy, the air still. I started the engine.

Off to Marblehead, where remnants of cotton and linen clothing had been discovered twenty-four years ago.

33

I took narrow back streets to Kirkland, crossed the Charles on the McGrath and O'Brien Highway, swung unimpeded around Leverett Circle, an exhilarating feat. If I hadn't promised Manley I'd hurry, I'd have done the rotary twice, for the sheer bliss of circling at a speed never allowed by daytime traffic jams.

Late night is the only time to drive Boston. Long-haul truckers and cabbies frequent the roads, professionals, extending each other professional courtesy. I hit the left-hand lane and floored it. The new Fleet Center loomed to the right, never to replace the Boston Garden with its obstructed views, knee-squeezing seats, and hardworking basketball teams. Route 3 heading to 93, cutting over to take the Tobin Bridge, craning my neck to catch the outline of
Old Ironsides
. On to Route 1, following a red river of taillights.

Marblehead's as far north of Boston as Marshfield is south. Past Revere, Lynn, Swampscott, where Heather Foley had lived and died. Near Salem, where nineteen witches were hanged, one “pressed” to death with heavy weights. Sandy beaches, icy water, grand seaside estates, fewer summer people.

I studied headlamps in my rearview mirror. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the pounding in my chest. I piloted the car Boston-style, weaving lanes and signaling false exits to lose any followers.

I listen to old blues tapes when I drive, anything from Muddy Waters to Mississippi John Hurt. I riffled through my tape collection while stretching the speed limit.

I stuck a Rory Block tape into my boom box and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel to “Terraplane Blues.” What if the whole setup was politically orchestrated? First, “Mayhew” coming to see me, stirring up interest in Thea's disappearance. Then Marissa's kidnapping.

Was Tessa in command? Had she taken her late husband's campaign losses to heart, determined the same fate would never conquer her son? When the Thea gambit didn't pan out as planned, had Marissa been pressed into duty for the next publicity stunt?

If so, where was the publicity? Mama hadn't gone public with Marissa's kidnapping. No tearful interviews with the family. No televised appeals to the villains.

Every thread I yanked unraveled in my hand. I gave it up and drove.

My shadowy mob pursuer seemed nothing more than a remote possibility. I felt fine sitting in the driver's seat with the window wide and the breeze blowing my hair, whispering a destination.

The beach shack at the Camerons' summer place.

Once I left the main drag, scooting off 1A to 114, I drove cautiously, stopping at each amber light. Small-town cops have little to do late at night but watch for unknown vehicles behaving strangely in good neighborhoods. How would I explain my presence to a cop?

I smiled. Tell him I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, that I wanted to see the house where Thea Janis had spent her few summers, the beach from which she might have taken leave of this world. Better than saying I wanted to check the place for lights, cars. For Drew Manley, former shrink who'd supposedly found a phantom.

I went back over the phone call, trying to recall every word, each shift in vocal tone. Did I believe Manley?

It had been his voice. Definitely his. Breathless, a little wavery at times. Odd. But if he'd actually seen Thea after twenty-four years, he certainly had a right to a quaver in his voice.

Did it matter whether or not I believed he'd found Thea? I needed to talk to him, needed to understand where he was pointing me with his references to recovered memory syndrome.

Did I believe he was at the beach house with a living breathing Thea Janis at his side?

Wanting to believe is not the same as belief. Not the same at all …

Maybe Beryl was with him, I thought. Could the older sister, Beryl, have written
Nightmare's Dawn?

I pulled over near a Texaco station, flipped through my Arrow street map. Page fourteen. I wanted to locate various approaches to Marblehead Neck, a posh section of real estate. It seemed to me that varying Manley's directions might be a good idea, considering the elusive motorbike.

I found exactly one road to Marblehead Neck.
One
. If the cops didn't have it staked, they wouldn't be much of a force. There's always a cop car close to the richest part of town. Just in case.

Time to stop at the garage.

I turned on 129, driving away from the ocean. The streets and houses grew closer together. Smaller. The cab company was near the hospital. Good location.

I parked on the street two blocks away. No need to advertise. I transferred my 40 into my waist clip, slipped it in the back of my jeans, pulled my short-sleeved T-shirt over the bulge. I stuck a flashlight in my back pocket. Useful, and a decoy as well. Somebody asked me what I had back there, I'd show them the flash. First.

The dispatcher had a cab waiting. He'd talked to Gloria. He spoke cash.

Since I had no passenger to ferry out to the Neck, I got the next best thing. I stopped at an all-night convenience store, bought a bottle of Tylenol, the liquid stuff you give to squalling feverish babies. I'd have bought booze if I'd found an all-night liquor mart. Liquor and medicine make up eighty percent of cab deliveries.

Maybe no one would challenge my approach. I kept the white paper sack in full view on the passenger seat. Be prepared.

A causeway separated the Neck from Devereux Beach to the south and Marblehead harbor to the north. Once home to a sturdy fishing fleet, the well-lit harbor seemed moored with pleasure craft. Silvery lights studded a sailboat's mast.

I wondered which end of the causeway the cops routinely watched. Maybe they switched off. That would be smart.

The coastline of Massachusetts is a precious resource. What makes people flock to live near large bodies of water? I don't know, but whatever it is, I've got it bad. The Charles River's okay, but I'd trade it for an ocean view in a second. By law, the beaches of Massachusetts are open to all. So why do real estate ads tout deeded rights to two miles of sandy beach? Because, technically, the public area “open to all” equals only that part of the shoreline betwixt and between high water and low water marks. In other words, the peons get to wade. I hoped it wasn't high tide.

If a cop stopped me, I'd ask.

None did. There could have been unmarked units in the thick dry brush, but I didn't see a single one. Couldn't hear much because of the rhythmic ocean roar.

Ocean Avenue's a big deal, skirting massive dwellings, each no doubt alarmed to the hilt. Schools of architecture waged a silent war on Ocean Avenue. I passed a Norman castle, a futuristic domed dwelling, a Georgian manse. Did the rich folks who lived in these artifacts speak to each other? Condemn each other's taste? Fifty-six was the number of the Cameron place. Fifty-six Ocean. There. A timbered English country house that stretched to fill an enormous hunk of land. The little house that grew.