Cold Case (41 page)

Was any of that part of me left?

Any residue of Thea?

Perhaps in the young Alonso. Wherever he might be.

50

Long ago, Mooney and I used to team up for a game called “good cop, bad cop.” At first, we'd taken turns, alternating sweet and sour, but it soon became clear that I owned the rogue role. Something about Mooney's choirboy face makes him a natural-born good guy.

But since she already knew me, had reason to trust me, Mooney thought I should play the “good cop” role.

I felt miscast.

“Sorry,” Mooney informed her bluntly as we reentered the interview room, “but it's not going to fly. I don't have time to waste. Confessors! Geez, it's nothing to be ashamed of, trying to save your kid. I'm sure we'd all try to cushion our own kid's path, if we could. But your boy crossed over the line, lady, way over it.”

He started gathering pens, notebooks, and tape recorders, as though he were in a hurry to get home.

“But I killed Andrew Manley,” she said, sitting bolt upright. “You haven't heard the details, taken my statement.”

“Try this,” Mooney said harshly. “By me, you're about as credible as that woman claimed to be Anastasia, daughter of the friggin' Czar of Russia, all those years. Yapped about it till the day she died—how everyone had stolen her birthright—and then a couple forensic scientists did some DNA testing, and guess what? Phony as they come. You should know this: If you're a fake, we can find out.”

“I know.”

“Keep up on that sort of thing, do you?” Mooney taunted, “bad cop” all the way.

“Mooney,” I said reasonably. “Before he died, Dr. Manley came to me with some stuff about recovered memory syndrome. I did some reading, and believe me, after twenty-four years, she could be off on a few details.”

“Details!” Mooney snorted.

“What does he mean?” Thea asked.

I went on as if no one had interrupted. “She could honestly think she hit the guy with a trowel. Kept hitting him with it, until he bled to death. She could have blanked out on the part about strangling Nueves—”

“What do you mean, strangling him? Who told you that? He was a big man. I couldn't have gotten my hands around his neck. I couldn't have killed him with my hands.” Thea stood, clasping the edge of the table for support. Her words came faster. “Dr. Manley and I never spoke about those memories, not the killing memories. I never forgot killing Alonso, not for a single moment, not a single detail. I never will. I can hear the rattle in his throat. I can see the blood—”

“Prove it,” Mooney said scornfully.

“I can't,” she murmured, staring at me like I could help her if only I had sufficient desire.

“If we had his body,” I said carefully, “there are tests that could be done, even now, to show how he'd died.”

“We don't have a body,” Mooney said to me, explaining it slowly as though to a child. “And we're not going to get one, understand? The Nueves guy did a flit, could be anyplace. She's using him for credibility, so we'll let her testify that she killed the shrink, get her kid off the big hook. But it's too late. Her kid was at the scene—”

She looked him over from head to toe, slowly. Then, with ice in her voice, she said, “What exactly do you want?”

“What do you mean?” Mooney returned.

“I'm fairly perceptive,” she said, with an edge to her voice. “Since the two of you returned from your hallway conference, you've been behaving quite differently. You obviously have an agenda. You want something from me. Stop fooling around and level with me.”

Moon lifted one eyebrow, stared at me. We must have been rustier at the game than I'd thought. On the other hand, it's seldom you bring in a perp half as sharp as Thea Janis.

After a pause, I led off. “We need you to request an exhumation, to sign an exhumation order.”

“And who, pray tell, would you like to dig up?”

“Dorothy Cameron,” I said, “also known as Thea Janis.”

“That might get my family in an uproar—and I don't want them told about me, understand? How would it help me?”

I said, “It might help your son.”

As she thought it over, I could almost hear the gears spin. Without the concealing brown spectacles, her eyes were enormous. How could she bring herself to wear them day after day, like blinders on a racehorse?

“Where do I sign?” she said.

Quickly Mooney motioned me out of the room.

“Don't try any more tricks,” Thea advised as he shut the door.

“I'll have to get a judge's approval,” Moon said urgently. “It's not like we're going digging tonight.”

“I know.”

“Where are we going to keep her?” he said. “If I arrest her, I've got press coming out of my ears, national TV. Can you take her?”

“No way. Someone's already tried to crack my house, searching for her notebook.”

“Who?”

“Possibly her kid. Possibly Manley's killer.”

“Which means you don't think they're one and the same.”

“Whatever, she's not coming home with me. What about you? Your mom would love the company.”

“I assume that's a feeble attempt at humor. How about Gloria?”

“No,” I said. “Gloria's not up for guests yet. We could stick her in a hotel.”

“Sure,” he said, “with what money? And what makes you think she wouldn't waltz out the door?”

“Don't you have any federal witness protection bucks? Couldn't you put a guard on her?”

“No extra money, no extra men,” he said. “Come on, Carlotta, if they've already tried your house, it could be the safest place. Roz can bodyguard her.”

“I thought you were concerned about a mob attempt on my life,” I said. “Aren't you worried she might get in the way?”

“Oh, that,” he said coolly. “Turned out to be bunk, like you thought. Just a punk trying to plead.”

So that's how I got Dorothy Cameron as a houseguest. The digs would definitely not be what “Thea Janis” had been accustomed to, but “Susan Gordon” seemed to require less splendor.

51

Mooney didn't trust her one bit. He shadowed us home in an unmarked car. I half expected her to make a run at a traffic light, but she never moved. I doubt she noticed our honor guard.

“Do you have another car?” she asked. No big deal, like she was asking questions for the census bureau.

“No,” I said. “And you are not to take this one. If you'd like to visit anyone, I'll drive you.”

I made a mental note to call Gloria, make sure no cabs picked up at my house without my knowledge.

Time passed. I didn't play the radio or the boom box. I wanted her to feel free to chat. Some people can't take silence. Thea wasn't one of those.

It seemed hours before she asked, “Did Drew Manley really talk to you about recovered memories?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. He seemed unsure himself. He kept trying to talk, then running away. I think it was very important to him, but he didn't know where to begin.”

She twisted her hands in her lap.

“Why are recovered memories important to you, Thea?” I asked.

“Who said they were?” she snapped.

Then there was just the engine, running a little ragged, racing at the stoplights. Tuneup time.

“Maybe he didn't deserve to die,” she said eight minutes later.

For the rest of the drive, no matter what I asked, she maintained her silence like a shield, staring straight ahead as though she could see the horizon three thousand miles away.

There are lots of rooms in my old Victorian. When times are tough I can rent them to Harvard students. Times haven't been that hard lately. I've gotten used to having only one tenant: Roz.

I chose Thea's room with care. No telephone. No jack for a telephone. No lock. I didn't give a damn for her personal privacy. She was either too exhausted to fuss or beyond such niceties. The room had no windows that overlooked trees, drainpipes, or porches. Straight down to unwelcoming cement a floor below. Not a high enough drop to kill you, unless you had a lucky fall. Her purse had been searched at the station house, so I wouldn't have to worry about her shooting herself—or me—in the night.

Her door, like most bedroom doors, opened inward. She could fashion a lock by shoving a chair underneath the door handle. I couldn't do the same.

Instead I woke Roz, climbing to the third floor with dread. If I found her with Keith Donovan … talk about the end to a perfect day.

She was home, asleep, alone. A minor miracle. She opened her eyes and snapped on the light as soon as she heard my tread. I don't know if it's the karate training or a natural sixth sense. No one sneaks up on Roz. Together we carried one of her futon mats downstairs. If Thea had plans to flee, she'd have to step over her watchdog.

Roz was sufficently awake to haggle for a higher fee, so I figured she could handle the job.

It must have taken me all of two minutes to fall asleep.

The phone rang. With one eye still glued shut, I rolled over and stared at the illuminated dial of the bedside clock. Four
A
.
M
. The phone chimed again.

Tessa Cameron's accent sounded more ragged than regal. I wondered if she'd been drinking, steadily downing Martini after Martini, since hearing the news of Drew Manley's death. Once I recognized her voice, I guess I was expecting her to rant on about how I'd failed in some way, failed to keep her lover alive.

“The kidnapper,” she whispered, startling me. “He just called. Garnet insists he will take the ransom alone. He will not tell the FBI where he is supposed to make the—what you say?—the drop.”

“Yes,” I said, struggling to sit, to make sense of her words. The floorboards felt cool under my bare feet.

She continued, “I pick up the extension, very carefully, between rings, the way I see the federal agents do, so I know where Garnet will bring the money. You must go as well. Meet him there. Watch out for him.”

“Garnet knows about this?”

“No, but of course he does not know! You will go for me, because I paid you.”

“You paid me to find a fraudulent manuscript,” I protested.

“And have you done so?”

I thought of the notebooks Pix had described, the ones the missing Alonso had protected so vigilantly.

“I think I know where the book is,” I said.

“Good. Then I pay you more, to make sure Garnet is not hurt.”

“That's all?”

“All?”

“You're not hiring me to catch the kidnappers. You're not hiring me to get the ransom back.”

“Just to see that my boy is not hurt.”

“When is the rendezvous?” I asked.

“In one hour, so we have no time for foolishness. The man who calls, the one with the voice like a machine, he knows Garnet already has the money. The kidnapper wants to give him no chance to think, to plan.”

“Where?”

“Underneath the Harvard Bridge. On the Boston side.”

One of the few areas of town that wouldn't be deserted at five in the morning. The Charles River Esplanade comes to life early, crowded with runners, joggers, Rollerbladers, cyclists, all rushing to finish their exercise regimen before the workday begins. Run, race home, shower quickly, get to work. The urban Boston schedule.

“I'll be there,” I told Tessa Cameron, hanging up before she could tack any provisos onto my mission.

I yanked on underwear, tried to fashion a running outfit suitable for the fancy Back Bay. I settled on gray to blend with the gathering light. My sleeveless gray knitted shirt could be worn as an overblouse, hiding the gun at the small of my back.

I called Mooney at home, woke his dread mother, who threatened me before agreeing to wake her darling son.

“Jogging clothes,” I said to Moon. “Corner of Commonwealth and Mass. Ave. within the half hour.”

“Anything else?” he said, as if I were making a reasonable request at a reasonable hour.

“Binoculars,” I said.

52

“Okay,” Mooney said, bending and stretching in exact imitation of my runner's warm-up, “first thing, assume the FBI's got people all over the place. Half the joggers are agents. If you see a weather 'copter, that's gonna be full of agents.”

“I don't know,” I said. “According to Tessa, Garnet refused to tell them anything.”

“Why would he need to tell them when they've got his phone tapped?”

“Are you sorry I woke you?” I asked.

“That brings up a question: What do you think of this kidnapping? First you figured it was the real thing, and Garnet was trying to hush it up. Then you called it a phony, with Garnet using it to move cash. How about right now, this minute?”

“Not a clue.” After a deep breath, I repeated, “Are you sorry I woke you?”

“No way. The drop's going down in my jurisdiction, no state lines have been crossed. It's my case.”

“Shall we mingle?” I asked.

Mooney elevated an eyebrow to show he was intent on deliberately misunderstanding me, adding sexual overtones where none were intended. Then he grinned, and we jogged the single short block to the river in companionable silence, trotted briskly down the green-painted wooden stairs at the right of the bridge.

“I admire your sweatband,” I told him. To tell the truth, I couldn't figure out what it was, maybe his aging mother's chin strap. We'd both dressed and driven quickly. Our reward: twenty-five minutes till opening curtain, according to Tessa Cameron. I wanted time to sort the civilians from the troops, if possible.

“No friggin' FBI,” Mooney said softly. “I don't recognize a soul. Maybe the kidnapper used some kind of code.”

“A code the FBI couldn't break? Come on.”

A biker whizzed by on a blue Diamond Back so shiny it must have just come from the showroom.