Goodbye Sister Disco (2 page)

Cordelia started to scream but then was grabbed from behind by the man on her side of the car. She smelled him, smelled his body odor, as an arm and hand encircled her throat and she felt something on her mouth and nose.

It was like a dream. Vague, black, hideous. Her vision blurring as she saw the man on the other side of the car, a man in a green jacket, pointing his arm down toward the ground. Tom, who she couldn't see now. Then the man pulled the trigger again.

That was all she remembered.

TWO

Terrill was pretty sure the guy had died with the second shot. He didn't scream or cry out. Just a short grunt and the guy was down. Then Terrill shot him in the head just to be sure. After that, he looked across the roof of the car. Ray had the girl unconscious now.

Lee drove up then in the Nissan Maxima. Ray put the girl in the trunk and shut it down. Terrill moved the guy's body behind the car so that he couldn't be seen from the road. His hope was that they were far enough from the house that no one had heard the shots. Terrill got on his knees to roll the guy's body under the back of the car. You would have to be right up close to the car to notice him. It would give them some time. He got into the Maxima and Lee drove them out of there.

Lee said, “Is it her?”

“No,” Ray said, “we grabbed someone else.”

“I'm just asking.”

“Calm down,” Terrill said. “Both of you. It's her, Lee. Just keep it under the speed limit.”

“I am.”

Lee Ensler had stolen the car the day before. The plates had been switched. Still, they would switch the car with another one about two miles away. Terrill had taught Lee to steal cars. Prior to meeting Terrill, Lee had never committed a felony in her life. She had been a journalist. Several of her pieces had been about Terrill. Only one had been written after she interviewed him. Then she had gone underground. She was twenty-nine years old.

From the backseat, Terrill reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. “You're doing fine, babe.”

They came to an intersection and stopped. A car made a right turn in front of them and then they went through.

Lee said, “I finished writing it, Terrill.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I think it's good. Maybe you can take a look at it when we get back.”

“All right, Lee. Everything in time.”

“But you said we need to have it ready for tomorrow's news. We—”

“We will, babe. Everything in time.”

THREE

Hastings was standing on the porch, speaking on his cell phone. It was cold outside, but he didn't want his daughter to hear the conversation.

Hastings said, “This was not what we planned.”

Eileen said, “You wanted to be with her for Christmas anyway. You said that.”

“I know I said that. That's not the point.”

“Then what?”

“You told her you wanted to spend Christmas with her. That you and her would go to your parents. She's expecting that.”

“George—”

“Eileen, you told her that.”

“She can still go.”

“Go to your parents without you?”

“Why not? You can go too.”

“Are you nuts? Spend Christmas day with my ex-in-laws who can't stand me?”

Eileen paused. Then offered: “Dad thinks you're okay.”

Hastings sighed. Eileen's father didn't seem to feel one way or another about people. When he and Eileen had been married, Eileen's father would give him a handshake without eye contact and then retreat to his office or the television. He didn't seem to have much to say to Eileen either. Which might explain a few things. Eileen's mother, in contrast, had taken an active dislike to Hastings from the start. And it hadn't taken Hastings long to figure out that the old lady resented Eileen for her youthful beauty. All in all, there were more pleasant households to pass time in.

“Eileen, listen to what you're saying: Amy and I should spend Christmas Day at your parents, while you're in Jamaica with your husband. Do you think Amy's going to want to do that?”

“I don't know.”

The offhand tone Eileen used when she said that was something he had heard before. Before and after their divorce. He had never quite gotten used to it.

Hastings said, “She's your daughter.”

“I know she's my daughter.” She sounded almost confused. She said, “Are you giving me attitude?”

“Jesus, Ei— listen, I don't want to have a fight with you. I really don't. But I'm really furious right now.”

“Look, do you want me to explain it to her? I don't mind doing that.”

Christ, Hastings thought. She actually believes she's being generous right now. She actually believes it.

Hastings closed his eyes, opened them. He told himself to slow it down and he tried to do it. In a controlled voice he said, “No, that's all right. I'll take care of it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'll talk to you later, Eileen.”

In the house, Amy was doing her homework. Twelve years old now, and mature beyond her years. Smart like her mother, but different in other respects. More mature, as Eileen herself would tell you. Hastings sometimes wondered if Amy was competing with Eileen; trying to show everyone that she was responsible and had her stuff together and they didn't need to worry about her too. But it didn't seem likely that that was her motive. She just seemed to have figured things out. Or the little bats that had chosen to fly around inside Eileen's head had decided to leave her alone. Eileen, in her thirties now, had a restless nature. She always had to be moving. As if she was afraid that if she sat still, she might have to answer some questions she didn't want to answer. It was one of her ways of hiding things, from herself as much as anyone else. Years ago, Hastings had been vain enough to think he could change her. It seemed to happen a lot in movies, but not so much in real life. His Holly Golightly took off again and probably dumped the cat in Tower Grove Park.

Amy was five when George met Eileen. Eileen had had her unwed. A smart girl from a moderately wealthy family, maybe looking for a husband, maybe not. Good-looking and clever. George fell in love with her when he met her. They married a few months later and he formally adopted Amy a few months after that.

He had wanted to have more children with Eileen, but it wasn't what she wanted. Whatever else could be said about her, she had never deceived him about that. And when she'd left George a few years into their marriage, she had taken steps to make sure that he would have joint custody of the girl he had quickly come to think of as his own. Even when he got angry at Eileen, Hastings would remind himself of that.

George kept their condo in St. Louis Hills. Eileen moved into her next husband's house. A rich personal-injury lawyer, living in West County. Harmless enough guy, though Hastings was relieved that Amy had never taken to him.

Amy was looking at Hastings now, as he walked back in the door.

She said, “Was that Mom on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“She's bailing on me, isn't she?”

She always had been a smart girl.

“She's not bailing on you,” Hastings said. “She just—”

“Got a better offer?”

“She's going to Jamaica with Ted. You can go with them, if you like. But she didn't think you'd want to.”

She was looking at him now. Her lip didn't tremble; perhaps she'd grown used to this.

Finally she said, “She's right, I don't want to go with them. I just think it's shitty, that's all.”

“All right, let's not use language like—”

“Well, it is. She doesn't even tell me herself.”

Hastings said, “Well, we'll figure out something to do.”

A lovely holiday season. Depression, anger, and now anxiety over what to do. Hastings had never cooked a big turkey dinner in his life. Pasta and simple meat dishes were the most he'd ever undertaken. Apart from Eileen's parents, there was no family for either of them. Not in St. Louis. Both of Hastings's parents had passed away. And he had never really gotten along with his father anyway. He had some cousins in Nebraska, where he had been raised, but they were relative strangers to him. His father hadn't been too popular with his siblings, either.

Amy said, “Dad, don't worry about it. I don't mind spending Christmas here. Really, I don't.”

So now they were both lying. Hastings fabricating that thing about Eileen saying Amy could come with her to Jamaica, Amy saying she didn't mind spending Christmas in what would suddenly become a very small, very empty condominium. Gifts of the Magi.

Hastings looked at his cell phone.

Shit. He'd missed a call. It was from Karen Brady, the captain of detectives.

He walked into the kitchen as he pressed her number.

She answered before the second ring.

“George?”

“Yeah, Karen. What's up?”

“We've got a murder and an abduction. In Ladue.”

“Ladue?”

“Yes. Happened a few minutes ago. Or, the body was found a few minutes ago. George, it was right outside this lawyer's house during his Christmas party. There were judges and some city leaders there.”

“Happened at the party?”

“No. Outside. About a hundred yards away. Chief wants you there.”

“Have you called Joe?”

“No. The chief said to call you.”

“All right. I'll call him.”

When he got off the telephone, he looked at Amy with an apologetic expression.

Amy said, “Do you have to go?”

“Yeah. It could be all night.”

She sighed and stood up. “I'll call Randi.”

Randi McGregor was a friend who lived down the street. They went to St. Gabriel School together. When Hastings had a call, it was understood that Amy could stay the night at Randi's house. In exchange, Hastings had cooked many dinners for Randi—her parents were lousy cooks—and there was the small payment of having to listen to Randi's dad talk about Cardinal baseball and whatever else came to his mouth whenever they ran into him at Francis Park. A fair trade.

Hastings was off the phone with Joe when Amy came out of her bedroom with her overnight bag.

FOUR

Sergeant Joe Klosterman was a few years younger than Hastings. He was bigger and heavier and, with the mustache he had worn most of his adult life, looked more like a policeman. Hastings, a lieutenant, was senior to Klosterman. But they were friends. Neither one of them abused his rank.

Earlier in the year, Klosterman had had a cancer scare. The tumor had been successfully removed and he was back at work now and liking it. While he'd been sick, he'd been replaced by Sergeant Bobby Cain. Cain had been an unlikable man but a good detective. Cain was dead now. Murdered.

If Klosterman thought there was anything ironic about it—his replacement dying of gunshot wounds while he had feared dying of cancer—he had not said so.

Hastings arrived at the Fisher house in a brown 1987 Jaguar XJ6. It was his police unit, the product of a seizure made pursuant to the RICO Act, which the department had given to his homicide team. The previous owner had replaced the stock engine with a Corvette V-8. It was a fast car and it made a beautiful burble when it idled.

There was a police tag in his windshield and they let him drive through the front gate and up the driveway. When Hastings got out of the car, he had a sense of being early. Not that there was a lack of people. In fact, there were too many. Civilians, that is. Too many civilians. Goddamn party. He saw a middle-aged man talking to a couple of uniformed police officers. He went up and identified himself.

The man extended his hand and Hastings found himself shaking it.

“Sam Fisher,” he said. “And you are?” Asserting authority to civil service.

Christ, Hastings thought. He said, “Lieutenant Hastings. Sir, is this your home?”

“Yes.” Fisher seemed almost taken aback by the tone.

Hastings said, “Would you help us out, please? If these people haven't witnessed anything, would you please get them out of here? Now.”

“Well, sure.”

“Thank you.”

Hastings said, “I'll want to talk to you later. Is that all right with you?”

“Well, sure.”

He went on his way, his ego a little less bruised by Hastings's parting deference. Hastings turned to the patrol officers.

“Where's the sergeant in command?”

“Over there, Lieutenant.”

With the patrol sergeant's help, they got the area thinned out and cordoned off. Yellow tape went up and the medical examiners and technicians relaxed. Somewhat.

By the time Hastings got to the body, Klosterman was already there.

On the ground was a corpse of a young man. White male, midtwenties, good clothes. Most of his face was gone. The police photographer was walking around the body, snapping shots of visible wounds, bloodstains, stepping near him for the close-ups.

Klosterman said, “Shot three times. Once in the face.”

Hastings looked up and down the road. Different-colored mansions on both sides of the street. Ladue. Some of the most high-dollar real estate in the Midwest.

Hastings said, “Out here?”

“Yeah,” Klosterman said. “It's strange. It doesn't seem like a domestic assault or drug feud. We don't know … there was a girl with him.”

“Who?”

“Young lady. Name is Cordelia Penmark. Recognize that name?”

“No.”

“Her father is Eugene Penmark. That's what I've been told anyway.”

“By?”

“A couple of the guests. Attorneys who knew this young man.”

“Who is he?”

“His name was Tom Myers. Young attorney, starting out his career.” Klosterman paused. Then said, “It's a fragile thing, isn't it?” He had a son of his own, in high school.

“Yeah,” Hastings said. They were neither one of them given to being maudlin. The nature of the work made that impossible. But looking at the young man, Hastings thought of his own age. Forty now. Not old enough to have a son of that age, but old enough to have a grown son. Hastings said, “Shit.” He turned to Klosterman. “You said something about a girl?”