No One Needs to Know (41 page)

“You know, I always kind of figured Uncle Marty . . .” He trailed off. “But Pop wasn’t associated with them, was he?”

Doris nodded. “Yes, honey, your dear dad was working for them, too—about forty-five years ago.”

The gondola swayed back and forth as the wheel rotated again for another loading. They were a bit higher now, looking down through the mist at the pier and the rain-dashed bay.

“I thought Pop had a construction job,” Adam murmured.

“Who do you think owned the construction company?”

Adam wondered if this was the deep, dark family secret. Or was it worse than that?

“Pop didn’t ever kill anyone, did he?”

She glanced down at the bay and sighed. “Your dear father is one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met. Back when all this started, he was supporting your widowed grandmother and paying for his night classes. Your grandfather wasn’t exactly Mister Money Smarts, and he left them pretty broke. Dino borrowed money at work, and just got in too deep with the wrong people. But they gave him a break. They realized they had a good, hardworking kid in their employ, so they gave him extra work. They had your father running errands and driving people around, nothing else—nothing too heavy-duty. He got out from under them in 1971. He paid back his debts and kept his mouth shut.”

They were still loading people on the big wheel. Adam shifted restlessly on the bench. “Did my father have anything to do with the Styles-Jordan murders?”

She nodded. “Yes, but only remotely.”

“But how could he be involved? A bunch of hippies killed those people. The evidence was overwhelming . . .”

Suddenly, Adam felt his stomach lurch. The Ferris wheel was moving steadily now, taking them up over the water. Through the rain-beaded glass, they looked across at the Highway 99 viaduct and the city skyline. In the other direction was the Olympic mountain range. Down below, the people on the pier had shrunk to thimble size.

But Doris ignored the scenery. She gazed directly at him. “You’re right, sweetie,” she said. “That awful Trent Hooper character and his followers murdered those poor movie people. Your father didn’t have anything to do with that part of it.”

“Well, then what—”

“The group your father was working for started their own investigation of the case.”

Adam squinted at her. “You’re saying mobsters conducted an investigation into the Styles-Jordan murders?”

“Who better?” Doris replied. “Haven’t you heard that old saying, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief’? Well, these local mob boys were hired by someone with a lot of clout down in L.A. to find Elaina Styles’ killers. And don’t ask me who this big shot was, because I haven’t a clue. But I can tell you this, the local mob guys found the killers before the police did. Your dad was on the team with three other guys. He was doing his usual grunt work, driving mostly.”

“So, what happened?”

Doris sighed, and moved her purse into her lap. “What happened is everyone died.”

“I know,” Adam said. “They all committed suicide . . .”

She shook her head. “I’m not talking about Trent Hooper and his clan. I’m talking about the three men on the investigating team. Your father is the only one still alive.”

“What are you talking about?”

She leaned toward him, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Something happened at that farm where Hooper and his cronies died. Your dad and the other three showed up there a whole day before the police found that group dead. What exactly went on, I don’t know. But I’m not sure I buy this ‘group suicide.’ I tried to get the truth out of Marty once, but all he could tell me was, ‘Things got messy.’ I have a feeling even he doesn’t know any of the details.”

Adam stared at her. He’d seen a photo on Wikipedia of the group suicide at Biggs Farm. Some of the victims had been children. Doris was telling him that his dad may have had a hand in that. He glanced down at tiny boats in the water below, and the people—like dots—on the pier. He felt sick. He couldn’t breathe right. “Well, isn’t there—” He swallowed hard. “Isn’t there anyone who knows what really happened that day?”

“Your father,” she said. “I’m guessing he must have broken down and told Dean at one point. That would account for the strain on their relationship. You don’t look so good, honey. Your color’s off. I’ve ridden this thing before. The trick is, don’t look down. Keep focused on me . . .” She opened her purse. “Do you want a peppermint?”

Adam nodded. “Thanks.”

She started searching through her purse. “Marty thinks your brother must have said something to the wrong person—or maybe he was seen talking to the wrong person. Something along those lines is probably what got him killed, God rest his soul . . .” She fished out a red-and-white swirled hard candy, and handed it to him. “Here you go, hon.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, peeling off the cellophane wrapper. “So what happened to the three men on the investigating team?”

“One of them was shot to death about ten years ago,” Doris said somberly. “I don’t know the details. The second one died of a heart attack last year—or at least, they said it looked like a heart attack. The third one on the team was a fellow named Freddie Rothschild. I didn’t know him very well, but Marty did. He moved down to Phoenix last year, but never got completely out of the business the way Marty and your dad did. In that line of work, the walls have ears. There’s always someone watching and listening—and willing to sell information they’ve picked up. That’s why we’re talking in here—in this space capsule thingee.” She gave a nod to their surroundings. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

Adam sucked on the peppermint. “Better, thanks.”

“Where was I?”

“Freddie Rothschild, and the walls had ears.”

Doris nodded. “About four months ago, they announced this
7/7/70
movie was going to be made—with all sorts of shocking revelations about the case. Well, someone wasn’t very happy about it. The writer of that movie script was the first to go. The police called it an accident, but anyone with half a brain could tell you it was a hit.” She glanced out at the Olympics for a moment, and then sighed. “Not long after that, a couple of unsavory characters from ‘the old gang’ approached Marty, and asked just how far gone your father was with the Alzheimer’s.”

“It’s not officially Alzheimer’s, Aunt Doris. Technically, he’s still in the early stages of dementia.”

“Alzheimer’s, dementia, whatever you want to call it,” she said impatiently. “The point is, these guys had already checked up on your dad. Marty told them Dino wasn’t doing well at all. If you ask me, I think that’s what saved your father’s life. That’s why they left him alone. But Freddie Rothschild wasn’t sick. His memory wasn’t failing him. They started watching him. Your uncle Marty thinks they even bugged his home down in Phoenix. The story goes that about three months ago, a woman from Seattle met with Freddie and she grilled him about the Elaina Styles murders.”

“Do you know the woman’s name?” Adam asked.

Doris frowned. “No, and I have to admit, a lot of this is what the lawyers in their pinstriped suits call ‘hearsay. ’ This is just what I’ve pieced together from tidbits I’ve gotten during lunches with a couple of the wives from the old days—and from whatever your uncle Marty has told me after a couple of martinis.”

“Did anyone ever mention someone named Laurie Trotter?” he asked.

Doris frowned and shook her head. “No, that doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, I don’t know what transpired between Fred and this woman from Seattle. But Fred was killed not long after their meeting. It was about ten weeks ago. The police called it a house robbery gone haywire. Somebody stuck a—a thing in his eye and it went right into his head . . .”

“What kind of a thing?”

She shrugged. “They said it could have been a very thin, long knife, or some kind of thick needle. Anyway, whatever it was, it killed him.”

“What about this woman in Seattle?” Adam pressed. He was still thinking about Laurie—and her boss. “What have you heard about her?”

“Well, if she isn’t already dead, my guess is she isn’t long for this world.” Doris reached across and took his hand in hers. “And sweetie, you’re going to be in the same boat as her if you keep asking people questions about your father’s past and the Elaina Styles murder case. Your uncle Marty believes that’s why your brother and his dear wife were killed the way they were. He thinks it was—in part—a warning to anyone with any inside knowledge of the case to keep their mouths shut.”

Adam scowled. “But that’s kind of stupid. I mean, killing Dean and Joyce that way just stirred up even more interest in those old murders.”

“Yes, among those people who don’t have a clue about what really happened,” Doris said. “But to the few of us who know that those killings—and the suicides—weren’t all they appeared to be, well, those people got the message loud and clear.” She squeezed his hand. “That’s why your uncle Marty is so worried about you, honey.”

Adam had lost track of how many rotations the big wheel had made, but he was pretty certain they were now on the descent of their last round. He was still trying to fathom everything his Aunt Doris had just told him. “So, basically, you’re saying the mob killed Dean and Joyce . . .”

“Someone very powerful is pulling the strings here,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s that big shot in L.A., if he’s still around. Whoever it is, he probably hired a local mob hit man or a professional assassin. Your uncle Marty says what happened to Dean and Joyce was a professional hit. He also said the hit must have been carried out by someone who really loves their job . . .”

The wheel stopped to unload and reload people in the gondola in front of them.

“Promise me you won’t talk about this with anyone else,” Doris said. “Not only for your sake and your sweet father’s sake—but also because your uncle Marty and I would like to stick around and enjoy his retirement for a few more years.”

“I promise,” Adam said. But already, he was thinking about comparing notes with Laurie. And as much as he loathed it, he’d need to talk with his father about this—during one of his dad’s lucid moments. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the very real possibility that his father had been involved in that “group suicide.”

“So, take your aunt Doris’s advice, honey,” she said. “Act dumb. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes peeled for the land mines.”

Adam nodded. “Thanks, Aunt Doris.”

Their gondola was close to the ground now, next for unloading. Through the rain-beaded glass dome, he gazed at the people on the pier. Most of them were looking up at the Great Wheel.

But there was one woman who caught his attention. Dressed in black, she stood off by herself along the pier railing. She was a strange looking woman with tangled, raven hair and a long, pale face. She wasn’t looking up.

She was staring directly at him.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Thursday, July 10, 6:41
P.M.

Seattle

“S
o the ‘Seattle woman’ who met with Freddie What’s-his-name in Phoenix, that must have been Cheryl—or possibly Maureen.”

Laurie sat with Adam in the kitchen at the yellow dinette set she’d inherited from Maureen. Joey was beside them in his high chair. He’d just finished eating his chicken with SpaghettiOs, much of which ended up on his bib, his high-chair tray, and the floor.

Laurie had thrown together some pasta carbonara for Adam and herself. This was the first time she’d sat down to dinner with a man since Brian died. It was hardly romantic with Joey there, but it felt good. His very presence in the apartment was reassuring—and seemed to break a sad, lonely hex on the place. Plus he was a nice man. Earlier, when Joey had hurled a fistful of SpaghettiOs at him, Adam had just laughed it off.

When she’d buzzed him in about ninety minutes ago, he’d seemed slightly shell-shocked. He’d admitted he was still bewildered over a long conversation he’d had with his aunt earlier in the afternoon. “I think my dad might have somehow been involved in what happened to Trent Hooper and his followers,” he’d said.

“You mean the group suicide?”

“My aunt isn’t so sure it was a suicide.”

Then Adam had recounted everything his aunt had told him. They’d analyzed it all through dinner.

“It must have been Cheryl,” Laurie said, pushing aside her plate. She’d hardly touched her carbonara. “Cheryl went down to Phoenix to talk to this Fred person, and he was killed. Not long after that, her food truck blew up—with Maureen in it. I think they were going after Cheryl and Maureen just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Look at Cheryl’s pattern. She campaigned to get this film catering job, and it wasn’t just so she could serve up food to movie stars. She was after something else. Dolly caught on to that early. Cheryl was trying to get her hands on the movie script, because it was supposed to have new information about the murders in it . . .”

Adam nodded. “My aunt Doris said the screenwriter was murdered because somebody didn’t want that information coming out.”

“I think Dolly Ingersoll was killed for the same reason. She was going to ‘rip the lid’ off the case, and look what happened to her.” Laurie tossed her napkin on the plate. “Would you like some more?”

“Oh, no thank you, but that was incredible.” He patted his stomach. “I can’t believe I ate like I did. This is the first time I’ve had an appetite since Sunday.”

Laurie took their plates to the sink. She wet a dishtowel and returned to the table and wiped off Joey’s face and hands. “Anyway, as I was saying about Cheryl’s pattern. She’s been trying to land a special catering gig with Evergreen Manor, too. I think it’s an excuse to get inside the place and talk to your father. I have a feeling that’s why she met with your brother in Volunteer Park last week . . .”

“My aunt said Dean may have been killed because he was seen talking to the wrong person,” Adam said. “Maybe someone else besides you saw them in the park that afternoon.”

Laurie stopped swabbing Joey’s hands. She turned to look at Adam. If his aunt was right, the same person may have seen her—with Joey.