The Bottle Ghosts (24 page)

“What did you think might have happened?”

“Well, I thought at first he'd gone off on a bender, but he'd really been doing well: he'd been sober for a couple of months. I think the group really helped on that.”

“Excuse me for asking, but were you two getting along? Did Mr. DeCarlo…uh…play around?”

Barnett grinned—a very sexy grin, as my crotch immediately noted. “Fred and I had…an arrangement, but not the usual one you might think of. We never just went off one on one; we did three ways pretty regularly. That's how I met Lynn, in case you were wondering.”

The boy's a mind reader,
I thought.

A really hot one
, my crotch volunteered.

He gave a head-nod to a photo on the table beside my chair; a studio portrait shot of a very sexy guy around thirty, straddling a wooden chair with his arms folded across the back.

“That's Lynn. Pretty hot, huh?”

Oh, my, yes!
my crotch said.

“Yeah, really.”

I decided I'd better move right ahead before things heated up any more than I sensed they already were.

“So when did you go to the police, and when did you come to the conclusion that Mr. DeCarlo might be dead?”

“I held off calling the police several days. I checked everyone and everyplace I could think of first. Friends, relatives, bars, the hospitals. Nothing. So then I went to the police as a last resort. They didn't exactly instill confidence that he'd turn up any time soon, but they assured me that most missing men
do
turn up.”

He stretched his open palms along the tops of his legs (
his
great
legs,
my crotch amended), and gave a deep sigh.

“But after a while…. At first when I began to think he was probably dead, I kept calling the police asking if they'd found anyone. They hadn't. I even went to Fred's dentist and got copies of his dental records and took them down to the police, just in case. Nothing.”

He was quiet a moment, his face reflecting a mixture of sadness and resignation.

“So I gave up and decided it was time to get on with my life. I couldn't really do that if I kept thinking Fred might still be alive somewhere.” He paused, his eyes apparently focused on a spot just over my left shoulder. Suddenly, realizing he'd wandered off, he refocused his eyes on mine, and continued.

“Anyway, Lynn started coming by to console me, and one thing led to another, and…” he looked at me intently. “Do you think you'll be able to find out what happened?”

“I hope so,” I said, sincerely. “What can you tell me about the Qualicare group? Anything you can think of now that might not have occurred to you before?”

He thought a minute.

“Do you remember everyone who belonged when you did?”

More thought, then slowly: “No last names, but…Benicio, Ted, Jay, Victor, John, Keith, Carl…maybe a couple others I can't remember…Andy? Not everybody was at every meeting.”

“Did you ever socialize with any of them?”

Barnett shook his head.

“No, that was a ‘no-no'; Oaks made that pretty clear. I remember that new receptionist…Nowell…though. What a number that one was! Fred and I thought about asking him if he was into three ways—we figured a little socializing with him would be okay, since he wasn't a member of the group.”

“And did you?”

“Ask him? I didn't. Fred might have. If he did, the answer was obviously no.”

“Do you remember anything in particular about any of the other members?”

His lower jaw moved slightly forward, and the tip of his tongue appeared at the corner of his partially open mouth as he thought.

Oh, this guy is
hot
,
my crotch whispered.

I told it to shut up.

“Well, Carl has a chip on his shoulder about the size of a small Sequoia. I felt sorry for Jay. He's way too cute to have to put up with that shit. And then there was Keith sitting there like a statue with his Bible; that always bothered me somehow; and Paul breaking into tears just about every time I saw him over how he hated being a drunk, and then they wouldn't show up for the next meeting because he was out getting smashed, though Frank would always have a good excuse as to why they'd missed the meeting. And Andy making a pass at everyone while poor John just sat there. He's another one who could do a lot better for himself.” He stopped for a moment, then looked at me. “That's about all I can think of.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was about time to go. “Well, thanks again for your time, Mr. Barnett…”

“Greg,” he corrected with a very slow breaking smile that spread into something more.

“…I really appreciate it. And if I find out anything at all, I'll let you know, I promise.”

The smile faded for a moment, and he said: “Please don't misunderstand, Mr.—”

“Dick,” I said quickly.

“…Dick…. If I had any real hope that Fred was still alive—any at all—but I don't and there is nothing I can do about it and that frustrates the hell out of me. What really bothers me is that if he is dead, where is he? Why hasn't anyone found him?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “While Fred was far from perfect and I'm pretty sure that if he kept on drinking the alcohol would have killed him eventually, I could maybe have accepted that easier than this not knowing. It may sound odd, but I do still love him and wish he were back.” He sighed again, heavily. “But he won't be back, and I've simply got to keep going.”

“I understand,” I said as I got up from my chair; and I did understand.

He got up, too, and walked me to the door.

As we shook hands, he held it just a bit longer than normal and looked at me closely.

“Are you any chance into three ways?” he asked with a smile.

Yes! Yes we are! Yes!
my crotch said eagerly.

“Used to be, but I'm in a relationship now, and…”

He released the handshake, but kept the smile.

“No problem,” he said, and opened the door.

You know, you
used
to be a lot of fun,
my crotch grumbled.

I ignored it and walked to the car.

Chapter 10

Only a block or so from Riverside Park, Ridge is a pleasant residential street of older, 1930s style bungalows, and Brian Oaks' home was a classic example. A large, full front porch, Tudor beam motif beneath the eaves of the second floor, which extended over the porch and was supported by heavy wooden square-post columns. Solid, no nonsense houses with a warmth and charm that all but disappeared after the end of WWII. It sat, as did all its neighbors, well back from the street on a relatively narrow lot, with a driveway running close beside the house, leading to a one-car garage at the rear. On the neighbors' side of the drive was a tall hedge which provided privacy for both houses, and on either side of the driveway was a narrow strip of grass, then a sidewalk directly beside the house.

A small, discreet sign on one of the columns beside the porch stairs dissuaded Oaks' clients from climbing to the porch by pointing toward the driveway with the words: “Office Entrance.”

I'd arrived a few minutes early, as always, and parked across the street. I sat in the car waiting for two o'clock, taking the opportunity to just relax and enjoy the warm afternoon. I idly watched a young boy approach, pulling a wagon with a much smaller girl riding in it. She was clutching the sides of the wagon as though she was going ninety miles an hour and feared being thrown out. They approached and passed me, the little girl returning my grin and turning her head to watch me as they moved past. I followed them in my rear view mirror until they passed out of sight.

I saw someone emerge from the rear of Oaks' house and walk up the driveway to a car parked directly in front of the house. I waited until he had driven off, then got out of the car and crossed the street.

There were only perhaps 8 feet between the back of the house and the front of the garage, but I could see tall hedges on the far side of the property as well, with an equally tall wooden fence across the back of the lot.

The screen door at the rear of the house had another small sign: “Come in,” and as I opened it I heard a soft, one-note chime. I entered the house to see a closed door directly to my right (to the basement, I imagined) and four steps leading up into a small, very comfortable room with two chairs, a table with a brass lamp flanked by neatly stacked magazines. A partially open door across from the chairs revealed a small bathroom with another door on the far side. On the third wall was yet another door that I assumed led to Oak's office. The limited wall space featured several really nice paintings and watercolors, which I assumed to be the work of Oaks' lover, Chad.

I heard nothing from inside the house, so I idly went to the window between the chairs and looked out onto the picture-perfect back yard, which was lined with large flowerbeds and, almost all the way across the back quarter of the yard, a healthy-looking garden. Jonathan would love it.

I'd just picked up a copy of the most recent National Geographic when the door to the office opened, and Oaks invited me in.

Like the reception area, the office was small but very pleasant. There was a wall of bookcases behind Oaks' highly polished desk, a very comfortable looking wing-back leather chair in front of the desk, with another beside the door leading to the rest of the house.

We shook hands, and Oaks motioned me to the chair facing the desk, behind which he moved to sit in a very untypical upholstered armchair covered in a blended fabric of warm pastels. The guy obviously had taste, and the money to indulge it.

“So what can I do for you, Dick?” He looked at me with a very wry smile.

“Well, first of all, I'd like to apologize to you for the subterfuge of Jonathan and my joining the group. But it really was the only way I could think of to get the information I needed.”

A raised eyebrow. “Which was…?”

Okay, Hardesty…what now?
my mind asked. With Oaks as likely a suspect as anyone else, how much should I let him know I knew? My pussyfooting around trying not to let the…still hard to say “killer” without having a body…“whatever” know I was aware several men were missing just might have contributed to his feeling confident enough to do whatever it was he did with Andy Phillips.

I took a deep mental breath.

“Which was,” I began…

I told him basically everything: who from the group was missing, when they had disappeared, and how I had found out about them. I tried to read his reactions as I talked, and as I listed the names of the missing he paled noticeably and I could almost see in his eyes the reverberations of each little depth charge as it went off in his head, but his overall expression of professional attentiveness never changed. I did not tell him of meeting with his brother or what that conversation had revealed about his first lover. Nor did I point out what I'm sure was obvious to him without my saying anything: that his own policies of not having group members know one another's last names, of discouraging any social interaction outside the group, and apparently not bothering to follow up on members who left the group to see
why
they'd left had all contributed significantly to the ki…to the guy responsible's…ability to get away with it all so easily.

When I'd finished, we sat in silence for a full minute. His face had regained its color, and the expression of professional attentiveness relaxed to the point of allowing him to gently chew the corner of his lower lip.

Finally, he shook his head slowly and said, as had Bradshaw in my office, the obvious: “Why?”

“Obviously because,” I said, paraphrasing what John had said about Carl when we talked at the M.C.C., “somebody in the group really, really hates alcoholics.”

“That much?” It was as if he was asking himself rather than me.

“That much.”

His eyes dropped to the top of his desk, studying something only he could see, and his head moved slowly back and forth as if denying his thoughts. Finally, he brought his eyes back to mine.

“What do you need from me?”

“For starters, what can you tell me about the members of the group? What do you know of their personal backgrounds?”

He shook his head again, slowly. “Only what comes up in the meetings.”

“Are you seeing any of the members in your private practice?”

“You know I couldn't tell you if I were. Patient-doctor privilege extends to psychologists and licensed counselors—and as you know to counseling sessions—in this state.”

“Yes, and there's a little tag on every mattress that says it cannot be removed under penalty of law. I can't recall anyone going to prison over it.”

Oaks gave a small smile. “Point, but still…”

“Look, I can certainly appreciate the strict adherence to confidentiality when it's a one-on-one situation between you and a patient, but the very nature of a group situation dilutes the practicality of enforcement. And I'm not asking for anything I wouldn't have heard myself if I'd joined the group from the start. And the bottom line is that we're talking not just about disappearance, but probable murder.”