The Bottle Ghosts (30 page)

I got back to the apartment around one o'clock and was unlocking the door when I heard the phone ring. I hurried in to answer it.

“Dick, it's Mark Richman. I tried you at work, but took a chance you might be home. Meet me at the boat ramp at Riverside Park. Now.” And he hung up.

Riverside Park? The boat ramp? That's just a block away from…

Ohhhh,
shit!

*

Four squad cars, a couple grey, unmarked four-door sedans, an ambulance, and numerous other cars were clumped to either side of the boat ramp, where a large wrecker was backed to the water's edge, its cable stretched tight into the water, like a fishing line reeling in a very big fish. A uniformed officer tried to keep me from approaching the ramp, but I saw Richman standing with a group of men and managed to call to him. I pointed the officer's attention to him, and at a nod from Richman, he let me pass.

As I reached the group, the rear end of a car broke the surface of the water. I didn't have to ask whose car it was.

Chapter 13

Brian Oaks was in the front seat, behind the steering wheel, his seat-belt fastened securely. I wanted very much to throw up, but didn't dare in front of Richman and the others.

“Some kids fishing right over there…” Detective Carpenter said to me a few minutes later, pointing a short distance from the ramp, “…saw some clothes popping up to the surface. A patrol car was passing by, and the kids flagged it down.”

Oaks' body was removed from the vehicle after a police photographer had shot what seemed like ten rolls of film, and kept on shooting as Oaks was laid on a stretcher. A paramedic checked the body and then stood up to talk with Richman, Couch (who had not looked at me since I arrived), and Carpenter. I moved closer to hear the paramedic say: “…until the coroner takes a look, but I can't find a mark on him other than that small cut on his forehead. Looks like he just drove into the river.”

As they were loading Oaks' body into the ambulance, Richman drew me aside. “I don't normally come out on things like this,” he said—which of course I already knew, since he was in Department Administration, not Homicide, “but when I heard they'd found a car in the river so close to Oaks' place I put two and two together. I called you because…well, because you've done the bulk of the work on this case, and I figured we owed you.”

“I appreciate that, Lieutenant.” I nearly used his first name, but we'd established an unwritten rule that while he was on duty, I only used his title. “So you think Oaks committed suicide?”

He looked at me strangely and said: “That would wrap it all up neatly, wouldn't it? But, no, I don't. And neither do you.”

“You're right. But we'll have to wait for the coroner's report. What odds would you give that it
…isn't
a broken neck?”

“Less than zero.”

We stood there in silence as the ambulance drove away and the wrecker secured Oaks' car to the tow bar and it, too, drove off.

“Oh,” Richman said, “and I got that information on Whitaker for you, for what it's worth.”

“What did you find out?”

“The three people killed in the crash were a mother, father, and their twelve year old daughter.”

“What was their last name?” I asked, hoping against hope to find the missing piece to the puzzle.

“Hogan,” Richman said.

*

Well, one thing was for damned sure: I wasn't about to go flying off to St. Louis until I knew for sure how Oaks had died. It was still remotely possible that it was suicide. But why would he go to all the trouble of packing up his clothes if he intended to drive into the river less than two blocks away? And if he were intending to kill himself, why bother burying his lover at all? Just leave him in the house.

When I left Richman, I drove to a pay phone and called Glen O'Banyon's office. He of course was not in, but I asked Donna, his secretary, to tell him that I had to postpone my departure, and asking him to call me at home when he had a chance. I didn't feel quite as badly about not going as I might have had he not told me the trial had been shoved back a couple weeks anyway.

It was nearing 3:30, so I called Jonathan's work and asked them to tell him I'd had a change of plans and would pick him up when he got off.

I had about half an hour before I had to go get Jonathan, so I drove back to the park and walked down the now-empty boat ramp to the water's edge, where I just stood, listening to the river and the wind exchanging whispered secrets, and staring out to the spot where the rear end of Oaks' car had broken the surface of the water.

*

Jonathan came out to the car, which I'd parked directly in front of the office, looking both happy and puzzled.

“What happened? Why didn't you go to St. Louis? I mean, I'm really glad you didn't, but…”

I told him everything as we drove off toward home. He didn't say a word, just shook his head slowly back and forth.

“I can't believe it,” he said, affirming what was clearly written on his face. “I feel terrible! God! And imagine how Nowell is going to feel when he finds out!”

“Did you see him today?”

“Oh, yeah. He came over to talk to me for a few minutes on his break. I think he likes me…” he shot me a quick look, realizing what he'd said. “I mean, not
that
way. At least I hope not! He's never said anything, and you know I'd never…”

I reached out and patted him on the leg. “I know.”

“I told him about my wrecking the car, and…”

“Jonathan, you did not wreck the car. Just dented it a little,” I hastened to correct him.

“Well, to me that's wrecking it.”

Did I just hear the faint sound of sirens?
my mind asked, and I was immediately alert.

“Did you tell him how it happened?”

“I just told him that I really shouldn't try to drink and drive at the same time, and that I could have killed somebody.”

Whoa!

“You told him
what
?” I saw his head jerk back in surprise.

“I told him I really shouldn't try to drink and drive at the same…” he stopped, realizing what his words implied. “Oh! You think maybe he thought I was
drinking
…? It was a Coke! I was
drinking
a Coke.”

The sirens in my head were much louder, now.

“And how did he react? Did he say anything?”

Jonathan thought, then shook his head. “No. He just looked at his watch and said he had to get back to work. That was it.”

Driving! Drinking and driving! That was the key!
And why the hell didn't I catch it before?

Andy Phillips had violated his drunk driving license suspension by driving to the meeting before he disappeared. I knew at least several of the other missing had lost their licenses for driving while drunk; it might well be that all of them had. Drunk drivers kill people. The only one I knew of who actually had been in a fatal accident was Charles Whitaker. But he was the first to go missing. Maybe somebody was just making sure it wouldn't happen again. Thank God Jonathan hadn't said what he said to Nowell in the front of the whole group.

But he
had
said it to Nowell.

Thoughts kept pounding on the doors of my mind like the townsfolk storming Frankenstein's castle, but I refused to open those doors. I forced myself to concentrate on getting us home safely.

Jonathan sensed my mood and remained silent for the rest of the drive. When I turned the corner leading to the alley behind our apartment, I noted the alley entrance was blocked off while they poured a new ramp and sidewalk. Mildly pissed, I drove around the block and came in from the other direction.

Where were the bodies?
my mind asked.

Where in the hell did
that
come from?
I wondered. But then I knew.

“Jonathan, when did Andy Phillips disappear?” I asked, half rhetorically, as we walked into the building.

“I think John said the seventeenth?”

I nodded, looking for the apartment door key. “And when did they pour that slab between the Family Care building and that new building next door?”

I opened the door and we went in.

“It was about that time, I guess. Same week, I think. Why?”

“Just wondered,” I lied.

I would call Richman first thing in the morning and ask him to check with the construction company for the exact date. All the little bits and pieces of thought and conjecture and ideas and possibilities that had been circling around in my mind like an asteroid belt all this time were beginning to come together, forming a bigger and bigger certainty. Still a lot of speculation in there, but…

First, I'd call Tim. If Oaks had gotten to the coroner before Tim left work, maybe he might have had time to find out what I was almost positive I already knew. He probably wasn't home yet, but I was too impatient to wait. While Jonathan was in the kitchen making my Manhattan—I'd told him I could make it myself, but he knew I was preoccupied with other things—I dialed Tim and Phil's.

Phil answered.

“Hello?”

“Phil, hi. Is Tim by any chance home yet?”

“Why, I'm fine, Dick, and how are you?” I could tell he was teasing, but I still felt a little embarrassed.

“Sorry, Phil,” I said. “There's a lot going on, and…”

“That's okay. I understand. But aren't you supposed to be in St. Louis?”

“A long, long story.”

“I look forward to hearing it when you get the chance. We were going to call Jonathan and ask him over for dinner if Tim hadn't called to say they'd brought somebody in a little before his shift's end. He said he wouldn't have to stick around for the entire autopsy, though, so he'll be home soon, I hope.” There was a pause.

“I'm guessing that ‘somebody' is what you want to talk to him about.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Well, I'll have him call you the minute he comes in the door.”

“I'd appreciate that, Phil. Thanks. Talk with you later.”

*

I was about halfway through my Manhattan, talking with Jonathan about calling out for pizza instead of cooking, when the phone rang. I nearly spilled my drink in my haste to get to it.

“Hi, Dick…” Tim's voice began.

“Broken neck.”

“Broken neck. Somebody definitely knows what he's doing, though. Necks aren't that easy to break. I'd imagine offhand that the blood you found on the carpet and the cut on his head were caused after he was killed: probably he fell forward after his neck broke and whoever did it didn't catch him in time. They haven't done the complete autopsy yet, but I don't think they'll find much else wrong with him. And they sure won't find any water in his lungs from the car going into the river.”

There was a pause, then: “I assume you have some idea of what's going on, here.”

I sighed.

“Yeah, I'm getting there. Fast. I'll fill you in as soon as I'm sure, okay?”

“We're looking forward to it.”

We hung up shortly thereafter, and Jonathan called Momma Rosa's for pizza.

The kid who delivered it was not Jeff Barber, but cute in his own right.

They're
all
cute,
my mind said.
It's in their contract.

I was in the kitchen getting us a couple more Cokes when the phone rang.

“I'll get it,” Jonathan said, and had just picked it up as I came back into the room.

“Oh, hi, Nowell,” he said, looking at me with a surprised expression.

I immediately mouthed “I'm in St. Louis” and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said in response to something I could not hear. “Uh, well…yeah…No, he's in St. Louis—I thought I told you that…. No, I won't say anything. He already called me tonight…. Sure, I guess I can.” Long pause. “Well, that's kind of late. I have to work tomorrow…. Well, okay. I'll see you there, then.”

He hung up and looked at me, his initial surprised expression replaced by puzzlement.

“Nowell wants me to meet him at Qualicare.”

“When?” I felt my stomach sinking toward my toes.

“Tonight. He said he wants to talk to me about Brian.”

“You can't go,” I said. In that instant it all came together. Everything. I knew.

“Why?”

And I told him.

The words gushed out like water from the spillway of a dam. Whether it all made sense to Jonathan I couldn't tell, but once I'd started talking I couldn't stop, and he just listened, his eyes as big as saucers.

I had very nearly gotten him killed once before when he'd volunteered to help me on a case, and I was not about to risk putting him in danger again.