The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

  “No way.”

  “Did you ask around to see if anybody saw someone tampering with it?”

  “What, do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I sure as shit don’t want to call attention to this case!”

  “Why not?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Because,” he said, enunciating as if he were speaking to a retarded person, “it is where I keep all the stuff I need to get me through.”

  Oh. The case was where he kept his drug stash. “Rats, why don’t you lock it, then?”

  “Lock’s broken and I haven’t gotten it together to have it fixed. Besides, the case is kind of a symbol.”

  “Of what?”

  He drew himself up with as much dignity as one who resembles an opossum can muster. “It’s a symbol of my trust in my fellow man. So long as nobody tampered with it, I had some hope for humanity. Now…” He looked down, gave the case a vicious kick, and slouched out of the room.

  I stared after him. He had to be putting me on! Virgil Rattray, clinging to vestiges of hope for humanity?

  The mere concept rendered me speechless.

  RAE’S DIARY:

  8:59 P.M., MDT

  Speechless. That was how the news about Veronica Keel’s condition left me. The accident had made her a vegetable: completely paralyzed and brain-damaged.

  I felt so awful for her, when the woman on the desk at Parkview Convalescent Home told me, that for a minute I didn’t even consider how Keel’s disability would affect my investigation. Then it sunk in and I let my breath out in a long, disappointed sigh.

  The woman said, “You’re not a relative?”

  “No. Just a… friend of her sister, Patricia Terriss. Has she come to visit lately?”

  “No one ever visits. I thought Mrs. Keel had no family.”

  “Oh, yes, she has a sister.” I hesitated, then began embroidering upon my story like the great little liar I can sometimes be. “You see, Pat was my roommate in Texas, and when she moved out she left behind these paintings—for safekeeping, you know? And my new boyfriend, he’s an art dealer. He looked at them and it turns out they’re quite valuable. He’s got this client who wants to buy them, but I haven’t been able to locate Pat, but I know she could use the money because she hasn’t gotten her singing career off the ground yet, so—”

  I noticed the woman’s expression and stopped talking. She was looking at me as though she found me fascinating—the way she’d find a freak in a sideshow fascinating, that is. Shar has warned me time and again not to get carried away with my cover stories, but I can’t help myself. Maybe someday I’ll become a writer, after all.

  Lamely, I added, “So I was wondering if your records would show a current address for her. As next of kin, maybe.”

  “The records office is closed for the evening, and I wouldn’t know how to access the information.”

  “Is there someone else on the staff who could help me?”

  The woman tapped the eraser end of her pencil on the desk—eager to get rid of me, no doubt. “Well,” she said, “you might try Nurse Finch. She’s been here for years, and Mrs. Keel is one of her patients.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Follow the blue line to the nurses’ station in the south wing.”

  I followed the blue line, trying not to take too much notice of my surroundings. The benches along the hallway were empty, but a pair of old men in pajamas and bathrobes slumbered in wheelchairs, their pale ankles bare and vulnerable between their cuffs and slippers—people the world and, apparently, the nursing staff had forgotten. From open doors to either side came coughs and groans and wheezes and the mutterings of TVs. A medicinal odor overlay the more subtle smells of sickness and decay.

  I don’t want to end my days like this, I thought. And then I remembered my parents, drunk and dying in a fiery crash on the coast road near Pismo Beach. That wasn’t such a great way to go, either. Of course, there was my grandmother—dropping over of a massive heart attack at seventy-seven while attempting to murder a perfectly good blackberry bush that had invaded her garden. Of the alternatives, I’d opt for the latter. At least Grandma had been active, cold sober, and doing something she loved—even if it did involve the slaughter of innocent and harmless vegetation.

  The woman at the nurses’ station was short and plump, with wide-set dark eyes and Native American features. Her name tag said “R. Finch,” and she was crocheting a sweater in a wild shade of pink. When I explained what I was after, her eyes got darker and somber. She set her work aside and said, “Come with me.”

  The room behind the counter was a cozy lounge with a coffee urn and a plate of tired-looking doughnuts. The woman motioned at a chair and then at the urn.

  “No coffee, thanks,” I said, sitting.

  She poured herself a cup and sat also. “You do not know Mrs. Keel?” she asked.

  “We’ve never met.”

  “She is a sad case, the same today as when she came here. The ones like her are not living, yet they refuse to die. Sometimes I wonder what it is that makes it impossible for them to let go.”

  She seemed to be talking around my earlier question about Terriss. I said, “The woman on the desk says no one ever visits. I’m surprised Patricia doesn’t make the effort.”

  “She did come once. How long has it been since you heard from your friend?”

  “… Years. Three, at least.”

  She nodded. “And you have not seen her father, either?”

  “I don’t know him. Do you?”

  “He also came once, when he had Mrs. Keel admitted, but never again.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She thought. “I can’t recall. Records could tell you, since he pays her bills, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow during business hours.”

  “There’s no way of getting a look at the records now?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  I put on a disappointed face. “I really do need to locate Patricia tonight.”

  Nurse Finch laid her hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. Hers were full of a scary kind of wisdom—the kind a person who deals with sickness and death on a daily basis develops.

  She said, “There is something you ought to know.”

  Twenty-seven

  9:42 P.M.

  Soon the world will know what you did three years ago tonight

  “Jesus!” Hy exclaimed. “Give me that card. What florist did these weeds come from, anyway?”

  I examined the floral arrangement that had just been delivered for Ricky. The yellow lilies resembled Carolina jessamine somewhat and were badly wilted from the heat. The plastic stake that held the card was imprinted with the flower shop’s name. “Someplace called Dixie’s Blossoms.”

  “I’ll get on to them. In the meantime”—he motioned to the guard who stood outside Ricky’s door—“dispose of this, would you?”

  I said, “This afternoon I was nervous because things seemed too calm. Now…”

  “I know.” He took out his cellular and went into one of Blue Arkansas’s dressing rooms. The band had been on stage since eight; judging from the sounds echoing in the arena, they were good, damned good.

  Sounds also came from the forward dressing rooms—Ricky’s band, kicking back before they took the stage in fifteen minutes. I glanced in there: Forrest Curtin looked coked-up yet again; Jerry Jackson was smoking a joint; Norm O’Dell was picking out the melody of “The Empty Place” on his guitar. Only Pete Sherman stood aside, pensive—worried about his long-overdue child. As I watched them, I wondered what had happened to the disciplined approach to performing that O’Dell had boasted of. More evidence of the chaos into which we all seemed to be spinning.

  In the next dressing room Virgil Rattray sat in an armchair, his feet propped on his metal suitcase, calmly going over notes on his clipboard—a far cry from the man who had pitched a fit hours before. Probably he’d fortified himself with some substance fro
m his stash. He didn’t notice me watching him; after a moment my eyes were drawn downward to the infamous case, and an idea that I didn’t like one bit began forming. I turned and hurried toward the dressing room across the corridor where Hy had gone.

  He was on the phone and motioned for me to come in. “She did, huh?… Well, of course I told her to call you if she needed anything. Did she tell the pilot what she was doing in San Luis?… And nothing about what she planned to do here?… Figures. Well, at least she’s all right. Got to go, Dan. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He folded the unit and slipped it into his pocket. “That was Kessell. Rae’s here in Albuquerque.”

  “What!”

  “Uh-huh. She called him this afternoon from San Luis Obispo, asked if he could have one of our planes fly her down. They arrived at seven-oh-nine.”

  “That’s nearly three hours ago. Where the hell is she?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  I took out Ricky’s phone, dialed the Hyatt. No, Ms. Kelleher hadn’t called either Mr. Savage’s voice mail or mine. “She can’t be here at the coliseum,” I said to Hy. “The first thing she’d’ve done is come backstage to see him.”

  “Shit, she drives me crazy sometimes!”

  “Me too. Now the question is—should we tell him?”

  He considered, shook his head. “He’s into his performance mode. And since that last voice-mail message, he doesn’t seem as worried about her.”

  “Not as worried, and terribly pleased with whatever she left on the tape.”

  “Then I opt for not telling him. The idea that she’s in town might throw him, and then we’ll have a situation on our hands.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Anything from the florist?”

  “Closed. You know, McCone, I think those lilies are probably just another warning. Terriss is building up to doing something big in Austin.”

  “Then why did the card say ‘three years ago tonight’? And Rae’s in town for a reason even more compelling than a sudden yen to see Ricky. Besides, I think somebody’s smuggled a weapon into the arena.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “Probably a handgun.”

  “How’d they bring it in?”

  “Rats’s metal suitcase.” I explained about the case having been tampered with both at the hotel and in the dressing room.

  “Okay,” Hy said, “where is this gun?”

  “I don’t know that, either. But we need to find out.”

  RAE’S DIARY:

  10:51 P.M.

  “I need to find out about this tonight, sir.”

  “Ms. Kelleher, will you go over your story once more?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Patience is something I’ve always had in short supply, but it was clearly a requirement for dealing with the night shift at the Albuquerque PD. Not that I’d’ve had smooth sailing at any other police department, coming in with the bizarre story I’d offered up.

  “The woman, Patricia Terriss, had a brief affair with my agency’s client, Ricky Savage, who’s performing at Tingley Coliseum right now,” I began, and went over it slowly and in as much detail as I thought the department was entitled to. I had to walk a fine line between giving the cops enough to persuade them to open their files, and withholding enough in the interest of damage control, so I left out the really bad stuff—such as Ricky’s sending his former band members to deal with Terriss, and their subsequent deaths.

  I also didn’t mention that I was in love with him and would die if anything happened to him.

  The plainclothesman who sat across the desk from me listened quietly. He had intelligent brown eyes and so far hadn’t displayed any of the attitude a lot of cops have toward private investigators—unlike the first officer I’d talked with. He had been downright obnoxious, and I’d had to start writing down his badge number before he would pass me along to his superior. The superior, whose name was Sergeant Boyd, heard me out, then verified my California investigator’s license. As a reference, I gave him Greg Marcus’s name and home number. Fortunately, Greg was there and not in one of his flippant moods. He’d come through for me and, dammit, one of these days I was going to have to apologize for calling him a chauvinist porker.

  By that time it was ten-forty. Ricky had been on stage for over half an hour. The thought of what might happen any minute had me bouncing back and forth between panic and anger.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Boyd said, “I understand what you’re telling me, but I don’t see that there’s any significant threat to your client.”

  Was he stupid, or just one of those people who want everything graven in stone before they take action?

  He added, “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass this on to my lieutenant. If you come back in the morning, we can discuss it further.”

  Neither stupid nor graven in stone. He was a cover-your-ass type.

  “Tomorrow morning may be too late for my client.”

  “Ms. Kelleher, I think you’re making too much of this.”

  Right then I lost it. I stood up and leaned across the desk, my palms pressed flat on its surface. And I reminded myself of yet another McCone axiom: Don’t ever raise your voice and go screechy. Keep it low when you let somebody have it.

  I pitched it low. “Tomorrow morning a lot of people may be making much too much out of your failure to help me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tomorrow morning my client’s blood may be splattered all over Tingley Coliseum. Tomorrow morning the press may find out that the Albuquerque PD refused me information that could’ve saved him. Run that one by your lieutenant—and your city’s chamber of commerce.”

  Sergeant Boyd stiffened. He began to tap his fingertips on the edge of the desk.

  I held my pose, waiting him out.

  After a moment he shrugged, turned to his computer, and began accessing the file.

  Twenty-eight

  11:24 P.M.

  Well, we’ve searched all the backstage areas, and no weapon’s turned up,” Hy said.

  “Then whoever brought it in has it on him.”

  “There’s no proof of your theory.”

  “Don’t you think it strange that nobody’s ever broken into Rats’s case before, when today it happened twice? Did any of the guards search the case before he brought it into the coliseum?”

  “He’s been in on the security planning the whole time; they didn’t see any reason to.”

  From the arena came wild applause. Ricky had just sung “The Broken Promise Land,” and the audience loved it.

  I, on the other hand, was beginning to hate that song. For me it symbolized all the careless and stupid and vile things people did and then tried to justify. Symbolized how we hurt and destroyed one another and then refused to take responsibility for our own actions. Did any of those nearly ten thousand people out there understand that? Did they even care?

  Hy saw the frustration and fear on my face; he put a hand on my shoulder and started to speak. And Ricky’s phone buzzed inside my bag. I fumbled it out and answered. Jenny Gordon.

  “I’m here in Nashville with Tod Dodson on the extension,” she said. “He’s got something to tell you.”

  The voice that spoke next sounded young and nervous. “Ms. McCone? This is Tod Dodson. I was Patricia Terriss’s friend—”

  “I know, Mr. Dodson. Where can we find her?”

  A pause.

  Jenny said, “Tell her, Tod.”

  “Ms. McCone, Patricia… she’s dead. She killed herself; I’ve got a letter she wrote telling me she was going to do it.”

  Oh no, this couldn’t be! “Are you sure she went through with it?”

  “Yes. A mutual friend saw the story in the paper. She killed herself in Albuquerque three years ago tonight.”

  RAE’S DIARY:

  11:34 P.M.

  “Three years ago tonight? My God!”

  “Are you okay, Ms. Kell
eher?”

  “This information—are you sure it’s all correct?”

  “That’s the responding officer’s report, and the follow-up confirms it.”

  I pushed away from the desk and headed for the door.

  “Ms. Kelleher! Just one minute!”

  I stopped. Where did I think I was going? It was close to the end of Ricky’s performance, and I didn’t even know how to get to the fairgrounds, much less Tingley Coliseum.

  “May I use your phone?”

  Boyd motioned toward it.

  I dialed Ricky’s cellular unit. Busy. What was the number of Hy’s? I couldn’t remember, and by now the coliseum offices would be closed.

  Okay, ask Boyd to send squad cars over there. No, that would create a panic situation, could trigger a tragedy. Besides, the sergeant still didn’t fully believe my story.

  “Sergeant Boyd,” I said, “how would you like to do something that your department, your chamber of commerce, and the powers-that-be in this city will commend you for?”

  It wasn’t going to work. He stared at me as though he thought me quite demented. Which I might very well be.

  Okay, Rae—last resort.

  “Please,” I said tremulously, allowing tears to leak into my eyes.

  Quickly he stood up. “What can I do?”

  At last—a man who truly appreciated a damsel in distress.

  “Get me to the fairgrounds as fast as you can.”

  11:37 P.M.

  “As fast as you can,” I said in reply to Hy’s question. “Just get him off that stage.”

  “He’s not going to like it.”

  “No, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “Okay—logistics. We can’t rely on fairgrounds security for something this tricky. Frankly, I don’t even want to entrust it to my own people.”

  “And that leaves—”

  “You and me, McCone. You and me.”

  RAE’S DIARY:

  11:40 P.M.

  “You and me, we make a pretty good team.”