“All right, point taken,” said Phyllis. “But it’s such a nice afternoon, the sun is out and I want to know more about this man Red has in her sights.”
“A tall, green-eyed detective,” said Sadie, sucking on the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass.
“Ahh, a detective.”
“He’s investigating Henry Brooks’ death,” I said knowing my cheeks were pink.
“And what else is he investigating?” said Phyllis with a wide grin.
Chapter 11
The days dragged on. The following week arrived, but no call from Joe. Saturday afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping and found a note pinned to my door. “Stopped by to say hello. No news on Brooks. I’m still tied up, but I will see you soon. Joe.”
Damn. Even his note made me feel warm. I wish I hadn’t gone shopping when I did.
I put away my groceries and decided to call my father, the man my mother insisted had spoiled me for all other men. The accusation was unfair. If one of my parents was to blame for my failed relationships with men, it was my mother, Emily Solaris.
I stopped calling her “mom” when I was twelve.
She was stunningly beautiful and totally self-absorbed. When she wasn’t shopping, she was drinking and then, as she aged, she was mostly drinking.
She had no time for me.
My father spent extra hours at his university in those days, to avoid her and, I suspect, the anger he felt. With his long work hours and her devotion to liquor, I was isolated and on my own.
By the time I was six, I was making my own breakfast. I learned how to wash my own laundry and braid my own hair. I had a few friends at school but never invited them to my house.
On weekends, my father tried to compensate. If my mother started her breakfast with a beer, he and I would go for a walk or to an exhibit at a museum or an early movie. Thaddeus Solaris was tall and blue-eyed and white-haired by the time he was thirty. My defender, my best friend, my rock.
The nurse who answered my father’s phone said, “He’s not having a good day, Dr. Solaris. Tomorrow might be better.”
I asked for him anyway, always hopeful the sound of my voice would transform him from Alzheimer’s patient back to the laughing, extraordinary man I cherished.
“Daddy?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Red, Daddy. Meredith.”
“I don’t know any Meredith.”
I tried again. “I’m your beautiful red-haired girl.” He had written that description on all my birthday cards and Christmas presents.
“Emily?”
“No, Daddy. Red...Meredith.”
“I don’t know any Red Meredith. This number is on the Do Not Call List. Don’t call again.”
The nurse came back. “Maybe tomorrow,” she whispered. “Sorry. His good days are fewer and fewer.”
She was being kind. The “good days” were gone. They had gradually faded away during the years after Emily had died. Now they were gone for good.
“The best science professor I ever encountered,” Kenny Ross had said. Kenny was Dad’s primary physician and had been one of Dad’s favorite biology students. “I miss him terribly,” Kenny had said the last time I visited my father in the Alzheimer’s care nursing home. “I wish I could do something, but it’s downhill from now on, Red.”
Kenny discouraged me from moving my father from Ohio to a facility closer to Mountain West University. “At least he’s physically comfortable here. He might not do well in new surroundings and, unhappily, it won’t make his memory better. I’m sorry, Red, Ohio or Nevada, he still won’t know who you are.”
He only remembered her.
When I was little, I loved her. But she didn’t love me. By the time I was mature enough to understand her alcoholism was a disease, I was conditioned to the distance between us. I had stopped hoping she would ever overcome her addiction. Had she lived, we might have worked out some sort of relationship. But Emily Solaris drank and drove and ended her life with her head and her beautiful hair smashed against a windshield.
My father never recovered. Two years after her death, he burned the research notes he was working on and resigned from the university. The man who had kept me company, told me jokes too raunchy for my age, critiqued my papers, listened to my stories, sat in the front row of all my school plays and cheered my soccer games, disappeared into senility. I changed my graduate school destination to Ohio so I could be with him. I got a job with an Ohio newspaper just so I could be home to care for him. But I was no more help to him than he had been to my mother.
“You cannot save your parents,” a therapist told me at the time. “You can only save yourself.” That was after my first broken engagement. After a second disastrous love affair, I put my father in the nursing home and left Ohio.
I went to bed uneasy, filled with sadness about my father and anxious about what disaster might occur next. And what might happen with Joe.
The next morning I lay in bed, relishing thoughts of Joe Morgan, when his sister called. Elaine’s voice was strained. “Red, one of my reporters got several interviews with people on your faculty. Seems many of them came away from the police interviews thinking Henry might have been murdered, pushed down the stairs. The police won’t confirm but they won’t deny either. They just give me the ongoing investigation routine. Red, I’m sorry, I know this is still rumor, but it’s already hit the blogs and I can’t sit on this for long.”
“Elaine. I know you can’t. I just wish Detective Morgan and friends had more definitive information. If Henry was pushed down those stairs, I wish there was some evidence.”
I called Joe on his cell.
“Red, I’m as frustrated as you are. We all are. But getting evidence in a situation like this takes time. Sometimes weeks. Only TV shows get evidence quickly.”
“Simon Gorshak?”
“Nothing concrete yet but there may be someone up at Lake Tahoe at the Cal-Neva Casino who can help. The guy’s away today, but I’m driving up there tomorrow afternoon when he’s supposed to work a shift.”
“Can I come along?”
“I thought you had a fulltime job of your own.”
“I do. But it’s been two weeks since Henry’s death and finding out more about how he died is as important to me as it is to you. The school can do without me for one afternoon. And please don’t worry, I’ll wait in the car and stay out of your way.”
A pause. “Okay, you can come with me. But you can’t go near my informant.”
“Agreed. I know a good place for dinner after your interview.”
Chapter 12
The top headline in Monday’s student newspaper read, “Journalism Faculty Fears Dean was Murdered.” With the blogs and the student paper pushing the story, Elaine would be hard pressed not to publish her reporter’s interviews.
The TV stations showed even less reticence. Ardith was in my office waiting for me when I arrived at school.
“I just wanted you to know, I didn’t leak this story and I didn’t give any interviews to anyone,” she said.
“It’s all right, Ardith. I’m surprised it took the media this long. The police have been talking to everyone in the building most of last week.”
“Have they come up with anything that substantiates murder?”
I shook my head. Joe had cautioned me about discussing the wound in Henry’s back and anything he found during his investigation. I knew I had to keep my mouth shut.
“I appreciate your insights into the faculty, Red. But, you must be careful with what I tell you,” Joe had said. “You can’t ever seem more knowledgeable than anyone else. If someone on the faculty did kill Henry, I don’t want them to be concerned about what you know or don’t know.”
Ardith had no sooner left than a ghost of Henry appeared in my office. I had never met him, but Michael
Brooks looked so much like his father I knew who he was before he introduced himself. Tall, with fine fair hair that would someday gray and thin like his father’s, and most remarkable of all, his father’s voice. It was startling to hear him speak. Nell was standing behind him, her eyes wide.
“I’m on my way to the airport, Dr. Solaris. But I wanted to stop by before I left. My sister and I don’t plan to be back until after the police investigation is complete.”
I shook his hand and indicated a chair. I probably looked as stunned as Nell did. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”
“It’s been very hard,” he said. “And Meg and I don’t know what to make of this rumor that Dad was murdered.”
“Neither do I. I do know the police are doing everything they can to bring this to closure, but so far...nothing.”
“They promised to send Dad’s body back to us after the investigation is done. We want to bury him at home. Here’s my card and number, Dr. Solaris. I guess I should say, Dean Solaris. If you hear anything, I would appreciate a call.”
He handed me the card and then reached for the small suitcase he’d brought with him. He rolled the suitcase toward the side of my desk. “Meg and I went through Dad’s papers at home. We put all the journalism school stuff in this suitcase. We thought you would know better what to do with it.”
“I’d be happy to look it all over. If I find anything personal, I’ll be sure to send it to you.”
“Oh, there’s nothing personal in that case,” he said. “Meg was pretty thorough about separating it out.”
“Michael, just this morning I got permission to start cleaning out your father’s desk and bookshelves. I’m not allowed to turn over anything today, but if there’s something you or your sister would like, I could put it aside for you to make sure you get it.”
Michael frowned. “There was one thing we didn’t find at the house, but I’d like to have if it’s around here.”
“What would that be?”
“Dad and I went to the same university. A few years ago, the alumni association gave him a glass trophy, their Alumni of the Year Award. It was the same year his book was nominated for the Pulitzer. I remember going to the dinner and...”
Michael’s eyes closed for a moment. A terrible sadness overcame his face. He looked exactly like his father, but there was none of Henry’s cynical toughness in this man. This was a sweet, stricken son.
I looked down to avoid meeting his eyes. How best to answer him without lying? I leaned toward him and said, “Michael, I will do whatever is necessary to track down your father’s trophy.”
Joe and I started our trip to Lake Tahoe late Monday afternoon. The drive to Tahoe takes about an hour with Joe driving. It’s more like an hour and a half for normal people.
In summer, when the landscape is not covered with snow, you can see what the high desert looked like to the first settlers—brown hills covered with mounds of fuzzy sagebrush, punctuated with rocky outcroppings. Where the tree line begins, the brown hills turn to green. In winter the snow blankets the lower trunks of the tall evergreens that cover the Sierra on this side of the mountains. The first “chains required” signs appear, although the day Joe and I drove up, the road was clear and the sky was cloudless.
“What have the police learned about Simon so far?”
Joe glanced over. “As I mentioned, Simon was uncooperative in the two interviews we had. Admitted only to the number of years he had worked at Mountain West and where he lived. No mention of a family. When I pressed, he gave me that arrest-me-or-leave me-alone routine. You know, we can’t force people to tell us what they don’t want to tell us, even if we do arrest them.”
“I know. But you also said it was odd he wouldn’t admit to having a wife.”
“Our investigation reveals he lived in a nice house not too far from yours until a few years ago. Now, he lives alone in a small, cheap apartment in Reno and commutes to Landry. His bank account suggests he lives from paycheck to paycheck, plus Social Security, and has no outside source of income, so he may have a debt problem we haven’t figured out yet.”
Joe glanced over at me. “That might explain why Simon was so angry with you for eavesdropping on his phone call.”
I remembered something Henry had told me. “I may be able to add something to the economic picture of Simon. Last year, Henry told me he’d finally had it with Simon. He called him into his office, told him his teaching was terrible and his behavior was worse. Henry said he was destructive to the school and demanded that Simon retire. Simon threatened to sue if Henry tried to get rid of him and insisted he couldn’t afford to give up his position even though he was well past retirement age.”
Joe worked his jaw. “Hmm. What we know is that Simon once lived pretty well and now he lives in reduced circumstances and may be in trouble. Also, his fear that Henry might actually find a way to get rid of him, tenured or not, might have provided a motive for murder. Might have.”
Simon scared me. So did the Mt. Rose highway. There were too many serpentine curves and, when it narrowed to two lanes, the curves are so pronounced that car passengers could be rocked from side to side.
Past the ski resort we crested the summit at 8911 feet and the mountain meadows came into view. Even on a weekday, the skiers crowded the resort parking lot and the meadows were strewn with cross country skiers and families with kids on sleds.
We rounded a curve and there was Lake Tahoe, shimmering and huge.
At first a blue patch between the tall trees, the lake loomed larger and larger as we closed in on it. There were signs for bear crossings, then a few houses on the outskirts of Incline Village.
Joe and I stopped talking when the lake came into view. It was breathtaking. Vast, gleaming, intense blue surrounded by snow-covered mountains, Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in North America, twenty-two miles long and twelve miles wide. The border between Nevada and California runs roughly through the middle and just before hitting the border, we arrived at The Cal Neva Casino Hotel at dusk.
The man we were looking for was Terry Bingham, a blackjack dealer. Joe’s source in Carson City told him that Bingham had been friendly with Doris Gorshak at one time.
Joe parked the car near the entrance—cops can do that—and came around to my side to open my door. “Red, remember what we discussed. You can sit nearby and eavesdrop, but no interruptions. I don’t want him to know you’re with me. Okay?”
“Yes, Joe.”
The Cal Neva literally sits on the border, a fact graphically noted inside the larger rooms. One of the oldest casino hotels in Nevada, the Cal Neva was once owned by Frank Sinatra in the 60s and famous for appearances by members of The Rat Pack and Marilyn Monroe. But that was then.
The evening we walked in, only a few people were there. Only three blackjack tables were open and most of the slot machines stood unattended. Two women who must have been in their eighties were sitting side by side at quarter slot machines, chatting amiably and nursing generous glasses of whiskey. A younger woman with a pewter face and stooped shoulders slouched against an empty chair behind them, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes were dull and unfocused. I hoped she wasn’t their caregiver; she looked as if she might not remain conscious long enough to get them home. The casino reeked of cigarette smoke.
Terry Bingham dealt blackjack with hands that darted faster than bird wings. He was slender and well groomed with graying, dark hair slicked back off a sharp-featured face.
As Joe approached his table, Bingham looked up. His dark eyes darted from side to side as if looking for an escape route.
Joe stopped and stood still behind one of the players seated at the table. Bingham finished the hand and motioned to the pit boss standing nearby.
The pit boss walked over to where Bingham stood behind the table. The two men whispered for a moment. Then Bingham told his table in a soft-spoken voice that there would be a
brief pause while a new dealer came in.
“They told me you would come at the end of my shift,” Bingham said as he approached Joe.
“Sorry, this was the only time I could make it,” said Joe, extending his hand. “Detective Joe Morgan, Landry Police. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I don’t know what help I can be,” said Bingham.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” said Joe, indicating a group of bar tables. I strolled to another table near enough to hear but not be obvious and busied myself looking for a pad and pencil in my handbag.
Joe leaned forward, his elbows on their table. “Mr. Bingham, I am investigating a possible homicide in Landry and need to know more about someone you may have known a few years ago.”
“Call me, Terry,” he said. “I don’t think I know anyone in Landry.”
“I’m told you may have been acquainted with a woman who used to live in Landry, Doris Gorshak.” Joe leaned in further.
“Doris? She in trouble?” Bingham’s thin face became serious. He ran his fingers over his hair. His hands trembled just a bit.
“Not that I know of,” said Joe. “But her husband, Simon, is a person of interest in an investigation at the university and I need to know more about him.”
Bingham lowered his voice. “Look, I never met the guy. I knew Doris. She was a regular at my table. Nice lady.”
“Please tell me what you can about her.”
Bingham ran his hand over his hair again. His right eye seemed to develop a minor tic. “Doris was, like I said, a nice lady. Nice-looking, too, in a skinny sort of way. Always wore sharp clothes. Not a great blackjack player but polite, even sweet.”
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