by Kathy Reichs
Finally a slip hit the table.
Ryan and I reached for it. Argued. Our usual ritual.
I won. Handed Rico my Visa.
Smirking at Ryan, Rico headed off.
“What about Spider Lowery?” Ryan asked.
“What about him?”
“Might he have slipped into something a little more gold? He could have picked the thing up in Nam.”
“He could have.”
“Or he might have gotten the little doodad before shipping out, but removed it when he was around Mommy and Daddy.”
“Another possibility.”
“Is there anyone he might have told?” Ryan asked. “A buddy? A sibling?”
I remembered the photo session in my car.
“The brother’s dead, but Plato said Spider was close to a cousin. They played on the same high school baseball team.”
“The cousin still live in Lumberton?”
“I don’t know.”
“Might be worth a phone call. You know, cover all bases.”
True.
The band launched into “If I Had a Hammer,” the singer trying hard for Trini Lopez but missing badly.
“But Spider Lowery died in Quebec,” I said.
“Or the FBI screwed up the prints. I’d say the first step is to establish that your gold duck-mushroom thingy is, in fact, a broken gold sparkle. Then go from there.”
True again.
Rico returned with my card. I signed and added a tip. A big one, hoping for a smile.
Nope. With a mumbled “Mahalo,” Rico was gone.
“Does Alvarez’s file contain photos?” Ryan asked.
“Several.”
“Any smiling shots?”
In my mind’s eye I pictured the three black-and-whites.
A head-and-shoulders portrait of a uniformed young man.
A grainy reproduction of a high school graduate.
Nine sweaty soldiers, one glancing away from the camera.
I looked at Ryan.
Suddenly I was in a frenzy to reexamine that snapshot.
SUNDAY DAWNED COOL AND RAINY. I AWOKE, NOTED CONDITIONS, and went back to sleep. Apparently, my cohorts reacted in a similar fashion. Or no one even raised a lid.
At nine thirty, muffled rattling sounds roused me again. Throwing on shorts and a tee, I descended to the kitchen.
Ryan was preparing French toast and bacon. The smell was orgasmic.
I rousted the ladies and the four of us shared another prickly meal. As we ate, the rain tapered off and the sun began gnawing holes through the clouds.
After breakfast, we went our separate ways, Ryan and Lily to view fish from a glass-bottom boat, Katy and I to snorkel and read on the beach.
I took my BlackBerry, figuring I could make calls from the sand. Knowing Danny was not an early riser, I put that one off. But I was anxious to talk to Plato Lowery.
As before, Plato did not answer his phone. Neither did Silas Sugarman.
Frustrated, I stared at my current screen saver, a shot of Birdie sitting on Charlie’s cage. The photo usually triggered a smile. Not this time.
The tiny digits told me it was six thirty p.m. East Coast time. I searched my brain for inspiration. Who might be available on a Sunday evening in Lumberton, North Carolina?
Idea. Why not? He’d proven useful before.
I got a number through Google. Punched it in.
“Robeson County Sheriff’s Department.” The voice was crisp, more New York than Dixie.
“Sheriff Beasley, please.”
“Not in.”
“Could you patch me through to him?”
“Not possible.”
“This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. Could you give the sheriff my number and ask him to call me back? It’s rather urgent.”
“What is the nature of your complaint?”
“It’s not a complaint. On May eleventh I conducted an exhumation in Lumberton. The sheriff was present. I need information concerning the disinterred remains.”
“The sheriff is extraordinarily busy.”
“As am I.” The woman was starting to piss me off.
“Your number?”
I provided it.
During the pause that followed, a gull cried out. I hoped the sound didn’t carry across the line.
“I’ll transmit your request.”
Click.
“Do that,” I snapped to dead air.
Katy’s head came up. I flapped a hand. She resumed reading her book.
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
“Sheriff Beasley.” High and a bit rubbery, like Barney Fife.
“Thanks for returning my call. I apologize for intruding on your Sunday evening.”
“Just watching the Braves get their sorry butts whupped.”
“I’m calling concerning the individual buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery under the name John Charles Lowery.”
“First that detective, now you. Spider’s sure stirring up a hornet’s nest of interest.”
“Yes, sir. Did you know him?” I asked. “Personally?”
“We run up against each other from time to time.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Spider was three grades behind me in school. After graduation, I went into law enforcement.” Yep. Deputy Fife. “My rookie years I had to deal with a couple of his antics.”
“Antics?”
“Actually, Spider wasn’t so bad. It was that cousin of his. That was one rambunctious juvenile.” A very long i in juvenile.
“And he was?”
“Reggie Cumbo. Boy had a sheet longer than my arm.”
“Why was that, sir?”
“Kid was a dick.”
I said nothing. Like many, Beasley felt compelled to fill the silence.
“Drunk and disorderly, mostly.”
“What happened to him?”
“Took off the day of his high school commencement. Course, Reggie wasn’t going to march with no tassel and cap.”
“He failed to graduate?”
“I recall talk to that effect.”
“Where is Reggie now?”
“Could be the mayor of Milwaukee for all I know. More likely he’s dead. Never heard another word of him.”
So much for querying Reggie about Spider’s sense of haute dentition.
“Did you ever notice gold decoration on Spider Lowery’s teeth?”
“You mean like crowns or something?”
I explained dental sparkles. “Maybe later, after Spider joined the army? Perhaps in snapshots he mailed home from Nam? Maybe Plato or Harriet showed some to you? Or sent one to the paper? Or posted some online?” I knew I was reaching.
“Nah. What’s so important about Spider’s teeth? I thought you were all set with Harriet’s DNA.”
“The sparkle may prove helpful in identifying the body I disinterred. Assuming it’s not Spider. Besides, Harriet’s hospital slides are five years old. I’m exploring backup options, in case the samples are too degraded for sequencing.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, miss. Spider was”—Beasley hesitated—“different. But I doubt he’d a done something foolish like ornamenting his teeth with gold.”
“What do you remember about Spider?”
Beasley blew air through his lips. “I recall back in high school he offered to give his mama a kidney. Harriet was born with bad ones, guess it’s what finally killed her. Have to admit, I thought that was mighty generous. Spider wasn’t a proper match, wrong blood type or something. His brother, Tom, offered too. Course that was many years later. That didn’t work out either. Not sure I’d have done that.”
“Spider?”
Beasley didn’t answer right away. Then, “I remember he did a science project on spiders. Filled fifteen or twenty of those big white boards with pictures and diagrams and little note cards. Had all kinds of jars lined up with labels and spiders inside. The thing won first prize. Got displayed at the library. They s
till pull the posters out now and again. Spiders are long gone, of course.”
“Anything else?”
“I recall him going off to war. I recall him coming home dead. Sorry.”
I could think of nothing further to ask. Thanking Beasley, I disconnected.
Danny’s call came while Katy and I were underwater eyeballing butterflies, tangs, and one particularly doleful-looking trumpet fish.
While digging a towel from my bag, I noticed my BlackBerry’s message light blinking.
Danny’s message was short. Call me.
I did.
“What’s up?”
“Thought you’d want to know. I researched Xander Lapasa’s family. His parents, Alexander senior and Theresa-Sophia, are both dead.”
I heard paper rustle.
“Alexander Emanuel, Xander, was the firstborn of six kids, four boys, two girls. One sister, Mamie Waite, lives in Maui, is divorced, and has one daughter. The other sister, Hesta Grogan, lives in Nevada, is widowed, and has two sons.
“One of the brothers Marvin, was mentally handicapped and died young, in the seventies. The other two, Nicholas and Kenneth still live in the Honolulu area. Each is married, Kenneth to his first wife, Nicholas to his fourth. Between them, they have eleven kids and eighteen grandkids.”
I did some quick math. If Xander Lapasa was twenty-nine when he disappeared in 1968, that meant he was born in 1939.
Danny must have read my thoughts.
“The surviving siblings are all in their sixties.”
“Tell me about Daddy.” I wasn’t sure why all this family history was relevant, but Danny seemed eager to share what he’d learned.
“Alex Lapasa made his way to Oahu in nineteen fifty-six and got a job at an East Honolulu gas station. Two years later, the station owner died. A hit-and-run. A handwritten will transferred ownership of the station to Lapasa.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“The cops found nothing linking Lapasa to the accident. The victim had no family screaming for justice, so who knows how thorough the investigation was.”
I made no comment.
“A hurricane blew the station off the map nine months after Lapasa took possession. Having no source of income and, apparently, no enduring love of petrol, Lapasa turned to selling real estate. And saw potential. Recognizing that a lot of baby-boomer parents would be needing a lot of cheap housing, Lapasa shifted into low-end home construction. He’d put up a bungalow, sell it, put up two more.
“When Hawaii gained statehood in nineteen fifty-nine, the building industry exploded. Lapasa leveraged everything, expanded, made millions. From the sixties to the nineties he diversified. Today the Lapasa empire has more tentacles than an anemone.”
“Sounds like old Alex was one smart cookie.”
“Yes.”
I noted a hitch in Danny’s breathing.
“What?” I asked.
“Lapasa was always, shall we say, controversial. Some said he had the Midas touch. Others said he was just lucky. All agreed he was ruthless as hell.”
“When did he die?”
“Two thousand two.”
“Who runs the business today?”
“Number two son, Nicholas.”
A big clapper went gong! in my head. I’d seen the name in the Honolulu Advertiser many times, occasionally preceded by a descriptor such as Slick or Tricky. Yeah, like Nixon.
“That Nickie Lapasa?”
“That Nickie Lapasa.”
I vaguely remembered Alex Lapasa’s passing from news coverage during one of my visits to the CIL. The funeral was a five-ring circus.
“Wasn’t Lapasa under investigation for RICO violations at the time of his death?” I referred to the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act passed by Congress in 1970.
“Yeah. And it wasn’t the first time. Rumor had it Alex had ties to the Mafia. Nothing ever stuck.”
I thought a moment.
“Isn’t Kenny Lapasa a member of the Honolulu City Council?”
“He is.”
Xander had vanished. Marvin had died. Nickie and Kenny were alive and thriving. I wondered about the sisters.
“Are Mamie and Hesta involved in the family business?”
Danny snorted. “Definitely not the Lapasa style.”
“Meaning?”
“No girls allowed.”
“Yet it was Theresa-Sophia who corresponded with the army concerning Xander’s disappearance.”
“The old man probably viewed letter writing as beneath him.”
“Why do you suppose Xander went to Nam?”
“There were rumors about Lapasa’s involvement in drug trafficking. Maybe he sent his kid to Southeast Asia to scout postwar possibilities. You know, drug sources, transport options.”
“Who did you talk to?” I asked.
“Tricky Nickie. It was like getting through to Obama.”
“How did he react?”
“At first he was skeptical. I told him that the dental ID, though unofficial, was solid, and asked if Xander had ever broken any bones. He said Xander busted his jaw and collarbone in a car wreck the summer after his junior year in high school. I described the healed fractures we’d spotted on the bones and X-rays.”
“Did that convince him?”
“Not totally. I said that, to reassure the family, a DNA comparison could be done if he or one of his siblings would provide a sample. The guy went ballistic, said no way was any government toady sticking a probe into any member of his family. I explained that the process was painless, just a cheek swab. He grew even more agitated, I’ll spare you the verbiage, finally hung up on me.”
“If some of Alex Lapasa’s business dealings were as shady as rumor has it, maybe Nickie’s worried about privacy issues. Felons tend to be protective of their DNA.”
“Maybe. But Nickie’s never been linked to anything illegal. Anyway, an hour later he rang back, irate, ranting about incompetence, stupidity, professional misconduct. He threatened to phone his congressman, his senator, the ACLU, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the president, CNN, Jesse Jackson, Rush Limbaugh, maybe even Nelson Mandela.”
“He didn’t say that.”
“Maybe not Mandela.”
“Why so angry?”
“We kept his brother on our shelves for over four decades.”
Good point, I thought.
“Again, I offered to do comparative testing, said DNA had been successfully sequenced from the remains in two thousand one. He demanded that that information be destroyed, said he didn’t want his family in”—Danny’s voice went gruff—“no bullshit government database.”
“Anything else?”
“He said heads would roll.”
“First Plato Lowery, now Nickie Lapasa. Weird.”
“I’ve dealt with weirder.”
Changing gears, I shared my theory concerning the gold duck-mushroom thing buried in Lumberton with 2010-37, and described my conversation with Sheriff Beasley.
“He’d never heard of dental sparkles?”
“No.”
“You’d think Beasley would have encountered at least one if they occurred with any frequency in his jurisdiction,” Danny said.
“The sparkle craze may have bypassed Robeson County.” I thought a moment. “It may go nowhere, but we could try locating Reggie Cumbo.”
“The cousin,” Danny said.
“Yes.”
“The guy you exhumed in Lumberton has to be Luis Alvarez,” Danny said. “Alvarez is still missing. His bioprofile is identical to Lowery’s and fits the remains. Alvarez is Mexican-American. Sparkles are big with Mexican-Americans.”
“Now,” I said. “But was that the case back in the sixties?”
“I’m not sure, but I think so.” Danny was silent a beat. “We should recheck the photos in Alvarez’s file.”
“We should,” I agreed.
“First thing tomorrow.”
“First thing.”
We had anoth
er date.
SUNDAY EVENING WE ENJOYED, OR ENDURED, A “BATTLE OF THE ringtones.” Our musical choices were the stuff of psych dissertations.
Lily’s current pick was “Super Freak” by Rick James. Katy was using Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher.” Ever the optimist, I’d switched to the Happy Days theme. Ryan was still featuring Big Bird and his pals.
Dinner was once again cooked on the grill. While we were clearing the dishes, Cab announced an incoming call. Katy excused herself, returned minutes later, pensive, but face basically arranged in a grin.
One query from me brought full disclosure.
Katy’s caller had been Coop’s older brother, Jed. Jed had been exceedingly apologetic about the manner in which Katy had been treated. Because Coop’s death had received so much publicity, the Cooperton home had been inundated with contact from journalists, well-wishing strangers, and citizen wackos opposed to the war. As self-appointed protector of the family’s privacy, Jed’s uncle Abner had assumed phone responsibility. His strategy: rebuff any caller unknown to himself personally.
Jed told Katy that he had something he believed Coop would want her to have. Though perplexed, Katy clearly was pleased. And more relaxed than I’d seen her since Coop’s murder.
Ryan was next. Despite the sunny ringtone, his news came from the other end of the spectrum. His voice was grim as he updated me later, alone in the kitchen.
Lutetia was leaving Montreal for her home in Nova Scotia. Until further notice Lily would be Ryan’s responsibility. Bye-bye. Adios.
My reaction was mixed. While I knew Lutetia’s departure would hurt Lily and cause Ryan untold complications, I can’t say I was sorry to bid Ryan’s ex adieu. Metaphorically, of course. We’d never once spoken.
My first caller was Hadley Perry. She told me three things.
One, she’d gotten no hits with the MP families. Two, Honolulu PD Detectives Lô and Hung would begin canvassing hospitals first thing in the morning. Three, she was taking heat from the mayor and city council for closing Halona Cove.
Again in hushed tones, I shared Perry’s report with Ryan, this time on the lanai.
Ryan’s mouth corners twitched as his mind performed the same transposal mine had.
“Lô is Vietnamese, puts a little cap over the o. Hung is Chinese. The two have partnered for nine years, and are no longer receptive to comments concerning their names.”
