Cold Case

by Linda Barnes

  His voice trailed off. Half the time when he spoke it didn’t sound like conversation, more like recitation. It reminded me of something.

  Of course: “The Walrus and the Carpenter were walking close at hand …”

  “The starfish said Thea belongs in the sea,” he continued singsong, staring into my eyes. “She belongs in the sea, the sea star said, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea, in the sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea …”

  “Al—”

  “In the sea, in the sea, in the sea—”

  His voice rose and the guard materialized from another section of the room. He took the phone from Al’s unresisting hand.

  “You want to listen to him chant?” the guard asked, bored as bored could be. “’Cause the guy goes on for hours.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  He hung up and started Al-Al back on the journey to his cell without another glance in my direction.

  Confessors. They come out of the woodwork on serial killer cases. For the Boston Strangler, they’d had thousands. Of course this man had actually been convicted, had actually killed. That gave him a certain credibility.

  Still, if I’d asked him whether he’d killed Amelia Earhart, I could guess the response: A star told him she belonged in the sky, in the sky, in the sky …

  Traffic was better on the drive home. I rolled down the window and sang low-down dirty blues to a wind accompaniment, every tune I could think of that had to do with jail, from “Ain’t No More Cane on the Brazos” to “Hard-Time Blues.”

  Where did Al get the money for all those chocolate bars? Did other cons contribute Hershey wrappers? How much money was in his prison account, if any? What sort of work did he do at the prison, if any? Did his attorney bring him aluminum foil, smuggling in Reynolds Wrap boxes with the serrated edging removed?

  One thing: Al-Al had known Anne Katon. He’d remembered the color of her hair, remembered that he’d done something bad to Annie. His last victim, Eileen Evans, drew a blank.

  And Thea belonged in the sea. Maybe she’d looked like a starfish. Which—to a man as disturbed as Albert Ellis Albion—she may very well have done.

  I pulled right, stopped abruptly on the grassy verge as several cars honked their disapproval.

  I’d gotten it wrong.

  Not the five o’starfish. The five-oh starfish. Five-oh’s been slang for cop as long as I can remember. An old TV series, set in Hawaii and probably still in syndication in Albania, had started it, and the practice clung. I could see the wriggly lines on the back of MacAvoy’s hand. Not an odd five-pointed star. A starfish.

  The five-oh starfish said that Thea belonged in the sea.

  31

  What with musing about starfish and cops, I manipulated my various front door locks on automatic pilot, likewise descending the single step into my living room. I didn’t notice Roz behind my desk until I practically sat in her lap. She, busily pushing buttons on a portable tape recorder, ignored me as well.

  I cleared my throat and did not get the desired effect. When people do that in the movies, assistants bail out of desk chairs like they’ve been stung by killer bees.

  Roz glanced up and kept her fanny firmly in place.

  “Nice tape recorder,” I said. It was. A tiny Nakamichi, studded with red, green, and yellow buttons.

  “Gloria’s got me playing it from some extremely weird places. See, I sneak in, call a number, hit this button, and your voice zips over the fiber optics. I figure I’ve visited every ultra-right looney who can afford a telephone.”

  “Is Gloria paying you?”

  “Sure.”

  Great. I pay Gloria. She pays Roz. One big circle, with me supporting the globe.

  “This guy called,” Roz said.

  “Name?”

  “Wouldn’t give it.”

  “You’ll make a fine secretary one day.”

  That got her out of the chair. I eased myself into it. There were no notes on my desk, even though I keep a pad of pale blue “While you were out” slips in plain sight.

  “What did this ‘guy’ have to say for himself?”

  “Asked when you’d be back. I said I didn’t know. He called twice.”

  “Old? Young? Foreign?”

  “Kinda old, I think.”

  “Not Mooney?”

  “Not Mooney.”

  “You watch TV while I was out?”

  “Some.”

  “Any local kidnappings?”

  “Not on MTV.”

  I glanced at the front page of the Globe. If news had leaked, the local rags ought to have picked up on it first. If the kidnapping were genuine, I wouldn’t expect any leaks. Gary Reedy and the FBI would prevent that.

  “I take it Gloria hasn’t called.”

  “I woulda said.”

  Damn. There was no point in calling her. As soon as she knew anything about Marissa’s departure from Logan, by air, sea, or cab, she’d get back to me. Gloria is reliable. You don’t have to tell her twice.

  Had Marissa been nabbed at the airport? Was she somehow involved, even cooperating, with the kidnappers? Would a kidnap scam play as a vote-earner for Cameron? Poor little rich boy, victim of fiendish plot?

  If the Cameron campaign organization thought they could fool the FBI, I hoped they were up to speed on DNA testing and all the rest of the modern investigative hoopla.

  Roz looked comfy, wearing either a short dress or a long tank top. The garment had been crocheted on large hooks for good ventilation.

  She said, “Any work for me?”

  I said, “I want a financial report on a retired cop. Woodrow MacAvoy.”

  “SSN? DOB?”

  “I have neither his Social Security number nor his date of birth. I’ve got last known address—31 Monroe, Marshfield.”

  “That ought to do it.” Roz waltzed to the side table, flicked on my computer—a gift from Sam Gianelli—waited while it whirred and flashed, then busily entered strings of numbers and letters, her long varnished nails flying over the keyboard. Roz learned some unsavory gimmicks and passwords from a master hacker not long ago. Since I was paying her salary while she attended dubious computer practices school, I take advantage of her techniques whenever possible. I don’t try to defend the ethics of computer snooping. If information’s out there, somebody’s going to get it. Might as well be me.

  “TRW and Equifax are backed up,” Roz said. “One third of the country is running a credit check on another third.”

  The rest want to know if their boyfriend or girlfriend has AIDS, I thought.

  “What about your artwork?” I asked.

  “The hanging?”

  “The stuff you’re doing for me. Aging the girl in the photo.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “Does that mean it’s not done?”

  “It’s easier to work from life, Carlotta. You see that little line you have? To the right, near the bridge of your nose? That’s gonna turn into a lulu because you crinkle up your face when you’re staring at the computer screen. The photo, shit, I can’t tell how she moved her face. I can do some basic stuff—you know—Anatomy 101. The jaw separates, the skin loosens under the eyes, under the chin. But if there were a videotape, a series of photos, I could do a lot more.”

  I said, “Keep working on it.”

  I dialed Mooney. He picked up on the first ring.

  “You’re not at the Camerons,” I said.

  “I have a job. Where are you?”

  “Home. Any progress?”

  “Reedy shut me out. Says it’s Cameron’s idea, but I don’t know.”

  “What’s Reedy’s game plan?”

  “Get the kidnappers down to a million, a half a million, whatever, mark the bills so nobody can tell, observe the drop, get the woman back, then arrest the crooks.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Christ, if Reedy wanted a Stealth bomber to observe the rendezvous point, he could have it.”
>
  “Does he want a Stealth bomber?”

  “He wants us off his audio frequencies. He wants all local police to close their eyes and take a giant step into the ocean.”

  “Good old Gary,” I said. “So he buys the whole scene?”

  “He’s playing it by the book. I guess he has to.”

  “And the FBI doesn’t even have a post in Butte, Montana, anymore,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Mooney said. “But if Gary Reedy screws this up, they’ll reopen it just for him.”

  “Serve him right, keeping you in the dark.”

  “What do you want, Carlotta?”

  “To soothe your ruffled feathers, Moon.”

  “Bull.”

  “Well, I’d be interested in any rumors about the quality of Woodrow MacAvoy’s retirement.”

  “If I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  “Mooney—”

  He hung up. Dead end on that front. If Gary Reedy’d been nicer to Moon, he’d have been nicer to me. What goes around, comes around.

  I took it out on Roz.

  “For chrissake,” I said. “Haven’t you found me anything on Heather Foley’s family yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Heather Foley. Girl from Swampscott. Fell off a boat and drowned twenty-four years ago. Same time Thea disappeared.”

  “You didn’t ask,” Roz said.

  “I’m asking now.”

  32

  Roz, cowed by my vengeful mood, decided that research at the Liberty might be more fun. I can’t say I was sorry to see her go. I needed to concentrate.

  First, I attempted and finally produced a brief and cheerful postcard to Paolina, informing her that the bird, cat, Gloria, and myself were all well and looking forward to her return. I walked four blocks to stick it in a mailbox. Just to use up nervous energy, I told myself. Not to look for an armed man wearing an unseasonably hot windbreaker. Not to listen for the sound of a distant motorbike.

  As soon as I got back to the house, I had another thought about Andrew Manley and phoned the AMA. I got a recorded message with a classical music background for my trouble. Honestly, when the American Medical Association can’t afford full-time secretarial help, you’ve got a crisis on your hands.

  What kind of crisis? What did I have? What did I know? I twisted a strand of hair around my index finger and yanked till it hurt.

  It was after 3 P.M. I tried to recall when I’d last eaten. What. Some folks wouldn’t call peanut butter on a stale bagel breakfast, but when that’s all the stuff in the fridge that isn’t sprouting mold, it’s breakfast.

  I rummaged till I found an apple in the fruit bin, cut off the bruised hunk. Lunch. Yum.

  I sat at my desk, fidgeting till I got comfy.

  It looked like extortion; it smelled like extortion. Someone—besides Roz—coveted a considerable chunk of Garnet Cameron’s wealth. Now a lot of people on planet Earth want money, so that didn’t narrow the field much, but in this case it would have to be someone who knew something that would make Garnet fork over wads of cash. He or she couldn’t march up to Garnet and demand the dough for reasons unknown.

  I’ll make Tessa tell me how to find Manley. I gritted my teeth while I punched phone buttons. Mrs. Cameron was unavailable.

  Manley and Tessa burn the extortion note. No sale. Next step: Kidnap Marissa.

  I finished the apple, returned to the kitchen to seek other edibles. A package of cellophane-wrapped bread sticks was stuck at the back of the silverware drawer. I dunked them in peanut butter. One cracked, one held.

  Maybe the beautiful and argumentative Marissa was behind it all, I thought. Maybe she’d signed a prenuptial agreement she now regretted. She’d know to a penny how much cash Garnet had raised for the election. Maybe she was desperate to leave him, but felt some of his wealth should accompany her …

  Wouldn’t she need an accomplice? The digitized voice had sounded deep—definitely male—but couldn’t gadgetry account for the bass notes?

  Why hadn’t I heard from Gloria?

  I tugged at my hair and chewed stale bread. I was forgetting Thea. Thea was at the heart of everything, at the heart of the maze.

  And who was Thea?

  Her mother’s perfect daughter? A hellion bent on seducing every male at Avon Hill? Manley’s young woman of piercing intellect and prodigal prose? A suicide? A homicide? A victim, yes. A victimizer as well?

  I unlocked my desk, removed the manuscript copy from the self-addressed envelope. Genuine? Fake? Old? New? I flipped through it, read:

  perhaps a word shall fall

  and then another

  (silent as heat strangling

  a cry

  dark as a panther

  whispering lullabies

  to jungled dreams)

  It seemed to me most likely that the extortionist would be a figure from the past, someone who knew that Thea Janis hadn’t died at the hands of Albert Albion.

  Woodrow MacAvoy?

  I considered Al-Al’s simple words: The five-oh starfish said Thea belongs in the sea. I pondered three scenarios.

  One: Woodrow MacAvoy coaching Albert Ellis Albion to commit murder. I discarded it. Unlikely in the extreme.

  Two: Woodrow MacAvoy, finding Thea’s body—dead of a drug overdose, possibly with slit wrists—suborned by the Camerons into forcing a murderer to knife the already dead girl, dump her remains in the ocean. Why? So her death wouldn’t be labeled “suicide”? Because some insurance policy might be invalidated by suicide? So she could be buried in holy ground?

  Number Three: With no body on hand and no likelihood of ever finding Thea, Woodrow MacAvoy, given complete control of the Cameron case, convinces Albert Ellis Albion to confess to another murder. Why? So someone wouldn’t have to wait the required seven years for her death to become official?

  But there was a body in Thea’s grave …

  If MacAvoy had gone out on a limb for the Camerons, had they sawed it off? Or were his angry accusations a front? Had the Camerons made it worth his while to cooperate? If so, why the crummy cottage?

  With the giant-sized TV.

  MacAvoy had laid down two twenties in the bar. Forty bucks might represent a sizable chunk of his monthly pension.

  Dammit. I felt tugged in all directions. I had to get back to MacAvoy, find out what the five-oh starfish had really said to Albert Albion, why, and when. I needed to dig up enough dirt on MacAvoy to get him to talk to me. I needed to locate Drew Manley, to find sister Beryl. I wanted to know if Heather Foley’s body had ever been found. I had the feeling that pieces of the puzzle were slipping through my fingers, plunging into my dream abyss.

  My sleeping hours had been erratic of late, not to mention my meal intake. I rested my head on the blotter, just for an instant, because my hair seemed so inexplicably heavy.

  The phone jangled. I opened my eyes into darkness. The street lamp down the block glowed yellow.

  “Señorita, por favor, sin nombres.”

  I’d heard the voice before. Once. Deep, drop-dead sexy, from far, far away. This time it sounded as if Carlos Roldan Gonzales, Paolina’s biological father, were in the next room.

  “Hello,” I managed.

  “It is a good trick you play with Señor Miami, but muy peligroso.”

  “I needed to know—”

  “Now you know.”

  “Señor—”

  “Adios, señonta.”

  The line clicked. Paolina’s father was alive. Alive where? Alive how? Alive for how long?

  I stared at my watch, flicked on the desk lamp. It couldn’t be, but it was past ten o’clock. I’d slept a full night’s worth.

  The phone rang underneath my hand, startling me. Maybe I’d get to hear the voice again. I inhaled, sucked in a good deep breath. I don’t know why, but certain voices affect me in ways I can never understand.

  “Miss Carlyle.” It was certainly not Carlos Roldan Gonzales. “This is Drew Manley.”

  All the questions I
had to throw at him, and he hardly gave me a chance.

  “Listen, carefully,” he said. “I’ve found her.” His voice wavered, but a touch of the playful puppy quality was back.

  “Where are you?” I asked quickly.

  “The summer house. Marblehead. Can you come, please?”

  “Why? Why not go to Dover, tell Tessa. If you’ve found Thea Janis, alive, they’ll kill the fatted calf, the whole bit.”

  “It—the situation—is not uncomplicated.”

  “Call the police.”

  “Please, Miss Carlyle. Help us.”

  “Help me. Where is Beryl Cameron?”

  “We’ll discuss that when you get here. Please come.”

  “Thea’s really there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve lied to me before.”

  “I’ve lied,” he said. “I’ve been misled.”

  “Are you lying now?”

  “No. I need you. Thea needs you.”

  It’s easy to dissemble on the telephone.

  He gave directions so clearly he must have read them off a printed card.

  “There’s a shack, a small shed, on the beach. Let’s meet there,” he said.

  “Why? Why not the big house?”

  “No key,” he said easily. “Please hurry.”

  “A public place,” I said. “A doughnut shop—”

  He’d hung up. I was talking to myself.

  “Roz,” I shouted up the stairs.

  Nothing. Ten’s too early for her to come home. She’d still be at the Liberty, if she hadn’t already picked up a mate for the night.

  I should have waited for morning. I considered writing down everything I knew about the case, locking my scribbled thoughts away as a life insurance policy. They do that on TV. I knew so many oddly assorted farts; I’d guessed at so many others. For all I understood, I might as well write my journal on toilet paper, flush it.

  Before I left the house I loaded the S&W 40, checked the safety and the extra magazine, stuck them in a paper bag along with my waist clip. I wasn’t planning to sit on hard metal all the way out to Marblehead.

  At the last minute I grabbed the phone and dialed Gloria.

  “ITOA,” she answered. “Where are you, and where can I take you?”

  “It’s me,” I said, because she can identify any voice she’s heard before. “Who runs cabs in Marblehead?”