“Did Stephanie ever talk about running away?”
Madeline shook her head, and another hair dropped in her face. “Not to me,” she said. “Maybe to Stacey.”
She’d said “Stacey” the way a maiden aunt says “herpes.”
“Stacey?” Rachel asked. “Stacey O’Connor?”
Madeline nodded, dropping a few more dark strands onto her kisser.
“I didn’t know Stephanie associated with her.”
“What’s wrong with Stacey O’Connor?” I asked.
Madeline snorted, fluttering hair away from her mouth.
“She’s a bit wild,” Rachel explained to me.
I looked at Madeline. She looked offended, betrayed.
“Stephanie started hanging out with her before last summer,” she told me. “We were best friends all through high school. We both decided to come here so we could be in college together, and then she … got a new best friend. I hardly saw her during summer break. I thought maybe we could start out new this year, but she’s been so different, it’s like I hardly knew her. I don’t know if we’ll ever really be friends again.”
Madeline’s myopic eyes searched our faces for sympathy, or at least an explanation.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“For what?”
“Never mind.”
Rachel was free for the next hour, so she took me to the front office. We checked Stacey O’Connor’s schedule. She had no classes this afternoon. Rachel looked up her home phone, called her, and told her we were coming.
The apartment was less than half a mile from the college. Still, we took my car. The sidewalks along Federal, where there were any, were getting slushed by traffic.
Stacey O’Connor was an attractive girl with blond wavy hair, a turned-up nose, and too much makeup. She wore ski pants and a fuzzy sweater, both of which she filled quite nicely. For a college kid, I reminded myself.
“I haven’t seen Stephanie for over a week,” she told us.
We sat in angular rented furniture that had been designed to look modern when it was new, twenty years ago. It had been ugly then, and it was ugly now. There was a coffee table strewn with school papers, textbooks, and back issues of Sassy and Self magazines. At one corner was a big pottery ashtray. It was chock-full of butts and smelled of stale smoke. I could see into the kitchen. Cupboard doors hung open before empty shelves. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink.
Rachel Wynn glanced about her disapprovingly. Stacey O’Connor looked uncomfortable. She wanted a cigarette.
“When exactly did you last see her?” I asked.
“Oh, God, let’s see.” Stacey looked at the ceiling. “I haven’t seen her in class since I dropped Business. It must’ve been Wednesday night,” she said, looking down at us. “Because we always—” She stopped suddenly and looked from Rachel to me. “Yes, it was Wednesday,” she said in a monotone.
Something was up.
“A week ago yesterday?” I asked.
Stacey nodded, then shuffled through the mess on the table. She unearthed a pack of Marlboro Lights 100’s and a disposable lighter. She lit up, blew smoke quickly over her shoulder, then said, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Where did you see her?”
She looked at me, then Rachel, then the floor. “The Lion’s Lair.”
“What?” Rachel said angrily. “You girls aren’t supposed to be in there.”
Stacey hung her head.
“What’s the Lion’s Lair?”
“A bar,” Rachel told me, and glared at Stacey.
“Oh. I thought for a minute it was a depot for white slavers.”
Stacey choked on her smoke. Rachel turned her glare on me.
“The college has some clearly defined rules: no drugs or alcohol on campus and no underage drinking on or off campus. Stacey and Stephanie are both under twenty-one.”
Stacey rolled her eyes.
I looked squarely at Rachel Wynn. “I don’t think Stacey will get in trouble with the school for anything she tells us now, do you?”
When she didn’t answer, I said, “Because if there’s the slightest chance of that, then Stacey and I can—”
“Yes, yes, all right.” She turned to Stacey. “But tomorrow I want to talk to you in my office.”
“No.”
Rachel looked at me. “What?”
“No reprimands, no threats, none of that bullshit.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m looking for a missing girl, remember? And if Stacey can help me find her, then I don’t want her holding anything back because she’s afraid of you. So I want you to promise her right now that—”
“Don’t tell me how to deal with my students.”
“If you don’t promise, then I’ll have to ask you to wait out in the car.”
Stacey was staring at us with her mouth open. Rachel Wynn tightened her jaws, stood stiffly, and walked out carrying her coat. She slammed the door without saying good-bye.
“You’re going to lose your ash,” I said.
“What?”
Stacey was still staring at the door. She looked down at her forgotten cigarette. An inch of powdery ash dropped onto her textbook. She brushed it with the back of her hand, leaving a gray-white smear on the book.
“Winny’s got this thing about booze,” she said.
“Tell me about the Lion’s Lair,” I said. “How often did you and Stephanie go there?”
“A couple times a week. And it wasn’t just us. Lots of girls go there. Well, not lots, but some. It’s kind of a nice place. Good music, and everybody’s there to have a good time. Wednesday night is Ladies’ Night. Drinks are half price for us. It’s, you know, a good place to meet guys.”
“I’m sure it is. But Stephanie doesn’t look like she’d pass for twenty-one. Not from the pictures I’ve seen. Do they let a lot of underage girls in there?”
“I guess.” Stacey waved her hand.
“Did Stephanie ever talk to you about running away?”
“Steph? No way. She lives at home, you know? I think she’s still afraid of her parents.” Stacey made a face and shook her head. “In some ways Steph is still a kid. I’ve always tried to get her to loosen up.”
“Was it working?”
Stacey brightened. “You know it. When I first met her, which was spring semester last year, she was still a virgin, if you can believe that.”
“And she’s not now?”
“No way. She won’t come right out and say it, but she and Ken were getting it on before summer break.”
“‘Getting it on,’ as in having sex.”
Stacey nodded and gave me a knowing look. “A guy I know who’s a good friend of Ken’s told me. And Ken wouldn’t lie about something like that. He wouldn’t have to.” She sighed. “He’s a hunk.”
“What’s Ken’s full name?” I asked.
“Kenneth something.”
“No kidding. Does Stephanie have any other friends?”
“No. Well, maybe one. I heard her mention a girl named Chrissie. I don’t know her last name. I never met her.”
“Is she a student? Or someone from the Lion’s Lair?”
“Neither. Stephanie said she met her during the summer.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“This Ken, do you know where he lives?”
“No, but he’s almost always at the Lair. He might be part owner or something. I know he works there as a bouncer. He supposedly knows karate.” She sighed again.
“What does Ken look like?”
“Tom Cruise.”
“Who?”
“The movie star, silly.”
I thanked her and left.
Rachel Wynn was not waiting for me in my car. Okay, so I don’t look like Tom Cruise.
CHAPTER 4
I DROVE TO THE Bellano residence.
By now it was midafternoon. I figured most of the mourners would have gone home, especially since Joseph was firmly undergrou
nd. I was wrong.
Cars lined the curbs on both sides of the street all the way down the block. I drove to the end and turned the corner. Then out of curiosity I drove down the alley. The Olds practically steered itself through the deep ruts in the snow. Most of the backyards were screened from the alley by privacy fences or tall snowy hedges. Still, the Bellano house was easy to spot.
It was the one with the demolished garage.
I pulled into the short driveway but stayed in the car.
What was left of the garage stood forty feet from the rear of the house and ten feet from the alley. Half of one wall had been blown down, its scattered bricks poking through the snow in the yard. The double garage doors were gone, burned to ashes. So was most of the roof. The entire dead structure was wrapped like an obscene Christmas present in yellow ribbon: Crime Scene—Do Not Cross.
I could see the remains of two cars inside.
The one on the left was blackened by fire, its tires flat and its windows shattered, either by the force of the explosion or the heat of the gasoline-fed fire. The side of the car had been pushed inward, as if kicked by a gigantic foot.
The car on the right, obviously the one that had contained the bomb, no longer looked like a car. It was a burned and twisted metal heap.
I figured it would’ve been easy for someone to break into the garage unnoticed. The doors, when there’d been doors, were screened from the house by the garage itself and from neighboring houses by fences and hedges. Once inside, the bomber could’ve worked in privacy. He—or she, for that matter—must have done it Monday night, after I’d talked to Bellano.
Bellano had come home that night, probably ate dinner with his wife, maybe watched a little football or the movie of the week, then gone to bed. In the morning, he’d had breakfast, kissed his wife good-bye, and gone out to his car. Then he’d turned the key. Eternity.
I drove out of the alley and parked the Olds in the street.
The front door of the Bellano residence was open despite the cold. The storm door was shut but unlocked, so I just walked in.
A couple of dark-haired men in suits stood in the entryway. They were holding drinks and talking in low tones. They nodded solemnly at me. I nodded back and went into the living room. It was crowded with people standing or sitting or perched on the arms of chairs. Their ages ranged from little kids weaving in and out of the crowd all the way up to one elderly lady who was so wrinkled and shrunken she might have come over with Columbus.
There was a brightly lit Christmas tree by the front window. Fresh-smelling pine garlands framed the doorways. Except for the clothing of the guests, I didn’t see anything black. Everyone talked quietly. No one was crying.
The dining-room table was covered with a fine white cloth and spread with a buffet of prosciutto and salami, cheeses and bread, olives and peppers. I resisted the urge to grab a plate and start loading up.
I asked where Angela was and was told the kitchen.
There were about a dozen women in there, some sitting at the table, the rest on their feet, chopping, stirring, tasting. More food. Enough, it appeared, to feed the neighborhood. It was hot, and I still had on my coat.
“Mrs. Bellano?”
Several women turned toward me. One of them said, “Yes?”
She was a stately looking woman with a face at once strong and gentle, the kind that easily breaks into a smile. Her hair was thick and black, streaked with gray, and pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a dark dress, not the same one I’d seen at the funeral. She held a big wooden spoon in her left hand. The diamonds in her wedding ring sparkled in the bright light. So did the fine line of perspiration on her forehead.
“My name is Jacob Lomax. I was a friend of your husband, and I wanted to give you my condolences.”
She nodded and smiled gently.
“Thank you, Mr. Lomax. Take off your coat and sit. Have something to eat.”
“Thank you, no. Could we … could I talk to you in private?”
The murmuring in the kitchen stopped. All the women looked at me, their eyes alert.
“Why, what’s wrong?” Angela Bellano said, her eyebrows pushing wrinkles into her forehead.
“It would be better if we talked in private, Mrs. Bellano.”
I glanced at the faces around me. Not a smile in the bunch. Angela looked worried but determined.
“What is it?” she said. “Tell me.”
I shifted my feet. “On the day before your husband was killed, he hired me to find Stephanie.”
“Stephanie? You’ve found her?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Has she contacted you?”
Angela’s face lost its strength. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”
Before I could answer, a man entered the room, talking. He was in his late forties—a good-sized dude with pockmarked cheeks and a lumpy nose.
“Angela, we need more wine. We’re almost— Hey, what’s going on? Who’s this?”
One of the women said, “Tony, this guy’s talking about Stephanie.”
Tony looked me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”
“I was hired by Joseph to find Stephanie and—”
“Hired?” Tony said. “What’s he talking about, Angela?”
She shook her head. “Joseph never said anything to me about hiring anyone.” She looked at me. Her eyes, already red, were beginning to tear. “Please, if you know where she is …”
“I don’t, Mrs. Bellano, but I’m still trying to find her.”
“Who is this guy, Angela? You know him, or what?”
She shook her head and turned to the nearest woman.
“Oh, God, my baby.”
The woman put her arms around her and patted her on the back. Angela began to cry.
“Hey,” Tony said, jabbing his finger in my shoulder. “What are you, a cop or another goddamn reporter?”
“I’m a private detective, and—”
He made a face and gave me a shove, short but hard.
“Get the hell outta here.”
I glanced at Angela. She was still crying. The woman holding her stared at me the way Mussolini stared at train engineers.
I walked out.
Tony followed me all the way, stepping on my heels.
“What’s the matter, Tony,” someone said as we passed through the living room.
“This stronzo got Angela all upset.”
I managed to get to the front door before the crowd could rip me apart. Tony gave me a shove to help me out onto the front porch. There were three or four men standing behind him in case he needed any help, which he didn’t.
“The next time you come back here,” he told me, “you leave in an ambulance.”
At least he hadn’t said “hearse.”
I got in my car and drove to the rectory of Holy Family Catholic Church.
What I needed was more information about Stephanie Bellano. And it didn’t look as if I were going to get it from the immediate family. At least not today. So maybe the family priest could help. After all, that’s what he’s there for.
On the way, I thought about the possible reasons why Stephanie hadn’t returned home after the death of her father:
One, she hadn’t heard about his death. Which meant she was somewhere with no television or newspaper. I considered that unlikely.
Two, she’d heard about it, but she didn’t care about coming home. Which meant she was a lot more hard-hearted than your average eighteen-year-old Catholic college coed. Again, unlikely.
Three, she couldn’t come home.
This was the one that bothered me. It could mean that she was incapacitated or she was being held against her will. There’d been no ransom demand, at least none that I knew about. This seemed to rule out kidnapping. Unless she’d been grabbed by some pervert. In which case, there could be another, final reason why she hadn’t come home: She was dead.
I parked at the curb, went up the walk, and tapped on the door. An elderly lady in a prin
t dress showed me into the parlor.
A few minutes later I was joined by Father Carbone, the priest who’d buried Bellano. He was older than I, but he had a boy’s face. His hair was dark and curly, and his glasses had tortoiseshell frames. I explained about Joseph hiring me. Then I asked him how long he’d known the Bellano family.
“Joseph was an old friend,” Father Carbone said. “I married him and Angela.”
We were sitting at a forty-five-degree angle to each other on hard stuffed chairs in the parlor in the rectory. Between us was a small walnut table. It held a lamp with a green shade and a silver-framed picture of Jesus. He was kneeling by a rock and staring skyward. The clouds had parted to let a shaft of light bathe his face. He looked troubled.
“I also baptized both their children.”
“Stephanie and her sister?” I was thinking of the young woman at the funeral.
“Yes. Diane.” He removed his glasses and began buffing them with his handkerchief. “That poor woman.”
“Who? Diane?”
“No, I meant Angela. First she has the trouble with Diane. Then Stephanie ran off. And then Joseph is taken from her.” He shook his head and replaced his spectacles. “God is sorely testing that woman.”
When I was a kid, I used to hear that kind of thing all the time. I’d even believed it. Of course, I’d also believed in the Easter Bunny.
“What kind of trouble did Angela Bellano have with Diane?”
“It was constant trouble,” he said. “Diane was the opposite of her younger sister. Where Stephanie was restrained, Diane was impetuous, even wild. Where Stephanie was polite and obedient, Diane was rebellious. When Diane was in high school, she even had a brief run-in with the law—shoplifting. Diane and Joseph were always in conflict with each other.”
Which explained why Bellano hadn’t mentioned her to me.
“Diane left home right after she graduated high school,” Father Carbone said.
“She ran away?”
“No. And if you’re thinking that there is a pattern between her and Stephanie, don’t. Diane made a production out of leaving. She announced it midway through her senior year.” He shook his head and made a grim face. “I talked to her briefly after the funeral today. She told me she’ll always regret not making amends with her father before he died.”
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 3
