“What? Are you saying you think Stephanie is involved in her father’s death?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Not in my mind it wasn’t. Of course, maybe that’s why MacArthur was a lieutenant and I was self-employed.
“Did you find evidence that Bellano’s car had been disabled?”
“Nothing conclusive. There was too much damage. And this whole thing could just be a case of two wrongs making a right. At least from the bomber’s point of view. Let’s say the bomb was meant for Bellano but the bomber screwed up and put it in the wrong car. That could’ve easily happened. Both cars were Ford Tauruses, one black, one dark blue, a year apart. They look pretty much alike. The bomber just got lucky when Bellano’s car wouldn’t start.” MacArthur checked his watch again. He stood. “I’ve got a meeting.” He was an executive. “There’s one other reason why we think Bellano was the target,” he said. He slipped on his suit coat. It was an unusual shade of gray—new, I suppose, for this fashion season. It fit him like paint.
“What’s that?”
He came around his desk and faced me eye to eye. We were exactly the same height. Didn’t I used to be taller than he was? Either I was slouching, or he was standing up straighter than usual.
“Again, this is not public knowledge.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“And if by some freak of nature you learn anything new about Stephanie Bellano, you bring it straight here.”
“Scout’s honor.”
He nodded and made a face.
“Bellano’s records have been destroyed.”
“His records?”
“His bookmaking records. We’d confiscated them along with the records of a few dozen other bookies. Everything was locked and guarded in our property room, which is supposedly secure as a bank. Bellano’s records were in there for a few days before they were checked. They were destroyed.”
“Just his?”
“Just his. Of course, his were the only ones stored on computer disks. They were destroyed magnetically, not physically.”
“Magnetically?”
“With a magnet, or something similar. So it could have been an accident. But we don’t think so. And if someone risked getting caught messing with those disks, there must have been some key information on them. Now it’s gone. We think whoever wiped out that information also wiped out Bellano.”
“I see.”
“We’re conducting an internal investigation. Somebody will get burned. After you.”
He opened the door for me. Then he hustled away through the crowd of cops and victims, perpetrators and suspects. I followed, but not quite as fast. Nobody moved out of my way.
I had trouble imagining Stephanie Bellano plotting her father’s death. Sure, she’d been angry at him last Friday in his shop. But murder? I also had trouble imagining someone wanting to kill her. How many enemies could a college coed have? Especially ones versed in car bombs.
MacArthur was probably right. Someone had wanted Bellano’s knowledge canceled. So they’d erased him and then erased his records.
Although not completely.
Bellano had told me the cops had overlooked one copy of his records, one that was right under their noses. I searched the crowd for MacArthur. He was already gone. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, I would’ve told him.
Probably.
CHAPTER 8
I FLEW TO SAN Diego that night.
It was too late to drop in on Diane Eastbridge, so I spent the night in a downtown hotel. I woke up Saturday morning with a partial view of North San Diego Bay. The toll bridge walked across it on stilts toward Coronado.
I took a shower and ate a room-service breakfast. Then I put on white pants, boat shoes, a purple polo shirt, and perfectly black Ray-Bans. I was cool. Except my summer tan was long gone. I’d probably stand out among the sun-browned locals like a marshmallow in a bag of walnuts.
I drove my rental car north on Cabrillo Freeway to the Genesee Avenue exit. There were lots of palm trees and convertibles and long-legged women, and I wondered why the hell I was living a mile high up in the snow. So I could have a white Christmas? Humbug. I’d rather have a tan.
I checked my map, then realized I’d gone too far. I made a couple of turns before I found Diane’s street.
I hadn’t phoned ahead. If she was hiding Stephanie, she’d lied about it to her own mother, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it to me.
Diane’s address was one of eight units, which formed a horseshoe surrounding a courtyard of red tile. There were plants in huge terra-cotta pots. An old guy in khaki pants and a Hawaiian shirt was sweeping up a few dead leaves with a stiff broom.
“Good morning,” I told him, and walked over.
Up close his skin looked as rough as hide. It was laced with a thousand wrinkles from too much sun.
“I’m looking for Diane Eastbridge.”
“She’s home,” he said, nodding. “Unit F, right over there.”
“Are you the manager?” I asked.
He stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom, showing me skinny, leathery forearms.
“I own these units, fella.”
Big deal. “I wanted to surprise her and her sister.”
He looked me up and down, then squinted at me with a half smile.
“You from out of town?”
I guess my disguise hadn’t fooled him. I took off the Ray-Bans.
“That’s right. I’ll only be here a short time, and I wanted to drop in on them. Are they both home?”
“I didn’t even know she had a sister.”
“Isn’t there a young woman staying with her?”
“Nobody’s staying with her. Just the kids.”
I crossed the courtyard and knocked on F. A moment later the door was opened by Diane Eastbridge. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in black. Now she wore a green tank top, blue shorts, and sandals. She was prettier than Stephanie—at least Stephanie’s picture. But there was a strong family resemblance. It was mostly the pouty lips and the dark bedroom eyes.
“Yes?” She was frowning. She didn’t know me, and I obviously wasn’t selling anything.
“My name is Jacob Lomax. I’m a private investigator from Denver. Your father hired me to—”
“My father is dead,” she said with finality.
“I know, and I’m sorry. The day before his death he asked me to find your sister.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s him she ran away from, and I don’t blame her one bit. Wait a minute—Did my mother send you here?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you leave us alone. Steph will come home when she’s ready. Good-bye.” She started to close the door.
“Her life may be in danger.”
The door stopped, half-open.
“Stephanie didn’t run away from your father,” I said. “She ran away from someone else. Someone she feared.”
“What are you saying?”
I looked over my shoulder. The leather-skinned owner was quietly sweeping clean tiles and keeping an ear pointed our way.
“Could we talk inside?”
Diane hesitated, then opened the door and unlatched the screen. I followed her in.
The rooms were small. The furniture had cane legs and floral-printed cushions. I could see through an arched doorway into the kitchen. A young girl was eating a bowl of cereal at the table. Her older brother, about ten or so, sat across from her and chuckled into a copy of Mad magazine. It used to make me chuckle, too.
“Won’t you sit down,” Diane said.
I sank into the sofa. On my right was a table with a glass top and wicker legs. There was a picture in a red-plastic frame showing Diane hugging her two children. In front of them was a big English sheepdog. Maybe Diane’s ex-husband had taken the picture. I hadn’t seen a dog. Maybe he’d taken that, too.
Diane sat across from me and leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice was low. She didn’t want the k
ids to hear.
“Why do you think Steph is in danger?”
I’d already decided not to tell her about the bomb having been in Stephanie’s car. And it had little to do with my promise to MacArthur. I described Stephanie’s exit from the barbershop, then named the four customers.
Diane didn’t know any of them. She’d heard of Stan Fowler, but only because he’d been in business for years and had flooded the Denver media with his ads.
“Do you think one of these men is after Stephanie?” She looked worried.
“Possibly. Anyway, Stephanie believes one of them is.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know.”
“My God, do you think it has something to do with my father’s death?”
“I don’t know that, either. Has she made any contact with you since she left?”
Diane shook her head no. “I assumed she was staying with a friend.”
“She’s not. And I’ve talked to all of her friends. Except one named Chrissie, whom she apparently met during the summer. Do you know her?”
“No. But if it was during the summer …”
“What?”
“Steph and I and my parents used to go to Big Pine Lake for two weeks every summer. Maybe she met Chrissie there. In fact, I think Steph stayed at the lake for several months last summer and worked part-time. My father believed in work.”
“Where did she work?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even certain she did.”
We were quiet for a moment. I could hear one of the kids running water in the kitchen sink.
“What did you mean,” I asked, “when you said you didn’t blame Stephanie for running away?”
“From our father.”
“Because he was a bookie?”
“What?” She looked as if she were ready to laugh. “Hell, no. That might’ve been the best thing about him. It brought in a lot more money than his stupid barbershop.”
“Then what?”
“Because he was a goddamn tyrant.”
“That surprises me.”
“It does? Did you know my father?”
“More or less. He seemed like a soft-spoken man.”
“Oh, he was soft-spoken, all right. Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
“He beat you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He never laid a hand on me or Steph. But he made sure everything in that house was done his way. Exactly his way.” She shook her head, a pained smile on her face. “Do this,” she mocked. “Don’t do that. You can wear this, you can’t wear that. You can go out with this boy, not that one. Jesus, he damn near suffocated me.” She smiled meekly and shook her head, then glanced up at the ceiling and beyond. “Sorry, Dad,” she said. She looked at me. “Anyway, that’s why I left. I came out here, got a job, met a man. He gave me two wonderful kids. Then he took off. Maybe I suffocated him.”
Again, we fell silent.
“Mom, we’re done.”
The boy stood in the doorway. He was slim and tentative, but I could see the resemblance to his grandfather Joseph.
“Did you do the dishes?” Diane asked him.
“Yes. Are we still going to the beach for shells?”
“Pretty soon.”
The beach. Sigh. Back in Denver people were crunching around on studded snow tires. The boy retreated through the kitchen. I heard a back door open and close.
“Did you know Stephanie was pregnant?”
Diane looked shocked. “You’re not serious. Stephanie?”
“She got pregnant early last spring. Sometime between then and now she either had a miscarriage or an abortion.”
“I don’t believe it. I would have heard something. My God, my parents would’ve freaked out.” She shook her head. “An abortion? No. My mother would’ve told me, I’m certain.”
“Maybe your mother didn’t know.”
“But how …”
We were both thinking the same thing—Big Pine Lake.
“Maybe it happened at the resort,” Diane said. “Maybe she’s hiding up there. Except that’s probably the first place my father would’ve checked.”
“Probably. I’ll take a look, though.”
I heard the back door open and close. The boy and the girl stood in the doorway, pails in hand. It was time to go to the beach.
I flew back to Denver that evening. It was cold and snowing. The Olds ice-skated all the way from the airport to Holy Family rectory.
I was told at the door that Father Carbone was rehearsing a wedding. I found him next door, at the church. He stood before the altar with half a dozen nervous young people in street clothes. I sat in a pew and waited.
Twenty minutes later the practice was finished, and the kids filed out, smiling. Father Carbone saw me and came over. I stood and met him in the aisle.
“Any word on Stephanie?” he asked.
“I’m still chasing leads.”
“Her poor, dear mother.”
“Yes. She’s why I’m here. I need to talk to her. The last time I tried, she broke into tears and I got tossed out by a large character named Tony.”
He smiled with one side of his mouth. “That was probably Anthony, her brother.”
“I want them to know I’m on their side. Perhaps a word from you …”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll see them tomorrow after mass. Is that soon enough?”
“It’s fine.”
We started toward the door.
“Father, did Stephanie tell you last June that she was pregnant?”
He kept walking. His mouth had opened slightly, then immediately snapped shut.
“Was that the ‘trouble’ you mentioned?”
“I told you before, Mr. Lomax, I am bound by the seal of the confessional.”
“I know. Hypothetically, though, if a young, unmarried Catholic girl confessed to you that she was pregnant, what would you advise her to do?”
He shook his head, his face neutral. “It’s impossible to answer that. It would depend on the individual and on the circumstances. And I’m not going to engage in a game of twenty questions.”
He led me through the vestibule to the outer doors. He stopped. He wasn’t leaving; I was.
“A young girl’s life may be at stake.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m trying to help her.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m certain that you are, Mr. Lomax.” He put his hand on the door, ready to push it open and kick me out. “If such a girl came to me,” he said, looking at the door, not at me, “I would probably first inquire about the father of the unborn child.”
“And if the father was a louse, if he just dumped her and left her to deal with it alone?”
“I’d suggest that she talk with her parents.”
I doubted that Stephanie had told her parents or anyone else about her pregnancy.
“Father, what if this girl came to you months later and told you, I mean, confessed to you that she’d had an abortion.”
He turned and faced me with tired eyes and pain in his heart.
“Then I would help her pray to God for forgiveness.”
CHAPTER 9
FATHER CARBONE HAD ONLY confirmed what I’d already suspected: Stephanie had had an abortion this summer. Probably at Big Pine Lake.
Before I started snooping around up there, I wanted to talk to Angela Bellano. I couldn’t do that until tomorrow. No use wasting tonight, though. So I went home, unpacked my suitcase, and changed from my airline-traveling clothes to my barhopping clothes.
I wasn’t looking for a good time. I was looking for Johnny Toes Burke.
My leads to Stephanie’s whereabouts were nearly gone. Pretty soon I might have to start looking at why she’d run and hope that would give me a clue as to where. Apparently she’d run from one or more of the four customers in her father’s shop. Johnny Toes Burke was the only one I knew personally.
I hadn’t seen Burke in several years, so I had no idea wher
e to find him. But by my fifth saloon I’d learned that he lived in an apartment in Aurora and hung out at a place on East Evans called Terry’s. Also, he was now working for Fat Paulie DaNucci.
I got to Terry’s at ten.
The clientele was visibly drunk. They were a mix of blue-collar workers, frayed-white-collar workers, and non-workers who tried to act as if they were rolling in dough. They wore zircon rings, gold-plated chains, and polyester shirts open to show off their hairless chests. So did their women.
I squeezed up to the bar. One of the bartenders told me that Johnny Toes hadn’t been in yet tonight. I bought a beer and waited.
My man came in around eleven.
He was wearing a lime-green suit and a hooker on each arm—one white, one black, both about six feet tall in heels, which put them a few inches taller than Johnny Toes even in his heels. He limped up and down the bar, showing off his toys for the night. Actually, the black one wasn’t too bad looking. He bought a bottle of cheap champagne and took his women to a table in the back, limping all the way.
Johnny Toes limped because he didn’t have any toes on his right foot.
He had various explanations, depending on whom he was trying to impress. They ranged from “wounded in ’Nam” to “hit by a shark near Acapulco.” The truth wasn’t quite as exciting, but then it usually isn’t. When Burke was a teen, he’d been caught shoplifting at J. C. Penney’s. The store dick slapped him around, then tossed him out. Johnny showed him. He kicked in the store’s huge, heavy front window. Poor Johnny. The bottom part of the glass broke inward, and the top part dropped like a guillotine, slicing off the end of his foot.
I walked over to his table.
He and the ladies were laughing it up. Johnny frowned when he saw me. The ladies kept smiling. Of course, they were getting paid for it.
“Hi, Johnny.”
“What’re you doing here?”
It had been six years, but he remembered me. I’d been in uniform then. My partner and I had busted him coming out of a convenience store. He’d just robbed it. We broke his arm taking away his gun.
I put my beer on the table and sat down.
“I just want to talk. Introduce me to your girlfriends.”
“My name’s Doreen,” the white girl said. She had bleached-blond hair, blood-red lipstick, and false eyelashes long enough to knock the ash off my cigar, if I’d been smoking one.
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 6
