Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  Both Capriano and Hansen knew she was lying. Relationships were her stock in trade. Hansen handed her the other photo.

  “Mr. Gerstead,” she said.

  “You met him with Joel Richardson … Joel Chad,” said Hansen.

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember that. But he has been at several events over the last two months. A rather disagreeable man.”

  Hansen shot Capriano a glance. “Has he come with someone? A younger man?”

  “No, he comes alone.” The same distaste crossed her face.

  “How does he pay you? Cash?”

  The professional smile came back. “No one pays me, gentlemen. I host parties.”

  “Right, I forgot,” said Capriano. “Are these parties by invitation?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I don’t sell tickets.”

  “And Mr. Gerstead? How would he get an invitation?”

  “Through another guest, most likely.”

  “Joel Richardson,” said Hansen.

  “Perhaps,” said the woman. “I don’t know.”

  Hansen handed her a third photo, the one of Ellie with Arlen and Sandy Gerstead, the one he had taken from Ellie’s kitchen. “Do you know either of these women?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do women come to your parties?” Capriano asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Gerstead said he met a nurse there, one in uniform. Might you now her name?” Hansen hoped he could catch her off guard.

  “Our events are all black tie.” She waited a moment. “Gentlemen, is there anything else I can help you with? I’m expecting a friend.” The bodyguard appeared in the doorway, as if summoned.

  They didn’t push it. Hansen stood, then Capriano, and they made their way out and down the elevator. They walked down the block to a Starbucks.

  Once they’d ordered and found a table, Hansen spoke up. “Where is Gerstead getting the money for these parties?”

  “Exactly,” said Capriano. “Out of Richardson’s account?”

  “Would he risk that? I don’t like the guy, but he doesn’t strike me as that stupid.”

  “Maybe he thinks we are.”

  Hansen raised an eyebrow.

  “That stupid,” Capriano said.

  “Maybe. Did it surprise you that Richardson gave a fake name?”

  “No,” said Capriano. “Not with the kind of stuff he was into.”

  Both men were silent for a while. Capriano ate the last of his cookie.

  “Now what?” said Hansen.

  “Follow the money,” said Capriano. “Follow Gerstead’s money.”

  Capriano got back to him a week later. “Gerstead’s not running the money through his account.” His tenor’s voice had dropped an octave.

  “Larry, you sick?”

  “Getting over a cold. I hate colds.”

  “Sorry to hear that. So, no record of the money, not in his account. Do you think he’s the one taking money out of Joel’s account?”

  Capriano was silent a moment. “Well, it’s possible but my gut says no. Gerstead is too big a doofus for a guy like Richardson to trust with his account numbers and I just don’t see him as smart enough to hack into the account. I think it’s the second man. I think he and Richardson were lovers and he either got the passwords from Richardson—maybe Joel even gave him the computer before he died—or he has computer smarts.”

  “Then where is Gerstead’s money coming from?”

  “That’s the question. I think maybe it’s time to interview Mrs. Gerstead and see what she knows about all this.”

  “My guess is very little,” said Hansen.

  “Mine too, but maybe that will shake something loose.”

  40

  Ellie woke to the cold, gray light of Paris winter edging its way around the half-open curtains and sending its dim fingers into the corners of the apartment. It was ten-thirty or eleven, she guessed. She’d unplugged the clock in early December. Mario snored softly beside her, curled up like a small boy.

  The day of Hansen’s departure had been the last clear day for months. The warm, dry fall was followed by the descent of a cold, bitter fog over all of northern Europe. It hung on through the holidays and well into February, wreaking havoc with flights, traffic accidents, and a proliferation of bar fights, which were all reported on the télé.

  Ellie couldn’t have cared less. As long as the college’s checks got deposited into her account and the supermarché continued to sell cheap wine, she was fine. She’d relearned how much easier and cheaper it was to stay drunk in Paris than in Pittsburgh.

  She went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. She resisted the urge for a glass of wine even though she knew it would make her feel better. She needed to return some materials to the library today and if she started drinking now, she might never leave the apartment. If she made tea and toast, she could rouse Mario and get him gone before she needed to shower and leave herself.

  She made a first cup for herself and moved around the massage table to the dining area, where she pulled out her journal. She’d been writing every day since Hansen had left, keeping track of her consumption of food and alcohol, the occasional social event, but mostly the long days of nothing. She had not, however, kept track in the journal of her appointments with Mario.

  “You’ll like him,” Marie-Noël had said as she cut Ellie’s hair. “He does Thai, he does Swedish. He also does massage érotique. Some of my clients find him very talented.”

  Ellie wasn’t interested in the érotique but her lower back needed attention. At the next haircut, Marie-Noël introduced her to Mario. He wasn’t the young gigolo she’d imagined, but a slight Italian man of about forty. He gave her several sessions of Swedish massage for her back and then one night stayed for dinner, to practice his English he said. It got late, they had both drunk a lot, and he spent the night in her bed. Ellie didn’t want sex; she just didn’t want to be so alone. And so they fell into a routine of massage and the night on Wednesdays. She paid him handsomely for the massage, but he wouldn’t take money for the night together and was insulted when she tried.

  “You are a beautiful woman,” he said, “and a lonely one. I make you a gift of my time.”

  He gave her another gift as well. “Who did this to you?” he exclaimed when he saw the scars. Ellie had shook her head and remained silent. The next time he came, he brought special herbal creams and gently rubbed them into the scars. “Je suis belle,” he would say. “Répétez.” I am beautiful. Say it with me.

  Ellie could not see that the scars faded any but she began to look at herself in the mirror when she got out of the shower. She had not done that since Gettysburg.

  As the cold, rainy winter in Paris dragged on, Ellie slipped deeper into a drug-enhanced hibernation. The days took on a repetition that was both comforting and deadening. She slept late, put in a few half-hearted hours at the library once or twice a week, went to a movie most afternoons, then was awake a good part of the night, often writing in her journal at three or four. She read a lot but retained little, telling herself it was still good practice with the language.

  She and Mario had become lovers, although lovers wasn’t the right word. By the time Mario arrived for the Wednesday evening massage and English lessons, Ellie would already be drunk and she would just get drunker until the conversation and ensuing sex was a blur, experienced in snatches as she faded in and out. In her earlier years of drinking, the blackouts had frightened her. Now she welcomed their oblivion.

  41

  Hansen drove to Pittsburgh one Thursday morning late in February. Capriano had wanted to delay the interview with Sandy Gerstead for some weeks while he pursued several leads. He wasn’t working the case full time, far from it, but he kept at it. Hansen admired him for it. For Capriano, it was pure police work, pure pride in his job, not the complicated mess Hansen had found himself in with Ellie.

  When the Greensburg exit came up, Hansen made a quick decision and pulled off the t
urnpike. He could take the surface roads into Pittsburgh and go by Ellie’s place. Maybe she had come back.

  The silver Mazda was in the driveway, the same car the boy had been unloading. Ellie’s red Honda was still on the street. Hansen wondered if the kid was driving it some to keep the battery going. The dirty heaped snow in front and behind the Honda meant probably not. He thought about going to the door, seeing if the kid knew when Ellie would be back. Then he stopped himself. Best not to go there again. It hadn’t worked out well the first time and nothing had changed that he could see.

  He started to drive on, then stopped. Something nagged at him, something little and sharp in the back of his mind. He put the car in reverse and jotted down the Mazda’s plate number. He called it in and then headed into the city.

  Capriano was on the phone when Hansen got to the station. Hansen sat down in the chair next to the desk; he was in no hurry. The detectives’ room was pretty quiet. Most desks were empty: a man here, a woman there, on the phone, doing paper work. The room had a lethargy about it that Hansen recognized from his own station when there wasn’t a crisis in swing.

  “Sorry about that,” Capriano said, putting the phone down. “Our dishwasher is on the blink and major appliances are my jurisdiction.”

  “Any news?”

  “We’ve been trying to trace the pentobarbital, but with no luck. We’d need a vial with numbers and he hasn’t left us one. It’s commonly used by veterinarians for euthanasia. It’s controlled for vets, but it’s also apparently easy to get in Mexico or on the street.”

  “Do you think he got it from Richardson himself?”

  “Maybe, but Richardson would have to have signed for it, and there’s no record of that. Of course that doesn’t mean that there aren’t falsified records at his ER but we don’t have enough evidence to pursue that.”

  Hansen nodded. “Mrs. Gerstead here?”

  Capriano nodded.

  “Lawyer?”

  Capriano shook his head.

  “Husband?”

  Capriano shook his head again. “I told her she might be more comfortable if she came without him.” He handed Hansen a manila envelope.

  Hansen looked through the contents, glancing up from time to time at the other man, who nodded each time he did.

  “She know any of this?”

  “I doubt it.” Capriano stood. “Need coffee or water?”

  “No, I’m fine. Let’s go talk to her.”

  Sandy Gerstead looked up when the two detectives entered the interview room. She didn’t smile. Hansen saw that she held her purse in her lap. The gesture was old-fashioned, something his mom would have done. It told him a lot.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Gerstead.” Capriano’s smile was warm and casual. “You remember Detective Hansen.”

  “Of course.” She held out her hand to Hansen. “You were very kind to Ellie in that awful week right after …”

  Hansen smiled and shook her hand. “Hello, Sandy,” he said, then pulled a chair a little to one side again and gave the floor to Capriano.

  “We’re still on the case, Mrs. Gerstead. We’re still trying to figure out what happened to Dr. Richardson and Dr. McKay.”

  “I don’t have any new information to give you, Detective. I haven’t remembered anything else. To be honest, I’ve tried to forget that weekend.”

  “How’s Ellie doing, Sandy?” Hansen spoke up.

  “She’s still in France. But beyond that, I don’t really know. She doesn’t email me and I got tired of leaving messages and her not calling me back. I guess she’s just busy with research. She has friends there, too.” The woman looked sad, lost somehow. Hansen knew how she felt.

  “We want to make it safe for Dr. McKay to come home,” said Capriano, “so we’re trying to tie up as many loose ends as possible.”

  “Okay,” said Sandy, “but I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Well, some things have come to our attention about your husband and Dr. Richardson that make us wonder if Mr. Gerstead knows more than he’s telling us. And that makes us wonder if you know more than you’ve told us. Maybe you know something about the two of them and are afraid to say anything.”

  Sandy frowned. “What sort of things have come to your attention?”

  “Did Arlen tell you that he and Joel frequented sex clubs here in town?”

  “What do you mean, ‘sex clubs’? You mean like strippers? That’s ridiculous.”

  Capriano went on. “We have witnesses that place your husband and Joel in several different locations frequented by prostitutes.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Her voice was defensive but she looked stricken with shame.

  “Arlen was a good customer at these places,” Capriano said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Hansen saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the purse. He hated this part of the job.

  Capriano shifted direction. “Have you and your husband recently come into some money? An inheritance maybe or does one of you gamble a little?”

  Sandy Gerstead shook her head. “No, we live on our salaries. I work, Arlen works. Neither one of us gambles. We don’t even buy lottery tickets. I think they’re a waste of good money. Why? What’s going on?”

  “One of the sex clubs is, how I shall put this, ‘high class.’ It’s expensive to join, expensive to attend. We’re talking a thousand dollars an evening.”

  “Well, Joel had a lot of money. I know that. Maybe he paid for Arlen. If Arlen even went to those places and I’m sure he didn’t. He isn’t that kind of man.” There were tears in her eyes.

  Hansen saw the sympathy in Capriano’s eyes. He was relieved to see the other man’s discomfort with what they were doing.

  “Sandy, we know this is painful to hear. But we’re trying to sort this all out. Your husband has continued to go to this club since Dr. Richardson died, at least three times that we know of,” Hansen said.

  “That’s not possible. We don’t have that kind of money.” Loyalty and disgust battled in her eyes.

  Hansen got up and took a bottle of water from a small table in the corner and placed it in front of her. She looked at it as if it were a snake about to bite her.

  “Mrs. Gerstead,” said Capriano, “did you know that your husband is using an apartment here in the city?”

  “It must have to do with his work. He’s a sales representative for a big pharmaceutical company.”

  “We don’t think so. He rented this apartment in November, gave his name as Joel Richardson when he signed the lease. We’ve been watching this apartment for some time. Do you know this woman?” Capriano handed her several photos. One of Arlen Gerstead and a young, curvaceous blonde, the couple was holding hands. In a second photo, the blonde, dressed as a nurse, was about to enter a white Toyota Avalon. “That’s your husband’s car, isn’t it?”

  Sandy Gerstead nodded. “I don’t know anything about this,” she said, her voice small and tight. The stricken look of shame seemed welded to her face now.

  Capriano kept it up. “Where would your husband get this kind of money? Is he selling drugs? Are you two selling drugs?”

  “No,” the woman’s voice rose, became shrill, exasperated. “I don’t know what Arlen is up to. He goes to work, I go to work. We come home, we spend time together. He’s good to me. We love each other. I don’t know anything about this. You know I don’t.” She looked directly at Hansen. “You know I don’t,” she said again.

  Hansen could only nod at her. Maybe, he thought, she’ll see it’s an apology.

  “We’ve just destroyed a marriage, Larry,” said Hansen. The two men stood at the curb a block down from the station.

  “No, Doug, Arlen Gerstead destroyed his marriage. I’m not taking responsibility for this.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, but it was still ugly.”

  Capriano nodded. “Let’s just hope it does what we need it to.”

  On the way home, Hansen checked his messages. The Mazda
in Ellie’s driveway was registered to a Jason L. Dirrelich. Address in one of the boroughs that Hansen was unfamiliar with. Friend of the kid, no doubt.

  42

  Gracie Armand,” said Mona. “It was most likely Gracie. She’s Al’s sister-in-law, or rather, former sister-in-law. He hasn’t introduced you yet?”

  Ellie sat across from the therapist. She shook her head. “I haven’t met anyone in Al’s life except the rancheros and the foreman. She’s Annie’s sister, then.”

  “Yes.” Mona paused, then said, “There’s been talk for a year or so that they were keeping company although nothing public or official.”

  “So she’s jealous?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know her except in passing, so I have no idea what her relationship is with Al or what they promised each other.”

  “Do you know what happened to Annie?”

  “No, it was before I came here. Al has been a widower as long as I’ve known him. Have you asked him what happened to her?”

  “No, I assumed she died of illness. We haven’t told each other all that much about our pasts.” Ellie hesitated a moment and said, “I’m feeling really paranoid. I feel like I’m being watched, like somebody’s going through my things at the hotel. This morning when I came back, the door was ajar.”

  “Had the maid been there?”

  “Maybe but I didn’t see her cart anywhere. I wondered if this woman, if Gracie, would do that.”

  Mona shook her head. “I don’t know, Ellie. It seems an odd thing for a grown woman to do. She’s confronted you directly so it seems unlikely she would sneak around. Have you told Al any of this?”

  “No. He’ll just pressure me to move out to the ranch with him, and I’m just not ready to do that.”

  “What are you waiting for, Ellie? Are you not wanting to be with Al?”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure I am. But I know I have to tell him about Joel and I can’t, not yet.”

  “But do you feel unsafe at the hotel?”

  “No, I guess not. I’m just oversensitive to everything.”

  “Well, a lot has happened to you.”