Flowering Judas

by Jane Haddam

  He read down the page about Chester, but found out very little. There was a line or two about Chester Morton’s fascination with the state of Wyoming, and with Montana, and with living near really tall mountains. This was a fascination he was supposed to have picked up when the family went on vacation to Wyoming when he was eight. There were references to other things Chester was supposed to have liked. Some were the names of bands Gregor had never heard of. Some were obvious things for a young man of that age: Harley-Davidson motorcycles; pumpkin pie with whipped cream; the World Wrestling Federation; NASCAR.

  Gregor went back to the Google search page. There was a link to the episode of Disappeared that was going to tell his story—that wasn’t going to air for another month. There were links to a couple of amateur sites that used the Chester Morton case as an item of interest for conspiracy nuts of various kinds.

  Tony came back with two coffees and put a big one down next to Gregor’s laptop. Gregor opened the inevitable plastic top—why they did that when they knew you were going to drink the stuff in the car, he didn’t know—and stared down into what looked like plain black coffee.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  Tony settled himself across the table. He had a tall pink-looking thing with a straw in it. Gregor didn’t ask.

  “So,” Tony said, “have you found anything out?”

  “Not really,” Gregor said. “The case has been a minor item on a couple of the true crime shows, but there hasn’t been anything major. Until just about now. There’s going to be an episode of Disappeared about it. But maybe not, now that he’s been found.”

  “Yeah, well,” Tony said. “There’s going to be some interest now from some of those shows, don’t you think?”

  “Probably, but hardly to the point.” Gregor tried the coffee. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was better than not bad. “It’s frustrating, though. I can’t get any real sense of this man. Darvelle Haymes says he wanted her to help him buy a baby. His brother Kenny says he remembers Chester as someone who did drugs and drank alcohol at least some of the time. That MOM tattoo on his chest was put on after death, but he had other tattoos, on his arms, that had been there for years. There was a snake, I think. And there were piercings. The holes for that nipple ring. The penis ring. I’d think anybody willing to get a penis ring would have to be fairly hard-core something. Hard-core crazy, if nothing else.”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “I don’t know,” Gregor said. “I guess that it just doesn’t sound, to me, like the description of a guy who was enthralled by the outdoors, a guy who wanted to go live in a state with nearly nobody in it and spend his time looking at mountains. First he went away, and then he came back. Why?”

  “I keep telling you not to ask me,” Tony said. “I’m not even Watson. I’m just a fly on the wall.”

  Gregor got out his cell phone. He thought cell phone address books had to be one of the greatest inventions ever. They not only kept your numbers for you They let you dial them with a single punch of a button.

  He found the number he was looking for, punched it in, and waited. Kurt Delano picked up his own phone and said, “Delano speaking, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “God, you sound official,” Gregor said.

  “Gregor! I can’t believe it! It must have been a year! How are you?”

  “I’m fine. But this is something in the nature of a business call.”

  “Of course it’s a business call. You called my office. I’m going to be in Philly in a month, though. We’ve got some kind of regional conference. More of the happy-crappy that comes with having a desk job. You had a desk job. How did you stand it?”

  “I reminded myself every day that it could have been worse and they could have made me the director. Listen, what do you know about Chester Ray Morton?”

  “Oh that.” Kurt Delano laughed. “Okay, I knew you were doing that. I heard it on television. I’m the wrong person to ask. The bureau was about to start looking into it, but it wasn’t on my desk. And now it doesn’t matter at all, I guess. It’s a local murder. Or do you think it isn’t local?”

  “No, I think it’s local enough. It’s just—did you ever hear about Chester Morton having a fascination with Wyoming?”

  “No, but like I said, that wasn’t on my desk. And I’m still not sure it should have been on anybody’s desk. As far as I know, it was mostly the result of the mother just not taking no for an answer, so after a while—well, you know what I mean. I could put you in touch with the agent who was set to handle it.”

  “Could you? That would be helpful. Or I think it would.”

  “Her name’s Rhonda Alvarez. Give me your number and I’ll ask her to call. Don’t worry. She’s not one of your protecting-the-turf types. I used to think we’d have less of that once we got enough women in the Bureau, but sometimes I think it’s been worse.”

  3

  The next place Gregor needed to go was the Mattatuck Police Department, but he didn’t want to go there, and he wasn’t sure he was at the place where he couldn’t do anything else. He looked at his notes a few more times. Then he picked up his cell phone and called Bennis.

  “I’m in some kind of coffee shop,” he said. “It’s not Starbucks, but then Starbucks is less fey. You can get coffee to drink here that’s pink.”

  “How do they make coffee that’s pink?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve seen it. How’s old George.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line—except, Gregor reminded himself, it wasn’t a line, and that was why it went disturbingly blank-silent when nobody was talking. He didn’t understand why he got himself so tangled up with the technology, but he did. There was a point where he just wanted to do more than turn back the clock. He wanted to turn back the world. Or maybe he didn’t. If he turned back the world, he might be back at a place where nothing could be done for old George but wait for him to die.

  “Gregor?” Bennis said.

  “Never mind,” Gregor said. “I was obsessing about technology again. It doesn’t matter. How’s old George.”

  “I think the proper terminology is ‘resting comfortably.’ There’s just not much anybody can do with him. He’s not in pain. He’s reasonably alert most of the time—”

  “Oh, I know. I actually got to talk to him once.”

  “And he’s nearly a hundred years old,” Bennis said. “It’s hard to complain, really. He’s nearly a hundred and he’s been living on his own and ambulatory until last week, no nursing homes, no dementia. If I get to live to be a hundred, this is what I want it to be.”

  “Isn’t there a prognosis?”

  “The prognosis is that he’s a hundred years old,” Bennis said, “and don’t tell me the medical system gives up on old people. I know it does. But I don’t think anybody is giving up on old George. The nurses love him. The doctors admire him. I think Martin would keep him alive by feeding him his own blood if that was what it took. But the man is a hundred years old. There just gets to be a point.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you all right? This case was supposed to take your mind off things. It doesn’t sound like it has.”

  “I’ve just got my mind on other things,” Gregor said. “I’m sorry. I forget if I’ve discussed things with you or only discussed them with Tony here. Tony was a brilliant choice, even if he does drink pink coffee.”

  “It’s red coffee,” Tony said. “It’s got cinnamon hearts in it.”

  “Is he right there?” Bennis said.

  “Absolutely,” Gregor said. “I’ve got to go do something. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Do that,” Bennis said. “And don’t worry so much, Gregor. If something looks like a crisis, I’ll call you immediately. Tony will drive you back home.”

  “Right,” Gregor said.

  He put the phone done on the table. The problem, of course, was that with somebody of old George Tekemanian’s age, crises could come up without notice and be o
ver before anybody had a chance to call anybody.

  Gregor got up. “Let’s go,” he said. “We might as well go over to the police station and see what happens. I really hate being in situations of this kind.”

  Going back, they did not take the scenic route. Tony cut across one small crumbling neighborhood after the other, the houses triple-deckers and close together. Mattatuck looked like any one of a hundred dying industrial towns of the Northeast—but it looked like an industrial town, not like a rural hamlet. They turned onto a slightly wider-than-average two-lane blacktop, and Gregor began to recognize some of the scenery. There was the welfare office. There were the pawnshops. There was the trailer park.

  “Wait,” Gregor said.

  Tony slowed, but he didn’t park. “You want me to pull over somewhere?”

  “I don’t know,” Gregor said. “That’s the trailer park Howard Androcoelho and I were at when I met Chester Morton’s mother. I’m sure of it. I recognize the neighborhood.”

  “Okay. Is that important?”

  “I don’t know,” Gregor said. “Could you maybe go around back to the trailer park, then turn around and head in this direction again, and go directly to The Feldman Funeral Home? Maybe that’s not what I mean. Let’s go to the trailer park and then go to The Feldman Funeral Home in the most direct way possible. How about that?”

  “Okay.”

  Tony swung the car around and brought it back to the entrance to the trailer park. It was the same trailer park. Gregor was sure of it. He looked up the road and down again. There was nothing on this stretch that would be of any help to anybody, as far as he could see. He looked into the distance. The main offices of the Morton’s garbage business were supposed to be right there, past the trailers and through the trees. Somebody could walk if they didn’t mind smashing their way through the brambles.

  “You want to sit here for a while?” Tony asked.

  “No,” Gregor said. “Drive to The Feldman Funeral Home on the most direct route possible. I expect that’s going to be main streets, right?”

  “Probably. There isn’t much around here except main streets.”

  “I know. Drive to The Feldman Funeral Home. Pull into that parking lot around the back.”

  “Fine with me,” Tony said.

  They got back out onto the road. They were heading in the direction they had been heading in originally. Gregor had been right about that. He was beginning to get some kind of bearings in this place. They passed a huge strip-mall-like shopping center where more than half the stores seemed to be empty. Then they turned left at an intersection with three different gas stations and a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then they went under a trestle and they were at the green. Gregor remembered the Civil War monument.

  “It’s right over there,” Tony said, pointing across the street. “It’s closer than it seems, but we have to go around the green to get there.”

  “Right,” Gregor said.

  They pulled around the green, then down the road to The Feldman Funeral Home, then down the side street to the entrance to the parking lot in the back. Tony parked, and waited.

  “What would you say?” Gregor asked him. “Starting from here, are we in walking distance to that trailer park?”

  “It’s less than a mile,” Tony said. “And it’s on your way from here. Turn right at the end of the little street this parking lot is on and you don’t have to go around the green. You can go straight back to the KFC and then right again and then you’re there.”

  “I thought so.”

  Gregor got out his cell phone, looked quickly through his notes for the number he wanted, and punched it in. A chipper little voice said, “Morton’s.” Gregor identified himself, asked for Charlene Morton, and waited.

  “I need to get into the trailer again,” he said, when the woman got on the line. “Do you think you can meet me there in—well, as quickly as possible? I’m at The Feldman Funeral Home, so I’m not far.”

  “I’ll be over there in a minute and a half,” Charlene Morton said. “But I hope you know what you’re doing. I’ve had about enough of the whole crapload bunch of you.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Gregor said. “It won’t take long.”

  Gregor put his cell phone back in his pocket and nodded at Tony. “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s see where we’re going here.”

  Tony got the car out of the parking lot, down the side street, and back onto East Main. Seconds later, they were at the intersection with the Kentucky Fried Chicken. Seconds after that, they were passing the nearly deserted shopping center. Barely a hiccup after that, they were at the trailer park. Tony turned the car into the dirt drive and let it bump along against the ruts as women came out of their trailers one by one, just to look at them.

  “Want to go to where that green trailer is,” Gregor said, “and then just around it to the trailer on the other side.”

  Tony moved slowly. Gregor caught sight of Charlene Morton standing at the door of Chester Morton’s trailer, her Fusion parked in the dust and mud just a few feet away. Gregor tapped Tony on the shoulder and the car eased to a stop.

  “Thanks,” Gregor said.

  He popped the passenger side door and got out. It was hot today, hot and muggy. The air felt full of rain that hadn’t happened yet. Gregor walked up to the trailer and looked it over. It did not seem changed in any way.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Charlene Morton said. “I really do hope that. Because I’ve been put through enough by you people.”

  “As far as I know, you haven’t been put through anything by me,” Gregor said. “You didn’t think to go inside while you were waiting for me?”

  “I told you the last time we did this,” Charlene said. “I don’t go inside. I don’t clean up. I just keep the place. And I’m not going to be keeping it any longer, now that I’m not waiting for Chester to come back anymore.”

  “If you’ll let me,” Gregor said, taking the keys.

  Charlene Morton gave up the keys reluctantly, but she gave them up. Gregor took them and opened the door. He did not hesitate. He did step in front and go through the door first.

  Chester Morton’s body was sitting up in the ancient armchair in the far corner of the minuscule living room.

  It was the first thing anybody would see when they walked through the door.

  FOUR

  1

  Althy Michaelman would have slept all day if she could have managed it. She had been out until two in the morning, and she’d been drinking that sweet heavy stuff that gave her a headache that lasted all day. All she wanted to do was to lie down somewhere soft and black out until she didn’t have to give a shit anymore, but that was impossible with Haydee home and slamming around the trailer as if she were in a bowling alley. Haydee wasn’t usually home in the middle of the day. She had work at the Quik-Go, and school, and now she was talking about working somewhere else. It was enough to make Althy tired. It was enough to make her furious.

  It was the police sirens that put an end to it. Once those police sirens got going, there was no way to sleep unless you were dead. Or better than dead. Althy tried to remember what they’d done last night to get the liquor, whether they’d finished the bottles, whether they’d brought anything home. She might as well have been trying to remember the fall of Rome. They’d been out near the reservoir, that was all she remembered. They’d started a bonfire, and Dickie Klemm had fallen in.

  The police sirens were very loud, and the police lights were very bright, and they were all practically on her doorstep. Althy got up far enough to look through the little window, but there was nothing there to tell her what was going on. It was the middle of the day. People were mostly not coming out of their trailers to find out what was going on.

  She hauled herself up on her feet and then out into the little hall. Haydee was not moving around in the living room anymore. Maybe she’d left without delivering her customary lecture. Other people’s daughters said good-bye. Alth
y’s told her what a fucking piece of trash she was.

  Althy went down the hall. It was so narrow she could bump into it from side to side without falling over. She got to the living room and saw Haydee standing very still, looking out the picture window at whatever was happening outside. Christ, Althy thought. Who the hell ever thought to call that fucking thing a picture window?

  Althy banged on the wall. It rattled a little, but Haydee must have heard her coming. She didn’t turn around.

  “You want to let me in on what the fuck is going on?” Althy said.

  This time, Haydee did turn. “The police are over at the empty trailer. The police and Mrs. Morton and that guy they’ve got here helping to investigate.”

  “Yeah?” Althy said. “Well, so what? What’s that got to do with us?”

  “I don’t know so what. I don’t know what’s going on. There are a lot of police cars over there. They’ve got that mobile crime unit, you know, that they bought last year. It was on the news.”

  “I don’t watch the fucking news.”

  “I know you don’t,” Haydee said.

  Althy wondered where Mike had gone—but then again, it was just as well. The last thing she wanted was Mike around when the police were here. She wondered if Mike had come home with her the night before, but she didn’t remember that, either. All she really remembered was Dickie Klemm with his ass on fire.

  There was a little table built into the floor with a curving bench built around it. Althy sat down on the bench, got a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. Haydee turned around at the sound of the match and wrinkled her nose.

  “Dickie Klemm got his ass on fire last night,” Althy said. “He had to jump in the reservoir to put himself out. I laughed so hard I pissed my pants.”

  Haydee didn’t respond. She was still watching what was going on outside. Then she turned away from the window and went back to what she had been doing before. She was packing up her backpack with her school stuff.