Isabelle imagined that the gossip columnist left a trail of slime instead of footprints as he walked toward the Hobbs house. The first reporter had spotted Ferris Monty, and now they all ran toward the slander man like children who have heard the calliope music of the ice cream truck. She focused on Monty’s face. The pasty white blot in her lenses was capped with a thatch of black that might have been made of fur or feathers. ‘He still has the same bad toupee. He should give it a name and buy it a flea collar.’
Monty was holding court with the crowd of reporters, and a war of egos was predictable. Her famous father would not enjoy sharing the spotlight with another celebrity.
The sheriff only listened for a few seconds and then said, ‘Thanks, Addison,’ and slammed the telephone receiver down on its cradle. ‘One more thing, Oren. Stay the hell away from Ferris Monty.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He ’s famous,’ said the sheriff, as if this might help. It did not. ‘Well, maybe he only shows up on TV in California. Ferris’s trade is gossip. If you see a chubby little jerk, white as bug larvae, that’ll be him. You might remember his yellow Rolls-Royce.’
Oren nodded. He never forgot a classic car. ‘It belonged to one of the summer people.’
‘And now he lives in Coventry year-round.’ Cable Babitt gathered up his file holders – all but one – and locked them away in his credenza. Then he picked up his car keys and sunglasses. ‘I’ll be gone for a while.’
When the door had closed on the sheriff, Oren glanced at the remaining folder that had been overlooked. It would be rude not to open it – since the sheriff had gone to some trouble, all but decorating this file with a neon arrow and then providing time and privacy to read it.
The name on the first page was not familiar, though, according to the sheriff ’s notes, this man had been a citizen of Coventry for years before Josh had vanished. William Swahn was identified as a former police officer from Los Angeles, wounded in the line of duty after barely one year on the job. Disabled, he had been pensioned off at the tender age of twenty-one. Today this ex-cop would be in his late forties.
Penned in the margins were the sheriff ’s updates, noting that the man was not licensed as a private investigator, though Swahn had conducted many interviews around town, all of them related to Josh’s disappearance. Handwritten words at the top of one page described him as uncooperative, refusing to divulge the name of his client. A margin note listed the most likely client as Oren’s father. This would make sense from Sheriff Babitt’s point of view. The relatives of crime victims commonly hired private police when a case went cold.
Oren recognized the address on Paulson Lane, a house so well buried in the woods that lifelong residents of Coventry might be unaware of it. That property was well beyond the means of an ex-cop on a disability pension.
Was Swahn bleeding his client dry to make the mortgage payments?
No one looked up as Oren passed by the desks in the outer room. Apparently the deputies and civilian staff had been told not to interfere with him. Once outside the building, he stepped into the street to flag down a ride. A woman stopped. Whenever he had occasion to hitchhike, it was always a woman who stopped for him.
Ferris Monty led his flock of reporters through the town on foot. As a favor to Addison Winston, he had taken on the job of keeping his fellow jackals away from Judge Hobbs.
He was more than happy to do whatever Addison asked of him. For the first time in twenty-five years, he had hopes of receiving an invitation to Sarah Winston’s birthday ball. It was a gala event that cost the moon and made the society pages, a night when the famous and the infamous danced with the local folk until dawn. Ferris Monty had the distinction of being the only Coventry resident ever to be disinvited. Each year, he received a formal card that bore the printed script of his uninvitation, and it was always bordered in black like a funeral announcement.
The reporters gathered around him on the sidewalk, and he preened for the handheld cameras. ‘The dead boy’s photographs can be seen in a number of places around town. We ’ll start here.’ He led them up the steps of the Coventry Bank, a modest two-story landmark that dated back to the mill-town days. In the small lobby, a triptych of photographs hung on the wall. Ferris pointed to an image of himself standing in line to make a deposit more than twenty years ago. ‘This is me when I was young and beautiful.’
A reporter said, ‘So you knew Joshua Hobbs personally.’
‘Oh, yes. In fact, I liked these photographs so much I bought a set of prints from the boy.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Very sensitive. An artist.’ He shrugged to say, You know the type.
The day he had purchased those custom prints, there had been no conversation. Joshua Hobbs had been edging back toward the door from the moment of his arrival. Without a word, the young photographer had handed over the pictures and held out his other hand for the check. Ferris had blinked but once, and the boy had vanished.
A few weeks later, following a second, more permanent vanishing, Ferris had begun his comeback book, the story of a tragedy in a small town. It had opened with descriptions of townspeople, haggard and tired, marching past him in the streets, homeward bound after another fruitless day of searching the woods for a lost child.
Outside on the street again, a reporter broke into Ferris’s reverie and pointed toward the library. ‘Any pictures in there?’
‘I couldn’t say. No one in Coventry ever goes to the library.’ And, lest they find this fact too intriguing, he marched them down the sidewalk with a lie of something more interesting at the other end of the block. As they walked, his mind was on the abandoned manuscript in his desk drawer, and he was already planning his rebirth as a serious author.
Ferris opened the door to a tourist-trap restaurant and the din of luncheon conversations and tin silverware. He ushered his charges inside, where more examples of Joshua Hobbs’s work were hanging on the walls above the heads of the patrons. However, Ferris was not featured in any of these pictures, and he never even glanced at them. He was looking at an interior vision of literary prizes, love-struck critics, and the naked adoration of readers waiting in line for his autograph on the book-tour circuit of his imagination.
A reporter stood before him, asking, ‘Mr Monty, did the sheriff have any suspects when the boy disappeared? ’
Here, Ferris had to pause, needing a bit of time to weigh his invitation to the birthday ball against everlasting life on the bestseller list. His unfinished manuscript contained his best writing. Twenty years ago, the book had been so promising, but it had no finish.
Until now.
‘Mr Monty? Any suspects that you know of?’
With this prompt from another reporter, Ferris Monty went careening down glory road. His lost muse was found and coaching him from the ether when he said, ‘There was one suspect . . . Joshua’s brother. Oren Hobbs was seventeen years old at the time. You’ll have to ask the sheriff why the boy was never arrested.’
The reporters were waiting on his next words, tensing, extending microphones toward him and all but levitating off the floor. Then one of their number asked, ‘Any theories about that, Mr Monty?’
‘Oren’s father was a sitting judge in those days. I’m sure the old man’s influence had something to do with it. In any case, the boy was allowed to leave town, and he’s been gone for twenty years. But that old miscarriage of justice was rectified this morning. The sheriff took Oren into custody only minutes before you arrived at the judge ’s house.’
How gratifying to see the press corps scatter like cockroaches, reporters and cameramen scuttling off to their vehicles to hunt down the sheriff in Saulburg for their next sound bite. However, Ferris was writing this scene in his head, and it had yet to play out in real life. The reporters were still standing there, staring at him.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ He waved both hands, his fat fingers fluttering to shoo them on their way.
Oren Hobbs walk
ed the last half-mile to Paulson Lane and stopped by a postbox with no name, only a number stenciled on the side. All of the homes in this area were set well back from the road and hidden by dense foliage. William Swahn’s house was still in hiding when Oren came to the end of the long driveway. Thick vines camouflaged the high stone walls and reached up to a slate roof. What passed for a front porch was a Grecian portico supported by columns thick with ivy, and its marble steps and floor were veined with encroaching moss.
He stood before an oak door with a small, square grille of ornate iron at its center. There was no outside furniture, no chairs that might invite a visitor to stay awhile. There had never been anything inviting about this place.
He remembered it well.
Twice a week, he had come here with Josh when they were still in elementary school. The judge had sent them to this address on Good Samaritan duty. In those days, an old woman had resided here, and the boys had been charged with the mission of verifying that she was still alive and well and possessed of all her faculties, neither raving nor starving.
Oren pressed the doorbell. The ringer was loud so that the former tenant could hear it from every corner of her house. He waited for the new owner and listened for sounds of movement within. The householder was certainly at home. A car was parked in the driveway, a Mercedes. What else? It was the unimaginative choice of Coventry, and the previous tenant had also owned one.
The Hobbs boys had never been allowed inside the house. Oren and Josh had always spoken to the elderly woman through the iron filigree at the center of the locked door, rather like an interview with a cloistered nun. They had never seen her face, only her backlit shadow in a frame of light that made a square halo about her wispy unkempt hair. One morning, she had not come to the door, and they had reported this to the judge. In the afternoon, the boys had been told that the old woman was dead.
The current owner must be stone-deaf. Oren pressed the bell again, and this time he leaned on it, listening to the shrill ring reverberating throughout the house. After one full minute of this, a small square panel opened in the center of the door, and a shadowy head was outlined there behind the iron grille. Seconds ticked by. Evidently, no hello was forthcoming.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Oren. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’
‘Apology accepted,’ said the shadow man, and the panel was closed.
Oren waited for the massive front door to open – and he waited. Two minutes passed before he pressed the bell one more time – and for a long time. When the panel opened, he said, ‘I need to talk to you, Mr Swahn. It’s about Josh Hobbs.’ The panel was closing, and he rushed his words. ‘Wait! Please! I’m not a reporter. I used to be a cop – like you.’
‘I hate cops.’ The square panel closed with a slam.
SEVEN
Oren Hobbs walked down the driveway, intending to hike the quarter-mile home, but the sheriff ’s jeep was waiting for him by the side of the road. The passenger door hung open as an invitation to climb inside. When he had settled into the front seat, he stared at the windshield as he spoke to Cable Babitt. ‘I’m guessing you left something out of Swahn’s file.’
‘Oh, the most interesting parts of my files are the things I leave out.’ The sheriff started up the engine. ‘He wouldn’t talk to you, huh? Well, don’t feel bad, son. I never had any better luck.’
‘You knew Swahn was a cop hater.’
‘Oh, yeah. Lord knows he ’s got reason.’ The sheriff pulled into the road and drove off at the leisurely pace of a man going nowhere. ‘Next time you talk to him, I’d leave cops out of the conversation.’ He made a right turn, and they traveled the back roads for a mile before he said, ‘One other thing I left out of that file – Swahn’s no fool. He had two college degrees when most kids were still in high school. Then he picked up another one while he was waiting to turn twenty-one. That’s when he joined the LAPD. All his life that genius kid only wanted to be a cop.’
The sheriff turned to his passenger, no doubt waiting for the obvious question. But Oren was the judge’s apprentice, and he knew better than to show any interest.
Another mile down another road, the sheriff wearied of the apathy. ‘It took me years to get the whole story. I went to a few police conventions down in Los Angeles. Had to get stinking drunk with cops before they’d talk to me. And I bought a lot of beer for Swahn’s ex-partner, Jay Murray. The guy left the force – kicked out – so it took me a while to find him. Murray told me he called in sick the night his partner got ambushed on patrol. After another six-pack, he told me he wasn’t sick at all. Interesting, huh?’
Oren could see where this story was going, but he said nothing to move it along. He only had to wait for the sheriff to fill the holes in his one-way conversation.
‘This happened back in the eighties. The bad old days of the LAPD. You know – anything goes, cowboy cops. Lots of shoot-outs. They didn’t wanna swap body fluids with a gay AIDS carrier. That was the rumor on William Swahn.’ Sheriff Babitt squinted into the light of the afternoon sun slanting through the trees.
‘So Swahn’s riding solo that night, and the dispatcher sends him out on a domestic dispute. Well, it’s a bad area. He calls in for backup – but nobody shows. The kid goes in alone.’ The sheriff shrugged. ‘A rookie mistake. The next time Swahn called for help that night, he was hurt bad. Officer down – that should’ve brought out every patrol car on the planet. Not one cop came to help him.’ He gave his passenger a sidelong glance, but got no payoff from the younger man, who showed more interest in the road rolling by his window. ‘Son, I know what you’re thinking.’
Oren doubted that. He was wondering if any part of this story was backed up with proof, anything in the way of physical evidence or facts.
‘Back in the eighties,’ said the sheriff, ‘AIDS was a death sentence. And all these years later, Swahn seems healthy enough – except for a bad limp. According to the police report, he walked in on a drug deal in progress, and took a bullet in the leg. Hardly made a blip on the evening news. The department press release left out what was done to his face. And here’s the kicker – I heard that drug dealer hacked off Swahn’s balls.’
Not likely.
Oren had interfaced with many police departments on joint investigations where the Army had an interest. In or out of the military, drug dealers had never been prone to starting cop wars in any era. Nothing about this story rang true. Too many rumors passed for fact, and way too many police officers were involved to keep any gory details out of the newspapers. ‘This isn’t right.’
‘That’s what I say,’ said the sheriff. ‘And it’s the cover-up that proves the crime.’
Oren shook his head, though the other man probably took this gesture for shock and awe instead of disbelief.
‘Here’s another thing you might find interesting,’ said Sheriff Babitt. ‘William Swahn sued the LAPD, and it was settled out of court for a pile of money. I know he paid cash for his house. And I got a niece in State Revenue – she tells me Swahn gets a real nice income from his investments. But you won’t find the settlement in the public record. It was handled real quiet with nondisclosure agreements. That proves the cops were in on it.’
No, it did not.
However, Oren had no plans to point out flaws in logic and reason. The man beside him had won his first election with the bare minimum of requirements for the job. Apparently, the sheriff ’s skill set had not improved any.
‘I’ve got no idea who outed Swahn.’ Cable Babitt made another turn of the wheel. ‘Jay Murray said it wasn’t him, and I believed that much. Never occurred to him that his partner was gay. First time Murray heard that rumor was during his interview with Internal Affairs.’
Finally – a fact that could be documented. ‘Murray was interrogated right after the ambush?’
‘Oh, yeah. He said the sun was just coming up through the window of the interrogation room when the detectives lit into him. That’s when they told him his partner was a gay man w
ith the plague. Well, Swahn never mentioned a girlfriend in the year they’d been riding together, but Jay Murray thought the kid was just inept with the ladies.’
‘What about the dispatcher who sent him out on that bogus call?’
‘Oh, she disappeared. The woman never made it home from work that night. Now I figure that’s just cops being tidy. But Swahn still won his settlement. I suppose it helped that Ad Winston was his lawyer. And those two stayed tight. I know it was Ad who put him onto this house.’
They had come full circle. The jeep rolled to a stop beside William Swahn’s mailbox on Paulson Lane. The sheriff leaned across Oren to open the passenger door. ‘Go back in there, son. Get what you can. Kiss him on the mouth if that’s what it takes. Just bring me something useful.’
Oren kept his seat, disinclined to follow any orders from this man. ‘You think Swahn’s a likely suspect in my brother’s murder. Why?’
‘You know how this works. I can’t—’
‘You can’t even tell your own people, can you? That ’s why there are no copies of the files. You’ve got what – five, six detectives countywide? One of them should be interrogating William Swahn. But you want me to break your suspect.’
The sheriff had bungled something badly, or he had stepped outside the law; one of these two things must be true. Cable Babitt needed an outsider who would not mind working in the dark, someone with something to lose – a good soldier who would ask no questions.
But Oren was not in the Army anymore.
And now he planned to finish this man off, to knock him down with a civil tone. ‘Oh, and that old alibi of mine – the one you’re holding over my head? Screw that.’
A few seconds passed before the older man appeared to understand that he was not in charge here – he never had been – and there was cause for worry.
‘I need leverage.’ Oren climbed out of the jeep and issued his first order to the sheriff. ‘Find out when Swahn’s ex-partner left the force. And I need to know if Jay Murray got any part of his pension. Don’t call the LAPD. I don’t want rumors. Use your niece in State Revenue. She can get that off Murray’s tax records.’ Walking away without turning back, he barked his final order. ‘Call me here as soon as you’ve got facts!’
Bone by Bone Page 5
