After driving for what seemed like hours, Erik finally came to a four-way stop and paused there for a long while. He had passed several other cars in his circuitous route along the edges of the arroyo, but there was no one at this intersection, no one to note that the driver of the Mercedes sat there, idling, for several moments. If anyone had been able to see inside the darkened windows, they would have found a man with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel as his body shook with sobs he could no longer contain. But there were no witnesses to his agony now, just as there never had been throughout the long, weary years of his life.
“This is impossible,” Ortiz muttered to himself as he shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk. While it was sometimes valuable to let the news disseminate information about missing persons, most of the time all it resulted in was a morass of false leads, all of which took valuable time to chase down. He wasn’t having much luck with Meg’s information on the car the “Phantom” had been driving on Halloween, either. The various consulates were under no obligation to cooperate with a local police investigation, and the most he’d gotten was a series of polite “no”s in response to his questioning as to whether a given organization owned a new Mercedes S600.
There were no credit card receipts at the restaurant to identify him, no one besides Meg and the valet who even remembered his being there that night. He’d gone down and questioned the valet himself, but had gotten nothing more than what Meg had already told him. The kid had obviously been so impressed with the car that he’d paid only the barest attention to the person driving it, and so once again Ortiz was left with only Meg’s sketchy description to go on.
He had to field calls from Randall at least once a day, if not more. Of course Ortiz had nothing new to give him, although once Randall had been told of the landlord’s impatience to let out Christine’s bungalow, he had immediately paid the delinquent rent. Apparently there had been some argument over late fees, but it seemed Randall had gotten the better of Panagapolous there. So Christine’s home was safe for another month, but Ortiz was beginning to wonder whether a month would be enough time to figure out what had really happened to her.
Ortiz lifted his mug of coffee, realized it had gone stone cold, and set it back down, swearing.
“That good, huh?” Kosky remarked, pausing outside Ortiz’s office, the ubiquitous Starbucks cup in his left hand. “I don’t know why you keep drinking that swill, especially when you can just walk outside to the cart and get yourself a decent cup of coffee.”
“I’ve got one kid about to graduate high school and another one needing braces,” Ortiz said. “I can’t afford it.”
Kosky shrugged. As always, he was impeccably dressed, striped shirt and perfectly coordinated tie, the creases in his slacks so sharp it looked as if you could cut your hand on them. Ortiz at first had wondered how Kosky could afford his wardrobe on a detective’s salary, until someone on the force had mentioned that Kosky came from an old-money family in Pasadena and didn’t really need to work at all. He’d gotten a master’s in criminal justice and thought it would be interesting to be a cop. His family had been horrified.
“Still working on the Daly case?” Kosky inquired, stepping further into the office.
“Yeah. I’m just banging my head against the wall at this point, though. All I’ve got is a missing girl and someone who apparently dresses up as the Phantom of the Opera on Halloween and drives a black Mercedes S600.”
“Nice car.”
“Thanks for the automotive review.”
Kosky raised one sandy eyebrow. “Sounds like the Phantom of the Arroyo.”
“What?” Ortiz set down his pen and gave Kosky a penetrating look. “What are you talking about?”
“The Phantom of the Arroyo. We used to joke about him when I was a kid.”
Privately, he thought Kosky still looked like a kid. He reminded Ortiz of a younger and slightly less angular Conan O’Brien. “So what about him?”
“Just that there were sightings of a big black Mercedes with tinted windows, a car you never saw before sunset. And then there were the stories about the recluse who lived in the big gray stone mansion on Charles Street.” Kosky scratched the side of his nose. “I’m not sure they’re really connected or not—I mean, none of us kids could see inside the car because of the tinted windows.”
“Charles Street, huh?” Ortiz tried to ignore the sudden irrational pounding in his chest and forced himself to sound casual. “Do you know what this guy’s name was?”
Kosky shook his head. “Maybe I heard it once—the rumor was the guy was deformed or something and that was why he never came out. I had a few friends who used to ride their bikes by there and throw rocks at the wall, but you never saw anyone. It was just the Linda Vista version of the spooky old house everyone was afraid of but no one knew exactly why.”
It was the thinnest of leads, but at this point Ortiz thought he was ready to try anything. “You’re sure you can’t remember the name?”
“Hell, Ortiz, that was at least fifteen years ago. Uh—Dieter? Destler? Something like that.”
It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. “Thanks, Kosky,” he said.
“Glad I could be of help.”
And with that Kosky left the office, as Ortiz fiddled with his pen once more. It was only a bit more of a lead than what Meg had given him, but sometimes cases were broken because of the smallest piece of information. Any fact, no matter how trivial, bore looking into.
Probably the best place to start investigating was the property tax rolls. He didn’t have an address, but he’d worked with the database before and knew that he could start with a search on the street and the zip code.
It had been a while since he’d had to use that particular database, and he had to look up the the web address and passwords in the notebook he kept just for that purpose. Once he was in the database, he found that Charles Street was not a major avenue, and was comprised of approximately forty properties, so the list of owners was not very long. Anderson, Nishikawa, Longstreet, Saunders, Michelson, Deitrich....
Deitrich. That had to be it. There were no other names on the list that were at all similar. The property was listed as owned by one Erik Michael Deitrich, and apparently he had held title to it since the mid-’80s. Before that, the owner was Charles Deitrich, and before another Erik Deitrich, obviously the current owner’s grandfather. But now he had the address at least—which might turn out to be the easiest part of this whole mess. Ortiz knew he had only the slimmest of leads to go on, and getting approval to go question the mysterious Mr. Deitrich might turn out to be more difficult than locating him in the first place. Still, he knew he had to try. He owed Christine Daly that much.
Chapter 21
In my dreams I could feel his tears dropping against my cheeks, hear his voice murmuring my name in broken tones. Why, Christine, why? Over and over I would open my mouth to reply, to do whatever I could to spare him any further agony, but no sound would emerge, only choking noises as I fought against some unseen force that kept me from speaking. Finally, gasping, I awoke in the semidarkness of early dawn, only to find that the tears on my face were my own.
With a groan, I rolled over on the bed. I lay still as I had finally collapsed yesterday evening, fully clothed, cold and aching on top of the covers. The tearstained pillow shams bore mute testimony to my anguish of the night before. The room was very quiet; I had shut off the radio yesterday afternoon before going downstairs to seek out Ennis. I had hoped that I would never see these chambers again.
The thought of Ennis made the tears start to my eyes once again. Had he survived? Was he still in an intensive care unit somewhere nearby, or had he succumbed to the weakness of his heart at last? Of course I had no way of knowing—and I could not expect Jerome to extend me the courtesy of updating me on his condition.
All your fault, all your fault, that merciless voice came from inside me. How many times had I heard psychologists and counselors
tell me guilt was useless? God knows I had wracked myself with it many times before. After my parents’ accident, I had convinced myself that it was all my fault, that if I hadn’t asked for them to come home from that damned dinner party early so we could have a family New Year’s together, then they wouldn’t have been driving down that stretch of road at that particular time, only to meet with a driver who had done his celebrating early. Everyone had told me over and over that it had nothing to do with me, and eventually I had made myself believe that, but the guilt still lay there, buried perhaps, but not gone. And now it was rearing its ugly head once again.
Although my bruised hip ached in protest, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got up. My hand stung when I placed it down to help myself to a standing position; I’d forgotten about the cut I’d gotten from the broken flower pot the night before. Ignoring the aches and pains, I went to the window, where I drew aside the curtain. The sky was still gray and heavy, although it was not raining now. Of course I couldn’t see anything that gave me any helpful information. The few windows I could spy from my vantage point were still dark, and although I knew the garage with Jerome’s apartment above it was located just around the corner, I could not see it from my window. No help there.
There being not much left to me, I decided to take a shower. If nothing else, the hot water would help with my bruised hip, and the cut on my hand stung enough that I knew it needed to be cleaned out. So I stood under the massaging stream of water, hoping that it would help to wash away the tears on my face as well as the ache in my heart. I knew from bitter experience that it would not be so easy, but the hot water felt good on a purely physical level, and I stood there for a long time, trying to clear my mind.
It was no good. Oh, I was able to go through the motions—intimate knowledge of grief had given me the ability to continue on with the mundanities of everyday life even when I thought I would surely go mad from the pain—but I could not keep my thoughts under control. How could I ever explain myself? How could I ever make Erik understand why I had done what I had done? What had seemed so reasonable to me at the time now seemed calculating and cruel. I had never meant to hurt him, but I was blind if I thought that betrayal and abandonment wouldn’t maim him on some level I was only partially beginning to understand. At the time I had believed my only salvation lay in escape, but now, in the grim gray morning of the aftermath, I was beginning to wonder exactly what I had been trying to save.
There was no excusing what Erik had done to me. He had stolen me from my home, hijacked the life I had made for myself. No one could dispute those facts. But now I found myself trying to understand how he could have found himself driven to such an extremity. How could a man of such apparently infinite talent and wealth have ever thought that that was the only way he could have someone in his life, let alone someone as insignificant as me? Why would a man apparently so engaging and intelligent take such drastic measures?
Once again my thoughts seemed to be drawn inexorably to the mask. At first it had been easy to dismiss it as just an outward symptom of his apparent obsession with the Phantom of the Opera, but that explanation seemed far too pat now. What if he really had been born with a disfigurement so dire that not even the best surgeons money could buy had been able to correct it? What if he had hidden himself in this house all these years, waiting...for what? For the one woman who could finally see him for himself? For the woman who fit the ideal he had built up in his mind as the only companion for his solitude?
Put that way, it seemed to make a great deal more sense. Not as an excuse—oh, no, one could never excuse a capital crime—but as an explanation. Of course, it was possible I gave him far too much credit. He could be as mad as I had first thought him, a sociopath whose charm and talent hid a cunning mind that didn’t think of the consequences of his actions because for him there could be no consequences…but somehow I didn’t think so. There had been no mistaking the pain in his eyes when he realized I had been about to betray him and escape, just as his anguish had been obvious as he knelt to assist Ennis. His rage had been shocking, brilliant and painful as a bolt of lightning, but I didn’t think it had been premeditated. The thought that I had caused him so much pain was agonizing. The realization that I had probably destroyed whatever delicate rapport had begun to develop between us was almost as painful. I couldn’t hate him. I didn’t even want to try anymore. Had I only attempted to flee because I couldn’t bear to admit that I had come to love him?
All the hours we had spent together rose then in my mind, mocking my loneliness. Every smile, every laugh, every caressing mention of my name. I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the feelings at the time, hadn’t wanted to admit to myself that every day I had become easier with him, had looked forward to seeing him. It had been easy to use my ignorance of men, of love, to dismiss everything Erik had come to mean to me. Only now, when faced with the very real prospect of a loss possibly greater than any I had yet experienced, did I realize that I couldn’t bear the thought of another day without him.
The feelings I thought I had had for Randall now seemed shallow, insignificant. Perhaps I had been more attracted to the idea of being with him than to Randall himself. Oh, we got along well enough, and he was undoubtedly attractive and fun to be with, but I had to admit that I had not spent a great deal of my time over the past week or so missing him. Of course I had worried about him, wondered how he was coping with my sudden disappearance, but Erik had so filled my time and my thoughts that Randall had been pushed very much to the background.
For the first time I lifted my eyes to my reflection in the mirror. I looked a little the worse for wear—there were shadows under my eyes, and my cheeks had none of their usual color, but I had weathered the night better than I had thought. My eyes were gray this morning, cloudy to match the skies outside and the sweater I had chosen to wear, and they were very solemn.
What if it is true? I wondered. What if he’s hiding a deformity just as dreadful as the one in the book or the play? Did I have the strength to accept it? Could I look him full in the face and not flinch? Somehow I knew I would have to, if there was to be any kind of future for us. In the musical, Christine had betrayed the Phantom by tearing the mask from his tortured features. I could only hope that Erik might understand that I would be removing the mask not to hurt, but to heal.
Of course, that idea was predicated on the assumption that he would even allow me to see him again. How deeply had the knife cut last night? How badly had I really hurt him?
By now it was full daylight beyond the windows. I turned the radio back on and moved about the room, restless to find some occupation. Not much offered itself beyond the books, none of which appealed to me. Having come to some sort of decision, now knowing what I felt I must do, I felt even more chafed by my captivity. Also, I realized that I was quite hungry—quite understandable, since of course I hadn’t eaten since noon the day before, but as the time slowly slipped by, I began to wonder whether they were even going to deign to feed me. Finally, just after the radio announced it was nine o’clock in the morning, I heard the familiar turn of the key in the deadbolt.
Jerome, of course. Unsmiling, he brought in a tray with a bowl of cereal and some toast and dropped it with a noticeable clatter on the table across from my bed. He turned back toward the door, obviously not inclined to engage me in any sort of conversation, and I stood.
“How is Ennis?” I asked, amazed that my voice actually sounded steady.
He paused, then turned partway back toward me. His face looked impassive enough, but there was cold anger far back in those blue eyes. “Recovering,” he replied at length. “He should be out of ICU tomorrow.”
A rush of relief went through me. At least that much could be salvaged from the horror of the night before. “Thank God,” I said. Then I added, “Jerome, you know I never meant for any of that to happen—”
“Is there anything else?” he asked, cutting off my explanation. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Haven’t you done enough already?” There was no mistaking the cold contempt in his voice. “He doesn’t want to see you. At least he’s not letting you starve—it’s more than you deserve.”
As I stared at him, momentarily shocked into speechlessness, he again turned and left for good this time. I could hear broken bits of pottery crunch under his heels as he exited the antechamber, and then the deadbolt turned once again.
For a long moment I remained standing, watching the closed door. And then, stupidly, I began to cry again.
“She wants to see you,” Jerome said. A pause, and then he continued, “Of course I told her that was impossible.”
“Of course,” Erik murmured. Why would she want to see him? What could she possibly have to say? More lies, no doubt.
He was more weary than he could say. It had been the middle of the night before he returned to the estate, only to find Jerome’s Range Rover already parked in the garage. Jerome had been waiting up for him, drained but politely furious. Had he no concept of the risk he had been taking? Christine had been left alone for hours—anything could have happened.
Erik hadn’t bothered to point out there was very little that could have actually gone wrong; she’d been locked securely in. Short of the house burning down, he couldn’t think why it mattered that she’d been left alone. After a brief inquiry into Ennis’s condition, he’d sent Jerome to bed, but Erik himself was unable to sleep until almost dawn. Even then his slumber had been troubled, the usual nightmares of pain and sharp blades, although now made worse by visions of Christine standing over the operating table, her face contorted with horror at the sight of his unveiled features.
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 22
