No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  Even now he reached up briefly to touch the reassuring smoothness of the mask, so real was his memory of that dream. He tried to recall a more comforting image of Christine—perhaps from the day of their picnic, the breeze catching her glorious dark hair, soft tendrils touched with copper and mahogany blowing around her face as her eyes looked almost aquamarine in the bright sunlight. Yes, that was better. If he thought hard enough, perhaps he could also erase the way she had looked last night, the soft flush leaving her cheeks as he advanced on her, the unmistakable fear in her eyes. If only he could forget the sound of her sobbing. The sound of her pain.

  Jerome regarded him expectantly, as if he thought Erik was going to issue a new set of orders regarding Christine, but for the first time in a very long while he felt adrift, rudderless. So much energy and focus had gone into planning Christine’s abduction, planning her stay here, and although he had prepared for the contingency of an escape attempt along with every other worst-case scenario he and Jerome could dream up, he had let his guard down too much over the past few days. He’d been so convinced that she was warming to him, so sure she was close to returning his feelings. Now they were back to square one, with Christine once again locked up and obviously hostile, and Erik didn’t know what else to do. Could he keep her prisoner indefinitely? How could he not? She had been so willing to betray him—he knew she would go straight to the authorities if she were ever freed.

  Although it was barely noon, he went to the table by the window that held a decanter of his favorite cognac and poured himself a double. He lifted the glass and tossed it back, not caring for the sudden disapproval in Jerome’s eyes, craving only the fire in the back of his throat and the false warmth it gave him. Perhaps it would be better if he just got very, very drunk.

  “Sir—”

  “Oh, the hell with it, Jerome,” he snapped, then sloshed more cognac into his glass. What else did he have to do with his time, anyway?

  “About Christine—”

  “This changes nothing,” Erik said. “Nothing. Just keep her locked up. I need time to think.” He took another large swallow of cognac, then looked over at Jerome. The man appeared to have something on his mind; better to let him speak his piece and then get out. “What, Jerome?”

  “I went back to see Ennis earlier this morning...” Jerome began.

  “How is he doing?”

  “Very much improved. I spoke with one of the nurses, and she told me he would probably be moved from ICU this afternoon.”

  He felt relief, of course. No thanks to him that Ennis wasn’t lying in the morgue this morning instead of a hospital bed. Well, the man always had been tough. Erik tried to remember a time when Ennis had been ill enough to miss any of his duties and failed.

  “Good,” he said at length, and was surprised to hear a certain tremor in his own voice. God, he really was letting this get to him, wasn’t he? “Make sure he has flowers for his room as soon as he gets out of ICU.”

  “Of course, Mr. Deitrich.” Jerome removed his iPhone from his breast pocket and made a brief note.

  Erik stifled a sudden impulse to laugh. At least some things never changed.

  “Anyhow,” Jerome continued, “Ennis was improved enough that he was able to talk with me a little. Of course he was very concerned about you—wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Erik made a noncommittal sound and took another sip of cognac.

  “He also wanted to make sure that I told you something about Christine—about something she said to Ennis before he agreed to help her.”

  Eyes narrowing, Erik took his glass of cognac and removed himself to his desk. Taking a seat, he stared at Jerome and said, “Continue.”

  “Ennis was very emphatic that I tell you this. He seemed—worried about her.”

  As well he might, Erik thought, but said only, “His concern is very touching, I’m sure. So what was this revelatory statement of Christine’s?”

  Jerome hesitated for a moment, as if he weren’t all that eager to divulge what Christine had actually said. “He told me she had promised him that she would never turn you in—that she would never tell anyone where she had been if only he would help her escape.”

  Something turned over in him at those words, and he gazed at Jerome for a moment as he considered Christine’s words. Had she at least cared enough that she didn’t want to see Erik caught? Or had she merely lied once again to Ennis, told him what he wanted to hear so she could make her escape?

  “She would have told Ennis anything to get away,” he said at length, not daring to let himself hope, and Jerome nodded.

  “I told Ennis the same thing. But he insisted that that was not the case, that it was obvious Christine wanted to help you in at least some small way, even if she could no longer stay here with you.”

  Could that really be true? Had Ennis been able to see the truth in her face as she made that promise? Once again he raged at his enforced isolation—if only he could go to the hospital now, ask Ennis to his face what he had thought of Christine’s words. Of course that was impossible. Once again, he had to rely on a third party’s interpretation of events—and he knew that Jerome was not disposed to be charitable toward Christine. Not that anyone could blame him.

  Was it possible she had tried to spare him at least that much pain? Would a woman who cared nothing at all for him—hated him—have given him that much grace? He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the hope rise up in him. Perhaps all was not as lost as he had thought....

  “Thank you, Jerome,” he said finally, deliberately keeping his tone cool. “You will make sure that Ennis knows you have told me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that will be all for now, Jerome. Let me know this afternoon if Ennis is still improving.”

  Jerome nodded at the dismissal, face impassive, and left, closing the heavy double doors to the office behind him.

  Alone once more, Erik watched the flames dance in the fireplace, although they were mostly for show. The state-of-the-art climate control system in his home kept things comfortable at all times, no matter what the conditions outside. Still, it was another dark, cloudy day, and the illusion of warmth was somehow comforting. He hoped the sudden lift of spirit he felt at Christine’s words was not based on yet another illusion.

  “Absolutely not,” Chief Weinstock said, tossing the warrant back across his desk at Ortiz.

  He’d been expecting this, but Ortiz wasn’t about to give up with at least a token protest on his part. “Sir, I have several strong leads pointing to Deitrich—”

  Weinstock leaned across his desk, eyes narrowing behind the half-lenses he wore in the privacy of his own office. “Ortiz, you’ve got dick. Hunches are all fine and good, but you’re not going to get a judge to sign a warrant on a hunch. Especially not with a guy like Deitrich.”

  “With all due respect—”

  “Do you have any idea at all who this guy is?” Weinstock stood, as if to give more weight to his words. “Calling him rich is like saying the Sears Tower is a tall building. He owns property all over town, has a controlling interest in several multinational corporations, family’s been here in Pasadena forever—”

  “Yet no one has ever seen him.” Ortiz knew he didn’t have a prayer, but went doggedly on. “At least, no one’s really seen his face.”

  “So the guy’s eccentric. With that kind of money, he can afford to be. But you go after someone like that without real evidence, and we’re going to be ass-deep in lawsuits. Harassment, wrongful prosecution, pain and suffering—the guy can pay a whole army of lawyers to think up new ways to screw the Pasadena P.D. over.” Weinstock took a breath, and said, “So the answer is no. No way.”

  It was not worth arguing anymore. Ortiz knew that Weinstock was right; as a veteran of the LAPD, Ortiz had seen what could happen when a police department got hit with a couple of successful lawsuits. It wasn’t pretty. He knew that he didn’t have enough on Deitrich, not by a long shot, but he also cou
ldn’t have let it go without trying. It was just a feeling, a hunch, as Weinstock had called it, but Ortiz had come to rely on his instincts over the years. They hadn’t failed him yet.

  “Just to make sure, refresh me a little.” Weinstock’s tone was a little gentler now; he could probably tell he’d beaten Ortiz down. “Any evidence at all to show that Christine Daly was forcibly abducted?”

  “No, sir. No signs of forced entry at her home. No fingerprints other than hers and a couple that belonged to her boyfriend. Nothing.”

  “And you’re saying that her connection with Deitrich is that he may have possibly attended a Halloween party at the restaurant where she worked?”

  Put that way, it did sound fairly ridiculous. Ortiz sighed and said, “Yes, sir. The man dressed as the Phantom paid the hostess two hundred bucks to sit at Christine’s station.”

  Weinstock lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe a little unusual, but she’s a beautiful girl. Not really enough to go on, right?”

  “Right.”

  Apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, Weinstock resumed his seat and said, “I’m not saying don’t keep working on it. But you can understand the department’s position on this. Right now I’d need the equivalent of Deitrich’s fingerprints on Christine Daly’s front door to sign that warrant.”

  “Of course, sir.” Ortiz picked up the unneeded piece of paper. “Sorry to have troubled you with it.”

  “No trouble. I’m glad we could have this conversation.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet, Ortiz thought. Anything where Weinstock could take him down a peg or two. The man hadn’t been chief that long, and the rumor was he was a little intimidated by Ortiz’s service with the LAPD before coming to Pasadena. Still, he’d hoped that personal politics wouldn’t get in the way of this case—and if he had to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he would have signed off on the warrant if he’d been in the chief’s position. There was a lot of potential for disaster here if he stepped on the wrong toes.

  That rationalizing didn’t keep him from being in a foul mood all the way from Weinstock’s office to his own much more modest work space. Although he’d only been working on this case for a little over a week, it was starting to feel more like a month. He knew these sorts of cases came along every once in a while, cases that could take months or even years to crack. Some were never solved. But even though he knew that intellectually, it didn’t make him like it any more when one came along.

  He’d just seated himself behind his own desk and chucked the useless warrant into a desk drawer when Officer Campbell knocked on the door frame.

  “I think I’ve got something for you,” she announced, her dark eyes gleaming.

  “Yeah, what?” Right now the only thing Ortiz wanted was a vacation. A very long vacation, preferably someplace tropical. Sunny Southern California had been anything but these past few weeks.

  “Well, Officer Torres busted this lowlife last night trying to jack a car from the parking lot at Pasadena City College. Guy’s been nailed before—he’s still on probation from the last offense.”

  Ortiz gave her a disgusted look. “Yeah, and? How many car thieves do we bust every week?”

  “Enough. Anyway, he’s trying to make a deal seeing as he’s heading right back to prison on the parole violation. I thought you should talk to him.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “He says he jacked a car a week ago—some guys paid him to do it.” She paused, obviously relishing what was coming next. “He says the car was Christine Daly’s.”

  Chapter 22

  The car thief was probably no more than nineteen, head shaved, stark bluish-black prison tattoos standing out on his knuckles and forearms. He lounged on a chair in the interrogation room, obviously trying to cover up his unease with a studied nonchalance bordering on insolence.

  Ortiz had seen hundreds just like him.

  “Antonio Vasquez?” he asked, dropping the kid’s case folder on the table and taking a seat across from him.

  “Who wants to know?”

  From her corner, Campbell stirred and laid one hand on the butt of her pistol. “Watch your mouth, jerk.”

  “It’s okay, Campbell,” Ortiz said, and she settled back in her place, watching Vasquez with narrowed dark eyes. “Mr. Vasquez, I’m Detective Ortiz. Officer Campbell said you had some information relating to the Christine Daly case?”

  Vasquez looked away for a moment. He could have been a handsome kid if he’d wanted to, but the gang influence had won out, from the concentration-camp hair to the spidery tattoos that covered his arms and wound their way up to his neck. “What kind of deal you gonna give me?”

  “That depends. If you have information that leads us to Miss Daly’s kidnapper, then we’ll talk about extending your probation instead of sending you back to prison. But if it turns out you’re handing me a line of crap, then it’s back to Folsom—with an extra five years tacked on to your sentence.”

  “It’s not crap, pendejo.” Vasquez straightened up in his chair, but the improved posture did nothing to erase the hostility in his eyes. Ortiz had seen it too many times before with these kids—to them, he was a traitor. A sellout.

  Ortiz decided to ignore the profanity for now. “That’s for me to decide. So why don’t you tell me about Miss Daly’s car?”

  Vasquez lifted his thin shoulders. “Seemed kind of stupid to me—the car was a piece of crap. Who’d want to jack a car older than I am? But whatever. Rigo told me he’d pay me a grand to lift it, so I did.”

  “Who’s Rigo?”

  “Guy who owns a chop shop in El Monte. Told me some rich guy gave him a bunch of money to jack the car and then take it apart and have it crushed.”

  Which would explain why they’d never been able to find a single trace of Christine’s car. Ortiz made a few notes on his yellow pad, then asked, “Did you see the guy who gave Rigo the money initially?”

  “No. Rigo told me where the car was, and then he gave me the cash after I dropped it at the shop.”

  “And then he scrapped it?”

  Another shrug. “Guess so. I took off after I got the money.”

  “So where’s Rigo’s shop?”

  Vasquez shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

  Ortiz fixed him with what he hoped was a menacing glare. He tapped the kid’s case folder. “Cooperation, remember? Otherwise, go directly to jail—do not pass go—”

  “I tell you where his shop is, Rigo’ll have his posse jump me for sure.”

  The kid was probably right, but since he wasn’t the one who’d had contact with the guy who ordered Christine’s car stolen, he was of limited use. Ortiz leaned forward. “Tell you what—if you give me the address, I’ll let you warn Rigo that I’m coming over. He should be able to clean up before I get there. How about a day’s notice?” That much was true; give them even fifteen minutes’ head start, and these guys were like cockroaches when you turned the light on. The shop would be cleared of any incriminating evidence long before he appeared on the scene.

  Vasquez leaned back in his chair, considering. It was the best Ortiz could do, and apparently Vasquez was able to figure that out; after a moment he said, “Yeah, okay. But you don’t go until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, even.” It sounded like a concession, but Ortiz had a staff meeting in the morning anyway, and this way the kid would think he was bending over backward to be accommodating.

  “Okay. It’s on Dodson, below Garvey. Don’t know the number.”

  “Got a business name?”

  “Rigoberto’s A-1 Auto Repair. It’s at the end of the cul-de-sac.” Vasquez sat back up, glaring at Ortiz. “Can I have my phone call now?”

  “Be my guest.” Ortiz gestured Officer Campbell over. “Take Mr. Vasquez to make his phone call.” He knew he didn’t have to worry about Vasquez making bail and bolting; bail was almost unilaterally denied in the event of a probation violation.

  He watched Campbell escort the sullen kid out of th
e room. Not as much as he’d hoped for, but at least Vasquez had given him a solid lead. It was more than he’d had for a few days, anyway.

  Then he grinned. He was pretty sure exactly who would be the recipient of Vasquez’s one and only phone call...and he had the feeling that Rigo wouldn’t be exactly overjoyed to learn the police were about to come a-knocking tomorrow.

  I had pleaded with Jerome each time he came to bring me food that I had to see Erik, speak with him as soon as possible. Each time I was rebuffed, and the next day began no differently—until dinnertime, when he told me that Erik would see me at nine o’clock.

  At first I had just stared at Jerome, not daring to believe what he had just said. Then he added, “It looks as if Ennis will be coming home the day after tomorrow.”

  Well, that made more sense. Probably Erik wanted to reach some kind of a resolution before Ennis returned to the mansion. The last thing a convalescent probably needed was the atmosphere of brooding quiet that seemed to have descended upon the house.

  I said, “I - I’m very relieved to hear that, Jerome. He must be making a swift recovery.”

  Jerome gave me a quick unreadable glance. Then, after a pause, he replied, “Oh, Ennis is doing very well.”

  And with that he departed, leaving me to brood on his words. The implication was that Erik’s recovery had been anything but swift.

  Nine o’clock. Luckily the announcer on the radio had given the time at the top of the hour, so I knew it was now just a little past seven. Less than two hours until I saw him again.

  This could possibly be the most important meeting of my life, and suddenly I didn’t want to go to face Erik in a pair of jeans and a sweater. No, the occasion called for something much more striking. If I showed him how much care I took in preparing myself to see him, maybe he would be a little more inclined to listen to what I had to say.