No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  For a long moment I stood there, taking it in. About the room was a feeling of hushed anticipation. Although it was completely silent, I fancied I could almost hear the lapping of the Phantom’s underground lake, just hidden around some corner. The slightest rustle of my silk cocktail dress brought a sudden rush of echoes.

  Erik stood very still, having placed the candelabra on the shelf reserved for that purpose on the organ. His eyes were painfully alive behind the mask, watching me, waiting for my reaction.

  I would be lying if I said the room didn’t frighten me a little. The amount of work that had to have gone into producing such a faithful replica was staggering. This place was the physical manifestation of an obsession he’d clearly indulged for a number of years, and once again the fear rose up in my mind that all I was to him was this Christine, the Phantom’s Christine, not a young woman who waited tables while putting herself through college, someone with an unladylike appreciation for old A-Team reruns, a girl who had more than once skipped a meal so that she could eat a bowl of Cherry Garcia while studying for midterms. All the million and one contradictions that made up me somehow seemed to be overshadowed by this room and what it meant. How could a man who had built this room see past his vision of who Christine should be to who I really was?

  He must have seen the uncertainty in my face, because he immediately stepped closer to me and took one of my hands in his. “Don’t ask me to explain,” he said, “for I don’t think I can, exactly. Things seem so logical when you’re in the middle of the process—at the time I thought that if I were really going to be trapped in this house for the rest of my life, at least I could make one part of it feel as if it were happening someplace far away.” An eloquent lift of his shoulders. “I had nothing else, you see.”

  And with that, I did begin to see. Oh, I had thought of myself as a lonely person, ever since the accident that transformed me from the girl who invariably got the lead in the school musicals and who, while not exactly popular, had a fairly large circle of friends, to the girl with the dead parents, the girl whom no one knew how to look in the eye. The girl who had slowly let herself drift away from almost everyone, especially after her grandmother passed away. It had been a relief to graduate, to go on to places where no one knew me, to take my own little cocoon of loneliness with me. Only Meg, through her own determined cheerfulness, and then lately Randall, had been allowed within my own isolation. But Erik had not even had that much—not the meaningless pleasantries exchanged with the checker at the supermarket, the patrons at the restaurant, or even the clerk at the DMV. All those long years he had had only himself, Ennis, and Jerome. My own life was a whirl of social activity compared to his. Could I blame him for taking whatever opportunity to escape that he could find?

  I reached up to stroke his cheek, to push the heavy silver-brushed hair away from his temple. I knew I had to show him that it didn’t matter to me, that I understood his compulsion, that all was still well between us. “Does the organ really work?”

  The relief in his eyes was palpable. “Of course. Why go to all this trouble for a mere prop?”

  “Will you play for me?”

  “Of course.” He released my hand very gently and went to seat himself at the organ. Then he looked up at me, and even in the dim flickering light of the candelabras I could see the sudden glint in his eyes. “Old school, do you think?”

  And with that he launched into the opening chords of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Of course it was brilliantly executed, but I found myself overcome by a fit of the giggles after only a few bars, and he stopped, lifting his hands from the keys.

  “What?” Although his tone was stern, there was a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “I just got the sudden urge to sneak up behind you and pull off the mask, but it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Oh, what the hell.” I reached over and lifted it from his face. Then, before he could say anything, I plopped myself down in his lap and pressed my lips against his.

  It was a few moments before either of us was able to speak. His arms tightened around me, and I relaxed into their strength, the warmth of his body against mine, the subtle masculine smell of his skin and hair. I felt as if I could stay this way with him forever.

  At length he murmured into my hair, his breath hot against my scalp, “You are becoming quite forward.”

  “Must be your bad influence,” I said. “I was certainly never like this with Randall.”

  At those words I could feel the tension return to his body, but I spoke again before he could say anything.

  “Erik, what should you care what passed between him and me? Less than what you and I have had this one night, and that’s the truth. Besides, don’t you understand? You’ve won. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you.”

  He pulled away from me slightly, but only so he could look me squarely in the face. I met his own scarred visage with an unflinching regard, wanting him to see how little effect it had on me.

  “Do you truly mean that?” he asked. “You’re willing to spend the rest of your life here—with me?”

  “If you’ll have me,” I said. The words were light, but my tone was not. Somehow I had always known that when I found the right man—if I ever found him—I would want to be with him forever. I had never been able to understand the mindset of women who dated so frequently they couldn’t keep their boyfriends’ names straight.

  “If I’ll have you—my God, Christine, how could I want anyone but you? You, who are utter perfection, who have given me more this night than I had any reason to hope for?” His voice was ragged.

  I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks, but I knew now was not the time to make my usual self-deprecating comment. What woman’s heart wouldn’t thrill to hear words such as those? My eyes stung with sudden tears as I said, “I love you, Erik.”

  “And I love you, Christine.”

  And again his mouth was against mine as I let the waves of passion sweep over me again, my body thrilling to his touch, my soul drowning in his.

  I would gladly be lost in you forever....

  The phone rang just as Ortiz was about to throw on his jacket and head out the door.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered, but protocol forced him to pick up the receiver. “Ortiz here.”

  “Hi, detective—” came the reply, and Ortiz barely stifled a curse.

  “Hello, Mr. Cagney,” he said, attempting to wriggle into his suit jacket while holding the receiver up to his ear. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Well, I hadn’t heard from you for a while, so I thought I should call—“

  “Believe me, Mr. Cagney, if I had anything new to report, I would be in touch with you immediately.” He should have known, after all. Here it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon; Randall usually called before twelve. Actually, the kid was showing remarkable restraint. “However, I was just about on my way out to follow a new lead—”

  Randall’s voice was too eager. “A new lead? Something promising?”

  “Possibly, Mr. Cagney, but of course I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you until I have more facts in hand.”

  “Of course.” A brief hesitation, then Randall said, “It’s just—it’s been almost two weeks, and now it’s finals, and no one knows where she is—”

  “I understand your frustration, Mr. Cagney,” Ortiz said. Boy, do I. “However, the best you can do is wait and be patient. But I really need to get going now.”

  “Of course, sir.” The misery was in Randall’s tone was obvious. “Just keep me posted.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll give you a call if anything changes.”

  With that he hung up, glad that he had only been delayed by a few minutes. Some of his previous conversations with Randall had dragged on for almost an hour as the kid went over every detail of Christine’s disappearance once more, almo
st as if he thought he could solve it himself if he just repeated the facts enough times, retraced Christine’s steps on the off-chance they might have missed something. Ortiz had long since given up trying to decide whether Randall Cagney was just a truly devoted boyfriend, or whether he had a bit of the stalker in him as well. His obsession seemed out of proportion for what really had been a fairly short-term relationship, but Ortiz knew better to say such a thing aloud.

  At least today it wasn’t raining, although a thin layer of cloud cover painted the sky a peculiar grayish white, with the sun a sickly yellow hue like the yolk of an undercooked egg. Ortiz headed south on Los Robles, glad at least that the afternoon traffic hadn’t begun to pick up yet. For a while the neighborhoods around him grew steadily more affluent as he drove through San Marino, and then, as he crossed onto Garfield and headed south toward the 10 Freeway, they grew just as steadily seedier. By the time he got to Dodson, a scrubby little cul-de-sac a few blocks below the freeway, he was about as far from the high-rent district as you could get in the San Gabriel Valley.

  Several of the businesses looked as if they had been closed for a long time, and most of the others didn’t appear as if they had much time left before they closed up shop as well. It was difficult to tell whether the cars parked on the street had been abandoned or were merely in an advanced state of disrepair. Graffiti covered the fences and walls.

  A real garden spot, Ortiz thought as he climbed out of his car. He’d be lucky if the hubcaps were still in place when he got back.

  Rigoberto’s A-1 Auto Repair was located on the south side of the street, just about where it dead-ended into a weed-filled lot. From where he stood he could hear the sound of an air drill being operated, but other than that there didn’t seem to be much activity going on at the shop.

  He began to wonder whether he should have brought Kosky along with him—it was the detective’s discretion as to whether to have backup with him on these routine investigations—but Ortiz had been in rougher places than this on many occasions. Besides, he had the feeling the mysterious Rigo wouldn’t appreciate someone besides himself showing up, let alone a gawky, well-dressed gringo like Kosky.

  Making sure the badge was visible on his hip, he went toward what looked like the office entrance. A bored-looking Latina sat at the battered blond-wood desk, filing her nails. She gave Ortiz a vaguely hostile look from underneath heavily mascaraed lashes and said, “¿Qué usted desea?”

  “I’m here to see Rigo,” Ortiz replied in English, and moved his jacket aside so there was no way she could miss the badge. “I’m Detective Ortiz.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she got up from behind the desk—coincidentally showing off a pair of magnificent legs encased in skintight stretch jeans—and yelled back into the shop, “Rigo! ¡La policía!”

  It took him a few minutes, but eventually Rigo slouched into the office. He was just about as Ortiz had expected: tattooed, head shaved to stubble, thin mustache. He was also stocky and short; he made Ortiz actually feel tall.

  “You Ortiz?” he asked.

  Ortiz showed him the badge, and Rigo nodded.

  “Yeah, Tony told me about you. Come on back.”

  Of course Rigo would magnanimously allow Ortiz a glimpse at the shop—he’d had more than twenty-four hours to erase any incriminating evidence. Now the bay was half-filled with a motley collection of vehicles, from someone’s souped-up rice grinder—it appeared to be a Nissan Sentra under all the ground effects, spoiler, and metallic paint—to an ancient Chevy Caprice station wagon that looked as if it would shake apart the second it went over a speed bump. Ortiz guessed that Rigo had probably called in favors with family and friends to get legitimate vehicles in here. No matter. He wasn’t here to investigate the chop shop anyway.

  Ortiz took out his notepad. “Antonio Vasquez informed me that you paid him to lift a car about ten days ago?”

  Rigo scowled. “No, man, I didn’t pay him. I was just sort of, you know, the middleman. Yeah.”

  “Okay, so you brokered a deal. Were you aware at the time that the car belonged to a missing college student?”

  “No, man, I didn’t know nothing about that. This guy comes in, says he needs a car taken care of, and he asks me to handle it.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Jerome.”

  “Jerome what?”

  Again Rigo frowned, brows almost meeting. “Guy didn’t give me his last name. And he paid in cash, so I didn’t ask.”

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much did he pay you?” Ortiz could feel his teeth starting to grind together, and forced himself to stop. You couldn’t make these guys tell you anything; you just had to wait and keep coaxing it out of them. If Ortiz hadn’t been of Mexican descent himself, he doubted he’d have been able to get any useful information from Rigo at all.

  “Five grand.”

  “Five grand? To steal a car that was worth barely twelve hundred? Didn’t you think that was a little strange?”

  “Hey, man, I don’t worry about whether it’s strange or not. I just worry about if the money is good.”

  Which apparently it had been, considering that the unknown Jerome had paid Rigo five thousand bucks and Rigo had given Tony only a grand to actually steal the car.

  Ortiz decided to try another tack. “Can you describe this Jerome character?”

  Rigo shrugged. “Just some gringo, man. Nice set of wheels, though. New Range Rover, custom rims, loaded. That shit’s worth a lot.”

  Ortiz made a note on his pad. “So you don’t remember anything about the man? Age? Hair?”

  “Maybe late thirties, something like that. Brown hair—not dark, though. Couldn’t see his eyes—he was wearing sunglasses.”

  Late thirties, brown hair. That description probably could be applied to a million men in the greater Los Angeles area, but it still tripped Ortiz’s alarms. “Would you say he was athletic-looking?”

  Rigo didn’t even pause to think it over. “Yeah, he looked pretty tough for a rich guy. At first I thought he was maybe a cop or something. Don’t know why—just the way he looked around at things. Like he was sizing up threats.” Another shrug. “But once he pulled out the cash I figured he was okay. And he was. Sweet deal, over in five. He never came back. Called once, to make sure we got the car all right.”

  It could just be a coincidence, but somehow Ortiz doubted it. Whoever this Jerome was, he sounded very much like the stalker Christine had spotted on campus and who Meg herself had described to Ortiz. Whether there was any connection between him and the reclusive Erik Deitrich was another thing.

  “Did you happen to catch his license plate number?”

  At that Rigo grinned, revealing a gold canine. “You’re lucky that I notice shit like that. I wrote it down.” He lifted a clipboard off a nearby workbench and started rifling through the pages. “I like to be careful—figured it couldn’t hurt to have some info on him in case he tried to rat me out later.”

  Ortiz was trying like anything to keep from grinning. Goddamn—an actual license plate number. Surely it couldn’t be that easy—

  “Yeah, here it is. 6GBH271.” Rigo squinted at Ortiz. “You’re gonna help out Tony now, right?”

  “I’ll throw him a goddamn party if this works out. But yeah, he’s been very cooperative. And so have you.”

  Rigo spread his hands, dark eyes gleaming. “Hey, just doing my part, man, like any other law-abiding citizen.”

  Law-abiding my ass. At this point, though, Ortiz really couldn’t care less whether Rigo was chopping up the Popemobile or Air Force One. This was what he had been looking for—a real lead, a tangible piece of evidence.

  He thanked Rigo and headed back to his car, its hubcaps blessedly still intact. Probably Rigo had warned the neighborhood thugs away, telling them they didn’t want to screw things up for Tony Vasquez.

  Before Ortiz had even cleared the cul-de-sac and headed out onto Peck Road, he’d picke
d up the radio and called in the license plate number. By the time he was back in the office, he should have a nice fat file on this Jerome character that he could look over at his leisure.

  And after that, he thought, weaving in and out of the thickening afternoon traffic, your ass is mine.

  Chapter 24

  I know this man, Ortiz thought, staring down at the open file in front of him. Crazy as it might sound, the owner of the much-admired Range Rover was someone Ortiz had contact with back during the time when he still worked for the LAPD. Oh, he hadn’t known the man well—met him at a crime scene once, talked with him on the phone a few more times when the LAPD was coordinating with the FBI on a well-publicized case where the perpetrator had car-jacked his victim in Arizona but messily murdered her in a back alley only a few blocks from skid row in downtown Los Angeles. But Ortiz never forgot a face, and he remembered Special Agent Jerome Manning. Ex-special agent, he reminded himself, leafing through the dossier. Apparently Manning had quit the Bureau seven or eight years ago and gone into business for himself. But what the hell he was doing tangled up in the Daly case, Ortiz couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Manning’s photo stared up at him from the file, impassive, just this side of handsome. It was not the sort of face to reveal any secrets.