Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  Wainwright definitely was gaining insights about himself. After inspecting the contents of the box, he knew beyond a doubt that he was wealthy. Lacey was his third wife, and children were a possibility. What about the other key? The first key was for a box that contained his stuff. Maybe the second one was Lacey’s, and her box was at a different bank? But where?

  BACK AT THE CONDO, more searching. This time, Wainwright planned to look through the beat-up boxes he had skipped earlier. The first contained Christmas cards, birthday cards, and letters. Lacey apparently had a bunch of friends.

  Funny, none of these are from family members. Why no family? Of course, he didn’t know about his own family, just what Tommy and Auntie Emma had told him about Bobby. At the bottom of the box, he found some photos: professional headshots and many nude poses, some that were provocative—all of Lacey Kinkaid. What is this stuff? But Lacey wasn’t the name on the back of the photo or the captions. The name was Trinity Stormm, with a pair of M’s. Sounds like a porn star. Wait—what are these? No way! He dug deeper.

  Letters from men—love letters and some trashy sexual fantasy trips. All addressed to Trinity. Why would she keep these? I hope not for the same reasons she kept my letters.

  Wainwright checked the dates on the envelopes. He figured she had received these during her college days. Maybe this was just a gig to pay for school. Reading through some of them sure gave him an education. Then he remembered Stacy, the important person who had helped save CapVest. Tommy had said so. He had explained that Stacy was Lacey’s best friend, a fellow attorney, and her law school roommate. He needed to talk to Stacy. Wainwright said so.

  WAINWRIGHT RETRIEVED another phone number from Lacey’s Day-Timer, but before he dialed it, he looked up the area code; it was for Sacramento. On the phone, Stacy told him she and Greg had visited him several times in the hospital. No one had mentioned this to him. It was possible, then, that Lacey had visited him too. Or was it?

  “You had no idea who we were. When you talked, from under all those bandages, it was as if we were strangers. I guess we are strangers to you. How are your memories now, Garth?”

  “Well, I have bad days, and then I have some that aren’t as good.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry you have to go through the loss of your wife and your memory, all at the same time.”

  How weird to have a complete stranger call you an endearing name. But then, I’m not a stranger to her. Perspective! It’s all in the way you look at things, your point of view. That’s a lesson mankind should learn. God forbid they have to experience amnesia for it to sink in.

  “Okay, there are two things we should get on the table,” Wainwright said. “I only understand our relationship as Tommy described it. I have no original memories of you or Greg or, for that matter, Lacey. That’s what I need to discuss with you. The second thing is that the car crash wasn’t an accident. The sheriff’s department has conclusive proof that a vehicle ran us off the road. Lacey was in the car before we went over the cliff, but the deputy found no sign of her when he searched that night or the next day. Nor was her purse or any ‘girl stuff’ found anywhere. Someone kidnapped Lacey for an unknown reason.”

  “Garth, we’ll work this out together,” Stacy replied. “We were good and dear friends before the acci...wreck. There’s no reason to think we won’t still be. Both Greg and I want to help, in whatever form that needs to take. We’ve been worried sick for more than a month about Lacey going missing. I hope with all my heart that she’s alive.”

  “It’ll be forty-four days tomorrow.”

  “I should let Greg tell you this, but since you and I are having this heart-to-heart, I’ll save him the trouble. The FBI blanked in Salzburg. The two fugitives are gone.”

  “I’m sorry...what fugitives? And gone from where?”

  “We need to spend some time to sort this out,” Stacy said.

  “Who would take Lacey? Do you wonder why, sugar pie? Hey, come on, that’s funny, don’t you think?”

  The “sugar pie” bit hit Stacy wrong—an unpolished attempt at humor. In addition to the amnesia, she thought, maybe the car wreck had made him a little deranged.

  “No, I don’t think that’s funny. Your wife is missing, possibly a hostage, perhaps no longer living. How do you see anything funny in that?”

  “Sorry, but it just seemed—never mind.” He paused, then said, “Who is my wife? I need the truth. Will you help me get to the truth? I can fly up to Sacramento anytime you’re free.”

  “What about right now? Greg will be home in an hour, and it’ll take you longer than that to get here. Make your reservation and call me with the flight information. We’ll meet your plane. Come for dinner and plan to stay over. We’ll get you back to the airport tomorrow. There’ll be lots of time to talk. Deal?”

  “Deal, and thank you, Stacy. I guess with the stress of this stuff, I might still be a bit goofy. Blame it on mental exhaustion. I’ll call you with the flight info right after I make the reservation. Bye now.”

  SEVEN

  THE AVAILABLE FLIGHTS from LAX to SAC on Saturday would put him in too late. When Wainwright called Stacy with an arrival time for Sunday, she said that time worked better for them anyway. Greg was off on Sunday, so they’d have all day, that evening, and breakfast on Monday together.

  Wainwright arrived at the airport way too early. He didn’t remember how close his condo was to the airport, so he had allowed more time than needed. He hoped he’d relearn these well-known things the crash had taken away.

  “Happy Mother’s Day” was the headline in the newspaper on the chair next to him. It was several weeks old. He didn’t want to read old news, but it made him wonder, Do I have a mother? I should have asked Auntie Emma. It didn’t occur to me to ask. Just like a lot of things don’t occur to me. Does Lacey have a mother? Did her mom sit at home, waiting for her daughter’s call? To hear her say she was loved and cherished and remembered on that special day? God, I hate this. He walked over and tossed the old news in the trash. The effort reminded him that his legs hadn’t fully recovered from the crash. His legs weren’t alone in the aches-and-pain department. The cast carried on his arm didn’t let him forget that he was a walking example of progress in the medical arts.

  His memories were still coming back, but slowly and out of chronological order. The worst part was they were only partial memories. He knew Stacy and Greg were dear friends of his but couldn’t tell anyone why or when or how they had met. Wainwright was discovering certain aspects about this affliction. The ambiguities were that the things he needed to remember, but couldn’t. The things he didn’t want to think about all seemed to be at the forefront of his brain. Who is this woman I married with an alias of Trinity Stormm? He wondered if he had known any of this before they had wed.

  From what he had seen in one of Lacey’s boxes, she had been a porn actress or a female escort or a hooker, albeit a youngish one. The photo credits and the saved letters all dated from 1965 to 1970. The date of birth on Lacey’s passport would make her nineteen years old in ’65. Five years of her life with only these troubling photos for information.

  At the bottom of the box he had found a mangled manila envelope, the kind you might use to turn in a term paper to your professor. It didn’t contain any schoolwork, though. In it, he had found a form 1040 dated April 1969. An income tax return. Signed by Trinity Stormm. Occupation: actress. I guess our government doesn’t care if you use a phony name as long as you send in real money, he’d thought. That year, the patriotic Miss Stormm had paid $40,352 in federal taxes on a gross income of $182,375. Christ! She earned almost two hundred grand that year! Yep, I guess sex sells.

  Those photos of Trinity were what really bothered him. Had Lacey told him about her past? Even amnesia wouldn’t block his recollection of that, would it? Honestly, he believed he had known nothing about any of this. Wainwright felt like a man adrift on a raft, with no means to control the direction. As if he were just floating down a river
, far from either shore. Peaceful, relaxed—until he heard the roar of the waterfall. He smiled as he fought to keep that visualization from becoming permanently planted in his brain. Maybe, because of that, he recalled something else. Something he knew to be important but couldn’t connect with a real-world event.

  It was one of the several out-of-sequence recollections Dr. Fitzgerald had warned him about. In his mind’s eye, Wainwright saw a nun walking with a man who was pushing a bicycle. Was it important? He thought so. But the why of it eluded him. Stacy might understand the significance. He’d ask her and Greg if the vision had any meaning to them.

  HIS PLANE WAS LANDING in Sacramento in ten minutes. Wainwright wondered how much Stacy would tell him of what she knew about Lacey. He’d heard nurses kidding about it with each other. One of them had said, “Never tell a man everything, girl,”

  Just then, a flight attendant broke into his thoughts with the landing announcement.

  The federal government greeted Wainwright’s plane. As he entered the terminal, the FBI and SEC, in the guise of Mr. and Mrs. Greg Mulholland, were waiting for him. Having no memory of his good friends, however, he didn’t recognize them. He would have walked right past them if Stacy hadn’t jumped out from the crowd to embrace him. The metal brace on her leg wasn’t a surprise. Somehow, he sensed that he knew she had it. Stacey was officially the last person diagnosed with infantile paralysis in the USA. They made small talk in the car: about his healing wounds, memory functions, and other stuff nonessential to finding Lacey.

  “Hey, are you hungry?” Greg asked him. “We could stop for a late brunch. What do you think about Mexican?”

  “Well, after that business at the Alamo, frankly not so much.”

  The very tall FBI agent smiled at Garth’s deft humor. Greg had a habit of running his fingers over his crew cut, as if he still had the long, wavy, dark-brown hair he had when he’d first met Stacy. Stacy liked his hair long—J. Edgar Hoover’s minions, who ran the bureau, liked it this way.

  “Actually, Mexican sounds great by me, Greg. Sure, I could eat a bite or six of something.”

  “Great,” Greg said, his basso voice sounding as though it came from the basement. “Stacy and I have a favorite Mexican restaurant not far from here.”

  “My man speaks of the cuisine of the Gods. Yep, we have the best Mexican restaurant in the state, right here in beautiful downtown Sacramento. And this early we’ll be able to find a parking spot.”

  Stacy’s lovely face—rather than the brace—was her focal point. With long, wavy, blond hair, this baby-faced, blue-eyed lady looked the exact opposite of what she was: one smart, mean, tough securities litigator.

  El Caballero turned out to be a top-notch Mexican restaurant with a broad selection of homemade delicacies. They all enjoyed the margaritas and complemented the bartender for his talents. By the time the three amigos finished their meal, the parking lot was overflowing, and a line of hungry humans had formed out the front door.

  As Greg’s car approached their apartment building, the sun shone spectacularly on the state capitol’s cast-iron dome.

  “Wow, what a sight,” Wainwright said. “It would almost be worth running for office just to see this all the time.”

  From the backseat, a soprano voice exclaimed, “No, it wouldn’t!”

  SITTING COMFORTABLY in the Mulhollands’ living room, Wainwright said, “So can you tell me who this woman I married is and anything that might help me find her?”

  Stacy told both men about her years in her South Boston neighborhood with Lacey. “I saw little of her after her mom died. In ninth grade, she went to live with her Uncle Timothy up on Beacon Hill. During her senior year, she was accepted by Boston College. I figured I’d never see her again, and I didn’t, not much anyway, until law school. We reconnected in 1968 and became roommates our first year at Harvard.”

  “You didn’t see her from grade school to law school?” Wainwright asked, rubbing his temple with a knuckle.

  “Rarely, but stories always floated around here and there, mostly rumors and stuff. I ignored most of it.”

  “Which parts didn’t you ignore?” asked Wainwright.

  Stacy got up and walked into the kitchen. “Umm, why don’t I tell you the story as Lacey said it happened?” She came back to her chair with a glass of water. “These are the bits and pieces she shared with me, over the course of our time in law school.”

  With the start of what might grow into a smile, she handed several sheets of paper to Wainwright.

  “These are some notes I made after you called yesterday, Garth. I jotted them down to refresh my memory. I checked the dates against letters and my diary.” This time she radiated a broad smile. “No, you don’t get to go through my journal.

  “One of my earliest memories was when her brother, Kerry Kinkaid, died. A tough little guy who ran with a tougher crowd. Our neighborhood grocer shot Kerry during an amateurish holdup. The ski masks kept Mr. Callaghan from recognizing him or the other boy. He shot the other kid as well. Kerry was sixteen when he died.”

  Wainwright looked puzzled as he asked, “How old was Lacey when her brother died?”

  “We’re the same age. I was in second grade, so seven years old, I guess. Everyone at school knew about it—it was the favorite back-fence gossip for weeks. Her folks didn’t care or were unaware of who Kerry hung with. I’m voting for the former.”

  Wainwright’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

  “That was about the time when her dad started drinking heavily. Listen, in our neighborhood, there was no temperance league office. Everyone tipped the occasional mug, especially if the Red Sox had a winning streak. But Mr. Kinkaid opened and closed the local joints. He’d stagger home then drink some more. We’d hear him continually yelling at his wife, Briana. It wasn’t a happy place to be living. Not six months after they buried poor Kerry, he deserted Lacey and her mom, just walked out the door and never returned.”

  Wainwright tried to picture a seven-year-old girl, who had just lost her only sibling to violence, living with a drunk father.

  “How did Lacey handle her dad’s abandonment?” he asked Stacy.

  “From what I remember...oh, Garth, I’m sorry. That’s insensitive of me.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry. Please go ahead.”

  “Actually, she seemed fine with it. Keep in mind, Lacey attended Catholic elementary school. I went to public school, so we had a hit-and-miss friendship during that time. Once, at the drugstore, I told her how sorry I felt that her father had left. She looked at me for the longest time but didn’t say a word. Then finally she said something along the lines of, ‘At least he won’t beat Mom anymore.’ That Lacey is a cool one.”

  Wainwright glanced up when he heard Stacy’s “cool one” comment. He didn’t think she toke notice of his look. He thought that was a strange thing for a dear friend to say. It seemed out of step with the rest of the conversation.

  “Was Lacey able to keep her grades up?” Greg asked his wife.

  “If mine drifted south, Dad would always tell me Lacey earned top grades without having my advantages. It seemed like everyone in Southie heard about what little Lacey Kinkaid had accomplished.”

  “Where did her father go?” Wainwright asked.

  Stacy shrugged. “Not a clue. But wherever he went, it was too far to come back to visit his daughter. Lacey told me she never saw him again.”

  “I’m amazed Lacey kept her grades high enough to get into Boston College,” Wainwright said. “Her brother was killed; her dad beat her mom and then abandoned them. That’s a lot to deal with for anyone, let alone a young girl.”

  “Those aren’t the only bad cards Lacey got dealt. Her mother is another story. Christ, this sounds like an old lady’s gabfest. I hope you two understand I’m telling you all this in order to find Lacey. Some of this stuff might be significant...or not. I’m not objective enough to make that call. But understand, I feel guilty gossiping about my best frien
d.”

  Greg took her hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re helping us, honey. This is deep background information, and it might be critical in locating her.”

  Stacy leaned into his chest. “Thank you, sweetie. Okay, where did I leave off?”

  “You started to say something about Lacey’s mother, Briana.” Wainwright said.

  “Right. Mr. Kinkaid did hit her, and often, judging by the bruises she always had on her arms and face. After Lacey’s dad split, though, her mom got real social.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, with Lacey rooming at Catholic school, her mother had the apartment to herself and shared it with a long list of boyfriends. Any number of men, coming and going, and many of them staying overnight. That sort of thing just wasn’t done in Southie in the fifties. The big C caught Lacey’s mom, and she died my first year of high school. As I said, Lacey’s Uncle Timothy took her in. After that, she didn’t come back to Southie often. Of course, we spoke at the services for her mother, but then she was out of my life for the next several years.”

  “You said the two of you roomed together at Harvard,” Wainwright said. “A happy accident or did one of you suggest it to the other?”

  “Yeah, I did. I suggested we apply at student housing for a room together. Lacey seemed to like the idea. We lived in the dorm our first year. Then, that summer, we moved into the apartment we had until graduation.

  “Something else just popped into my head. It was my second year of undergrad, ’65. Like I said, Lacey and I didn’t see much of each other before law school. But that August she gave herself a birthday party, her nineteenth, at her uncle’s Beacon Hill mansion. He had died in some kind of accident a couple of years earlier. It took a long time for the probate court to rule that she was the sole heir. She wanted to party—it was a dual celebration. Lacey asked me to come, and I met some of her rich pals. She’d been dating Fabio Murtagh, a guy from my neighborhood, but his family had moved to Beacon Hill years earlier. I guess she reconnected with him. They both lived on the Hill, while I still lived in Southie.