Dead Midnight
Page 14
I slammed the freezer door shut, looked around the stark white room. The only spot of color was the red pottery bowl that matched the table base and chairs. Inside it was a jumble of keys: a set similar to the ones to this building that Glenn had given me; spares for the Toyota Roger had left with its flashers going on the bridge when he jumped; a standard dead-bolt type with a purple rubber band twined through the holes at its top; another larger key on a chain with a plastic tag, nothing written on the tag to identify it.
I picked up the two loose keys and examined them. Turned them over and over in my hands. Keys which, like the others, Roger had left behind because he knew he’d have no further use for them. No further use for anything anymore.
Back at RKI’s apartment. A stack of hard copy of the more interesting files we’d found on Roger’s machine on the refectory table. Half-eaten mediocre Chinese takeout beside it. Headache flaring up as I tried to separate the important from the unimportant. Most seemed to be in the latter category, but how could I be sure?
I reached into my jeans pocket, took out the two keys that I’d impulsively removed from Roger’s flat. Fingered them, set them down. Went to the kitchen, removed one of the bottles of wine from the fridge. Opened it, poured myself a generous glass that I carried back to the living room. I needed to relax for a while; maybe later my thoughts would flow more freely.
I dialed my home phone, listened to my messages. Nearly everyone I knew, it seemed, wished to be briefed on the recent events. I wrote down names and numbers and contemplated the list: two calls were mandatory, in order to allay maternal anxiety.
Which call to make first, though? Which mother? My adoptive mother sounded frantic: “Sharon, you’re all over the news! Another one of your horrible murders!” My horrible murders, Ma? You make it sound like I commit them. My birth mother sounded her usual levelheaded self: “Sharon, it’s Kia. I’ve seen the report on CNN. Do you need legal advice?”
I opted for Saskia Blackhawk, attorney-at-law.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Holding my own. And you?”
“Holding.”
“Robin and Darcy?” My half sister and brother.
“Robin’s working her tail off this first semester in law school, loving every minute of it. Darcy’s … well, Darcy.” My half brother had purple hair, multiple piercings, and a drug dependency. Not unlike Joey, except he had artistic talent and was gainfully employed by a Boise TV station.
As if she knew I was thinking of him, Saskia said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”
“How did you hear?” She’d been traveling, and we hadn’t spoken for weeks.
“Elwood told me.”
“You’re back in touch with him?”
“We talk, yes.”
“Does this mean … ?”
“No. Elwood’s too traditional for me.” Meaning in the old Shoshone ways. “Too withdrawn from the real world. Tom Blackhawk was a man of passion and conviction; if I ever have another romantic relationship, it’ll be with someone like him. About Joey … How are you dealing with the loss?”
“Well, at first I was really angry. I’d lie awake in the middle of the night and feel the rage building. I’d think of every nasty, shitty thing he ever did to me.”
“Such as?”
“You really want to know?”
“If you care to tell me. I’m interested in what happened all those years we were separated.”
“Okay, then. These are only a few examples. He hung my favorite stuffed animal—a kangaroo named Roo-Roo— from a tree in the canyon behind our house. I can still see him doing it, his rotten face pinched with meanness. The day I first wore my training bra, he announced at the dinner table, ‘Shar’s got her big chest on.’ He went out with my best girlfriend in high school and told everybody she’d given him head. And you know what he said to me about not attending this big party we threw for Ma and Pa’s wedding anniversary a few years back? ‘Blood’s not thicker than water, Shar. It’s just a different color.’ ”
“And after you thought of all those things?”
“I felt better. But then to make up for dwelling on them, I started to feel guilty because I’d failed him for not finding him on time. That passed, too. Now other memories’re filtering in.”
“And they are?”
“You sound like I’m on the witness stand.”
“Sorry, unfortunate habit. Robin and Darcy hate it too.”
“I don’t hate it, exactly. It’s just that … Well, you sound like I do a lot of the time.”
Saskia laughed—amusement tinged with relief. She and I were continually struggling to find common ground that would help us define our relationship.
“Okay,” I said, “the other memories. The gentle way he picked me up and made me stop crying after I fell off the monkey bars in the park and skinned both knees. One Christmas—his eyes were so wide and anxious while he watched Ma unwrap this hideous cookie jar that he’d spent a month’s paper-route money on. And I mean hideous. A donkey in a sombrero and chaps playing the guitar. She pretended to like it, and he was so happy. There was this fat, ugly kid in the neighborhood that the bullies were always picking on. One day they held him down and tried to make him eat a slug. Joey tore over there and took them all on, and after his wounds healed, he kind of looked out for the kid. He called me the night before I graduated from Berkeley, loaded and proud that I was the first in the family to get a college degree, and informing the whole bar about it. He must’ve put half the other drunks on the phone to congratulate me before I convinced him to stop running up a big bill. And his postcards to Ma never said much, but he always signed them ‘I love you.’ ”
“In the balance, positive memories, then.”
“Yes.” I was surprised to realize that my eyes were moist. “I guess it means I’m coming to terms with him dying, but I still don’t understand why he killed himself.”
“Maybe you never will.”
“I’m not a person who deals well with not knowing.”
“Neither am I, but sometimes you have to accept that you won’t. And speaking of not knowing, tell me exactly what happened in Oregon.”
After spending ten minutes bringing Saskia up to date on my investigation, I checked my watch. After eleven. Late to be calling Ma, but I knew she wouldn’t rest till she heard from me, so I dialed her number in the adult community of Rancho Bernardo, north of San Diego.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been so worried! First your brother, and now you.”
“Ma, I wasn’t the victim. I only found him.”
“I know that! But when I heard, I was afraid … This family, we’re so snake-bit.”
Snake-bit. An old western phrase that Ma had used her whole life till she remarried and decided to become a lady who lunched and joined book-discussion groups. Maybe she was beginning to reconcile the former Katie McCone with the present Kay Hunt.
“Why’re we snake-bit?”
“Your father died—”
“Pa had a heart attack. He was in his seventies. It happens.”
“Charlene and Ricky divorced—”
“And are both happy with their new spouses. As you are.”
“Well, yes. But little Kimmie died, and then John and Karen divorced, and he’s never remarried.”
She was into ancient history now. “A lot of marriages don’t survive the death of a child. And as far as I know, John has a great life and an excellent relationship with Karen and the boys.”
“Well, you found out you were adopted—”
“But I’m still your daughter.”
My affirmation made her fall silent. Then she said weakly, “Joey …” A sob.
Oh, Ma, don’t … “Joey’s still your son, too. Wherever he is, he still loves you.”
A long silence. Then she said tartly, “Don’t lie to me.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe that. You must be aware that I know you’ve lost your faith.”<
br />
“Well, I …”
“And do you know how I recognize it?”
“No.”
“I recognize it because I’ve lost mine too.”
Impossible. Ma had always described herself as “very devout.”
“When did this happen?”
“That’s not relevant. The reasons and circumstances are personal. But I will tell you this: If I hadn’t lost it when I did, I would have lost it the moment I heard Joey was dead. A good God would not have planned for my son to sink into despair and kill himself. A good God would not have planned that for our Joey.”
I asked, “So how do you go on, without the faith you’ve leaned on your whole life?”
“You simply go on. You suffer, and then you heal. You grieve, and then you let go. Maybe that’s proof that there’s something bigger than what the Church taught us, I don’t know. But you do go on.”
Wise women, both my mothers.
Subj: No Subject
Date: Tuesday, February 6, 2001, 10:16:21 AM
From: tothemax@insite.com
To: tremington@trg.com
Tessa:
Since Jorge seems strangely indifferent to the situation here, I am going over his head and communicating directly with you. I do not understand the delay on this latest round of financing. I happen to know you have signed commitments from the limited partners far in excess of what’s been doled out to us, and it’s in your best interests to keep us going until the market corrects and the climate is right for an IPO. Please respond asap.
Max
Subj: Your inquiry
Date: Tuesday, February 6, 2001, 4:29:45 PM
From: tremington@trg.com
To: tothemax@insite.com
Max—
Your inquiry received and duly noted. Timing is an issue here, and there are complicated factors which would mean nothing to you. We will put out the call for capital to the limited partners by the middle of next week, latest. Please bear with me. If you feel the need to communicate directly in the future, make sure to copy Jorge.
Regards, Tessa
Subj: No subject
Date: Thursday, February 8, 2001, 9:31:07 PM
From: Kdonovan@aol.com
To: webpotentate@insite.com
I’m putting the research materials you requested on disc and dropping them at your place, rather than sending them as a file or leaving them in your in-box at the office. I don’t trust the privacy of e-mail there, and this isn’t something you’ll want to look at in the presence of others. You’ll be happy to know you were right about the situation.
K
Subj: No subject
Date: Friday, February 9, 2001, 11:07:43 AM
From: webpotentate@insite.com
To: Kdonovan@aol.com.
Thanks for your good work, and for dropping the disc off personally. It’s useful stuff. Payment forthcoming. I assume all your searches were done on your personal machine, since you have privacy issues about the office?
Subj: No subject
Date: Friday, February 9, 2001, 6:22:07 PM
From: Kdonovan@aol.com
To: webpotentate@insite.com
Yes, all the work was done here at home, so privacy is insured.
K
Subj: Amaya
Date: Tuesday, February 13, 2001, 10:12:01 AM
From: tothemax@insite.com
To: tremington@trg.com
Tessa:
I’m not copying Jorge on this regardless of your prior instructions. We had another of our incidents last night—burglar alarm repeatedly going off, security company calling me at home at all hours—and he’s acting very cavalier about it. Frankly, he’s a piss-poor CEO. He may have the credentials, but he doesn’t give a shit about the magazine. I urge you to replace him.
Max
Subj: Amaya
Date: Tuesday, February 13, 2001, 2:57:54 PM
From: tremington@trg.com
To: tothemax@insite.com
Max—
Please calm down! “Acting cavalier,” as you put it, is simply Jorge’s style. If you don’t want the security company calling you, refer them to him. He is, after all, in charge there.
Regards, Tessa
Subj: No subject
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 9:32:18 PM
From: artfulroger@earthlink.com
To: happyhacker@sonic.com
This is important, guy, and by the time you get it you won’t be able to reach me for clarification, so please print this out and follow it to the letter. Jody is going to be upset after tonight, and I want you to look out for her. Somebody may try to intimidate or even hurt her, and in that case it’s important you show her the stuff I asked you to teach me. Then she’ll know how to protect herself.
I’ve done something that I don’t want anybody ever to know about unless it’s the only way Jody can be safe. The folks, you, and even Harry don’t deserve it being made public. If anybody comes around asking about me, distance yourself. Call me a bastard, say you hate my guts, whatever it takes. This is for your own safety.
Love you, guy—
Roger
Subj: DON’T DELETE THIS BEFORE READING!
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 9:40:02 PM
From: artfulroger@earthlink.com
To: rx@aol.com
I’m sorry. I was on a mission and not thinking about what my demands might do to you. I never should have used you that way. I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’ve put a request in a letter to the folks that you have my flat. Live in it or sell it, I don’t care. Maybe it’ll help you get a fresh start.
Regretfully—
Roger
I’d isolated the first seven messages from dozens in a file labeled “Project ’Zine” on Roger’s computer’s hard drive. They were the only additions to the file in the two weeks before his death. The remaining two were the only ones sent on the day of his suicide. There had been volumes remaining in the computer’s memory—story outlines, idea lists, financial and tax information—but none of it seemed relevant compared to these. Now I tried to analyze what I’d read.
Max Engstrom’s mail to Tessa Remington confirmed how deeply in trouble the publication was, as well as his growing frustration with the sabotage and Jorge Amaya’s performance as CEO. Remington’s reaction, while not unsympathetic, seemed curiously unconcerned.
From the list of staff members I identified “Kdonovan” as Kat Donovan, the magazine’s head researcher, job title Sherlock. I recalled her as a short, overweight woman with beautiful red hair who had been rather nervous and impatient with my presence on the day of the game. I wondered what kind of extracurricular sleuthing Sherlock had done for the WebPotentate. Sensitive material, since she didn’t feel free to do it at the office or send it internally, and apparently Dinah Vardon shared her concerns.
Nothing about these messages or the others in the Project ’Zine file gave any indication of why Roger killed himself or what he’d done that he didn’t want made public unless necessary to protect Jody Houston. Nor did they hint at whom or what she needed protection from. His final messages to his brothers Eddie—happyhacker—and Harry—rx—were filled with guilt and remorse. And it appeared that when I’d talked with Eddie he’d distanced himself from Roger, as his older brother had instructed him. His anger was probably genuine—I could recognize that from my own recent emotional state—but his statement that they weren’t close was a lie. As for Harry, I suspected that Roger was the one who had put him up to accessing confidential hospital records, but for what reason I hadn’t a clue.
I checked my watch. Almost midnight, too late to call Eddie or Harry. Then I remembered I wanted to assign Julia to conduct a surveillance on Harry tomorrow. If I could get a handle on his activities, I might acquire the leverage to make him open up. For a moment I hesitated at phoning a single mother with a young son at this hour, but Julia knew she’d signed on for an irregular schedule, and would resent being given special
treatment. I picked up the receiver and made a nuisance of myself for the last time that day.
Monday
APRIL 23
The phone rang as I was lying in bed contemplating my plan for the day. I regarded it warily. A reporter? No. By now, with no new developments, press interest in both J.D.’s murder and me would be on the wane. Besides, all calls to this number were prescreened by the command post downstairs, and I’d given them only a limited list of names to be put through. I picked up.
“So how do you like your home away from home?”
“Ripinsky! You must’ve talked with Green Street.”
“Yeah, they told me I’d authorized your using the apartment. I’m curious as to why I had to do that.”
I explained, heard the pain in his voice when he reacted to the news of J.D.’s death. Hy had seen entirely too many people die before their time, including his wife, environmentalist Julie Spaulding, whom he’d watched waste away from multiple sclerosis. Such experiences had molded him into a man who regularly needed reassurance that those he cared about were all right—the reason why, in spite of an uncanny emotional connection that allowed us to tap into each other’s feelings over time and distance, we spoke frequently when apart.
“I suppose you’re feeling guilty because J.D. went up there while he was helping you with your case,” he said.
“Not really. He was a reporter to the bone. I couldn’t’ve stopped him even if I’d known he was going. I just wish I’d gotten there sooner. Maybe I could have prevented the murder. And, of course, I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
“So when are you coming home?”
“That’s one of the reasons I called.” Now his voice took on a familiar tone, a formality and remoteness that said he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “I have to go to Manila. A situation’s brewing with one of our clients.”
“The Philippines? Didn’t they just have a ‘situation’ there?”
“Well, it’s a volatile political climate.”
I’d get no more details from him. Need-to-know again, and even I was excluded.
“McCone? You’re not angry? Or afraid for me?”
“No.”
“You’re in a bad place right now, and I’m not there for you again. Is that it?”