“No.”
“You’re young, I thought there was a possibility . . . She’s so innocent. She has this habit of taking a fancy to people, of trusting them.”
“I saw her Monday the first and last time. Her visit lasted fifteen minutes approximately. And that’s just what it was, a visit. She didn’t seem to be in any kind of trouble that would require the services of an attorney.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Jasper?”
“No.”
Aragon poured one anyway from the pitcher on his desk into a paper cup. Jasper drank it.
“Did she appear normal to you, Mr. Aragon?”
“Normal is a pretty big word.”
“Not big enough to include Cleo, I’m afraid.”
“While she was here she behaved in a responsible manner. I don’t give I.Q. tests.”
“What brought her here?”
“What brought you, Mr. Jasper?”
“A private detective I hired traced her movements on the day before she disappeared. He found out she took a taxi from the school during the lunch hour. She told my wife and me that she’d spent the afternoon at the museum. I didn’t believe it. The museum’s closed on Mondays. Anyway, the taxi driver said he drove her to this office. So here I am . . . The school knows nothing, or so they claim. These places never know anything except about collecting money. In that field they’re experts.”
“You’ve been to the police?”
“Yes. They were polite, no more.”
“They don’t get very excited about missing persons because they usually turn up safe and sound. Do you think she ran away, Mr. Jasper?”
“I’ve had no ransom demands,” Jasper said grimly. “Also, she withdrew her entire savings account from the bank, a matter of a thousand dollars. The money won’t do her any good, may even make things worse. She’s so vulnerable, at the mercy of anyone, anything.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It never occurred to me she’d draw the money out. I gave her everything she needed, everything she wanted. The account was in her name because I was trying to encourage her to be responsible about money, to save. And she did save, money she got for birthdays, Christmas, things like that.”
“Then it was her own money?”
“Yes.”
“She committed no crime to get it?”
“No.”
“And she’s over twenty-one?”
“Yes.”
“Are you her legal guardian?”
“Yes.”
“You signed a document to that effect?”
“Yes.”
“Have you checked it recently?”
“No. It’s in one of my safe-deposit boxes. I’m not even sure which one.”
“Legal guardianships usually terminate at twenty-one.”
“But she’s not . . . not competent.”
“A judge would have to decide that.”
“It’s common knowledge.”
“Common knowledge is not a term recognized by the courts,” Aragon said. He felt uncomfortable with the man, more uncomfortable than he had with Cleo. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Mr. Jasper.”
“Help. I must get Cleo back to the safety and security of her own home. But first I have to find her. Where could she have gone, where in God’s name could she have gone? We have relatives here and there throughout the country but none of them would take her in. They wouldn’t want to be held responsible for her. They know what she is.” His voice rose. “No, she’s out there alone someplace, probably telling everyone she meets how much money she’s carrying, inviting disaster, asking for it. You don’t understand how easily a girl like that can be taken in, a mere smile or a kind word. I have to find her.”
“You told me you hired a detective.”
“Yes, when it became clear the police weren’t interested. The detective traced Cleo as far as your office, then he had to fly to Houston to testify in a custody case. It was a poor start. I anticipated a poorer finish and fired him.”
“And came here.”
“I had you checked out by one of my secretaries. You’ve looked for missing people before. And you have an additional advantage. You’ve seen my sister, talked to her, noticed the extent of her incapacity. You know her.”
“You don’t get to know someone in fifteen minutes.”
“Perhaps she told you things.”
Aragon thought of all the times he’d heard ‘Hilton says, Hilton says.’ “A great deal of her conversation consisted of quotes from you, Mr. Jasper. Your opinions seemed very important to her.”
“I thought they were, until last week.” A film of moisture appeared in the man’s eyes. “I need your help, Aragon. I can pay any amount you ask for.”
“It’s not up to me. I work for a law firm, and I do what the head of that firm, Mr. Smedler, tells me to do.”
“Smedler can be handled.” There was a note of contempt in his voice, as though handling people like Smedler was simply routine. “Are you interested in the assignment?”
“Yes. As long as you realize that the girl cannot be forced to return.”
“Even if she’s mentally and emotionally unstable?”
“I doubt you could prove that. The laws protecting the rights of individuals have become very strict.”
“I have never forced her to do anything,” he said, but he looked oddly disturbed, as though something he thought hidden had been discovered. “Force is not part of my nature. When you find her you will simply persuade her to come home, where she is loved and safe.”
“What caused her to leave. Mr. Jasper?”
“I don’t know.”
“There were no quarrels?”
“No.”
“Even a small disagreement might provoke—”
“I told you, no.”
“May I talk to your wife?”
“I think not. She’s easily upset. It would be preferable if you dealt entirely with me.”
“Cleo mentioned your son, Ted. He might have some information not available to you, Mr. Jasper.”
“That’s impossible. He’s away at college.”
“What college?”
“It would be a waste of time to question Ted. Anyway, why she left isn’t the issue. It’s where she went that must concern you.”
“The two are usually connected.”
“Find her,” Jasper said. “Just find her.”
He made it sound more like an order than a plea.
“Has she ever run away before?”
“No.”
“Talked about it?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Monday night. Cleo and my wife and I had dinner together. During the course of it I asked her how she’d spent her afternoon and she said she had gone to the museum. I was pretty sure the museum was closed on Mondays but she spoke of seeing lots and lots of pictures. I didn’t argue. After dinner she went to her room to watch T. V. Frieda and I retired early. It’s a large house with thick, solid walls that muffle sounds. Perhaps Cleo stayed up late watching T. V. At any rate, she didn’t appear for breakfast and we didn’t waken her. I left for the office and Frieda went to a meeting. We assumed that when the school bus came to pick her up she would board it as usual. The cook says she saw the bus waiting in the driveway when she arrived for work but didn’t see Cleo get on it. That’s all.”
It didn’t sound like all, or even like half. Jasper seemed to realize this, too.
“I can’t tell you everything,” he said, “because I don’t know everything. I’ve acted in loco parentis for fourteen years, ever since Cleo was eight, and I thought I understood the girl. It appears now I was wrong. The lie about h
ow she’d spent the afternoon may not have been the first, perhaps only one of a hundred. I say perhaps. Again I don’t know.”
The admission was obviously difficult for Jasper. Though the room was chilly, he wiped his forehead as if being wrong or even doubtful gave him a fever.
“The school called Tuesday afternoon to see if Cleo had stayed home because of illness. They keep close watch on these matters because many of the students are highly susceptible to contagious diseases. So that’s how we discovered she had gone.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“Yes.”
“Clothes? Suitcase?”
“The dog,” Jasper said. “She took the dog, Zia.”
He pressed a handkerchief against his mouth and the noise it stifled could have been a cough, a laugh, a cry of rage.
“The dog,” he repeated. “It’s a basset hound belonging to our gardener, Trocadero. The old man’s heartbroken. He saw her leave the grounds with the dog at midmorning and thought she was going to take a run on the beach, which is only three blocks away. He spent the
afternoon searching for the dog, calling the Humane Society, the Animal Shelter, even
the police. After the school called in the late afternoon I did some searching myself, but not for the dog. I drove around to various neighbors, called friends, checked the bus station, the airport, even the two local car rentals, though I knew Cleo couldn’t drive. Finally I went to Troc’s apartment over the garage and told him Cleo had run away and taken Zia with her. He didn’t believe me.”
“What did he believe?”
“That someone had picked them up in a car. He had no proof, nothing to go on but a hunch. He claims Zia weighs sixty-five pounds, much too heavy for Cleo to lift, let alone smuggle aboard a bus or plane. Troc placed an ad in the lost-and-found column of the local paper offering a fifty-dollar reward for the return of the dog, no questions asked. The ad appeared in this morning’s paper. So far there have been no answers.”
He paused, staring out the window with its view of the city. Every day it seemed to be crawling farther up the mountain that separated it from the desert beyond. It was a small city but it looked suddenly enormous, capable of hiding hundreds of lost dogs and young girls.
Jasper turned back to face Aragon. “Do you recall the three girl hitchhikers who were murdered here last year?”
“Yes.”
“So do I.” The bodies of two of the girls had been found at the bottom of a wooded canyon, partially decomposed. The third body was picked up by a fishing boat beyond the kelp line, bloated by decomposing gases and mangled by sharks.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” Aragon said. “The interest is too high.”
“Have you any more concrete advice?”
“You might follow up on that ad. Increase its size, change the wording from return of the dog to leading to the return. And increase the reward to five hundred dollars.”
“I can pay more. Any amount.”
“Try it this way first.”
“I considered inserting an ad for Cleo herself, with a picture and description and so on, but Frieda vetoed the idea. She has too much of what she terms pride. I’m not sure that’s the right word. At any rate I didn’t go against her wishes. Things are bad enough without that.”
“There’s a hotline for runaways that pretty well covers the country. If she changes her mind and wants to come home, you’ll hear about it.”
“She wouldn’t know about such a thing as a hot line. She’s very unworldly.”
“You said she watches T. V.”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she’s not as unworldly as you think, Mr. Jasper.”
Jasper stirred in his chair like a boxer evading a punch. “I’d better be leaving. I’m already late for an appointment . . . Are you going to help me find her, Aragon?”
“I have to wait for orders.”
“They’ll come.”
When he went out to the parking lot at five thirty he found Charity Nelson waiting beside his old Chevy. For purposes of shade, the space with his name on it was the best in the lot, but the shade was provided by a eucalyptus tree and the owners of newer vehicles took pains to avoid it. The Chevy stood in splendid isolation, its already pockmarked finish immune to the tree’s oily drippings.
Charity was leaning against the hood, fanning herself with an envelope.
“When are you going to get rid of this old heap, Aragon?”
“When somebody gives me a new heap.”
“Maybe this is a down payment.” She patted her handbag. “Want to guess what’s in here?”
“A love letter.”
“Close. Love and money are like ham and eggs in Smedler’s mind . . . Here. Better cash it, junior, before the old boy discovers he’s flipped.”
Aragon opened the envelope she gave him. It contained a check for two weeks’ salary and a note in Smedler’s handwriting: Giving you 2 wks leove of obsence. Don’t blob. WHS.
“Blob?” Aragon said. “Is this in code?”
“Smedler makes his o’s and a’s alike. He’s giving you two weeks’ leave of absence and doesn’t want you to blab to the others in the office . . . Why did you ask him for a leave of absence?”
“I’ve contracted an obscure tropical disease which requires prolonged—”
“Come off it. Why did you ask him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then he really has flipped. Kind of a shame. He’s not actually a bad guy underneath all that evil.”
He got in the car and turned on the ignition but Charity didn’t take the hint.
“I bet I know just where you’re heading, junior,” she said. “To San Francisco to see your wife.”
“Mr. Smedler orders me not to blob, I don’t blob.”
“He didn’t mean me. He couldn’t. I’m his confidential secretary.”
“You are a blobbermouth and he knows it.”
“Oh come on, junior. Just give me a hint.”
“I’m going back to school,” Aragon said with some truth. “I need a refresher course.”
4
Holbrook Hall was located on the former estate of a turn-of-the-century cattle baron. Its stone walls were part of a government work project of the thirties but the main gate with its electronic eye was strictly modern and so were the outbuildings scattered here and there throughout the grounds. They were redwood structures that looked like bungalows.
The atmosphere was strangely quiet for a school. There was no shouting, no laughter, only the noise of a power mower and the whinnying of horses. As he passed the corral Aragon saw that two of the horses were under saddle and had recently been ridden too hard and too fast. A moment later the riders came into view, a pair of adolescent boys wearing western boots and cowboy hats pulled down over their foreheads. At the sound of the car they raised their thumbs for a ride.
Aragon opened the door and they both got in the front. They were about fourteen years old, dirty, tired and morose. Tears mingled with sweat, and water leaked from the canteens they carried.
“What are you guys up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Not a thing.”
“We took a ride.”
“We got caught.”
“We going to visit my mom in New York.”
“We forgot the sandwiches.”
“We going to surprise her.”
“My mom, too.”
“She’s not your mom. We’re not brothers.”
“My mom’s right tight close by in New Orleans.”
“We forgot the sandwiches.”
The boys were let out at one of the bungalows and Aragon proceeded on up the driveway to the main house of the estate, a Mediterranean-style cla
ssic. Its tile-floored foyer served as the school’s reception room.
At one of the desks a young man sat typing, slowly and thoughtfully, as though he was writing his memoirs. The other desk was empty except for a large blue bird eating peanuts. The nuts were being shelled for him by a teenaged girl with the slant-eyed, sweet-tempered look of a Down’s syndrome child.
The man said, “Knock it off, Sandy. We have company.”
“A friend?”
“Sure.”
The girl rose, the bird flew out the window, and the young man turned back to Aragon.
“Are you Mr. Aragon?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Holbrook’s expecting you. Lovely morning. Nothing beats spring. Come this way.”
Mrs. Holbrook’s office with its red leather upholstery and semicircular desk was more imposing than its occupant. She was a tiny woman with short curly white hair and dimples and soft blue eyes that appeared somewhat baffled.
“Please sit down, Mr. Aragon.”
“Thanks.”
“This is a distressing situation. A school like ours is hard hit by any scandal. We are dependent on grants and donations. Our fees are high but they simply don’t cover our costs and we need benefactors like Mr. Jasper. He’s been very generous in the past . . . And there’s Cleo herself, of course. She must be considered.”
“Yes.” He wondered how far down on the consideration list Cleo rated.
“The other students don’t know, naturally. I let it out that she was suffering from chicken pox—I picked something contagious just in case any of them thought of going to visit her . . . I must say I’m surprised at Cleo. It’s not like her to do something like this.”
“What is like her?”
“To withdraw when things don’t suit her, to refuse food and wander by herself down to the stable or the poultry pens. These young people often have a strong rapport with animals. She’s a timid girl, overindulged, overprotected. A positive step like running away and being able to stay away this long is quite amazing. Nothing has prepared me for it. Well, practically nothing.”
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