by Leslie Glass
“Good lord,” Londry said, blinking. “Yes, I heard something about that. You want to come in?”
“Yes, thank you,” Jason said.
“Big film industry in New York, right? I’ve heard of people going down to Florida, too. What brings you here?”
“Well, Emma Chapman is going to be in the article, and she was at school here. She graduated thirteen years ago. Were you here then?”
“Oh, yes, somebody told me something about that just a few days ago.” He narrowed his eyes at Jason. “I was here, but I couldn’t tell you anything about her even if I had a file on her, which I don’t.”
Jason laughed comfortably. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to see what’s in the file. That would be—” he hesitated, “unethical, of course.”
“Well, they do,” Londry said disapprovingly, pulling his lips into a thin line. “Reporters ask for anything they can get. Sometimes it makes good reading.” Londry swiveled back and forth in his chair. “But I don’t have a file on her. I’d remember if I did.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking for a file. I just stopped by to see if you knew where I might find some of her friends. She’s lost touch with them.”
Londry sneaked a look at his bookcase. Jason followed his gaze.
“I talked with her, and her parents, of course. She said she didn’t mind who I talked to,” Jason said. “But she couldn’t remember the names of the people she knew then. You probably don’t either. I guess a lot of kids pass through.”
“I remember them when I see their faces.” He got up and crossed to the shelves of yearbooks. “Seventy-eight, you said?”
“Seventy-nine. She mentioned one person in particular. A guy, of course. Had a Harley-Davidson.”
Londry took down a book and opened it, searching for a face to attach to Emma Chapman. “Ah, yes, the actress. Yes, I remember. There was something.”
“What?” Jason asked too quickly.
“Oh, nothing. She was in a play. Noel Coward.” He turned pages. “I don’t know,” he murmured, shaking his head. “There are always a few kids in every year with motorcycles.”
“This guy might have gone into the military, or the defense industry.”
“Okay, then you must mean him.” Londry pointed at a small square picture that was slightly out of focus. “Great guy. You’d think he was running for president. Yeah, talk to him. He knew everybody.”
“Do you know where I might find him?” Jason asked, making a note of the name.
“Sure I do. He’s at General Defense.”
“Where’s that?”
“Lindbergh Field.”
“Of course.” Jason put out his hand with a broad grateful smile. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“No problem.” Londry turned his attention to the book he’d left open on Emma’s page. He was studying the faces on it as Jason left.
Out in the sun again, Jason began to tense up. He could feel the muscles tighten in his neck as he thought about how he would handle the thing. He was going to get the guy. He was going to get him in his office where he felt safe, and nail him to the wall. He liked that image.
There was a nice breeze off the ocean. Jason realized he had left his objectivity back in New York somewhere. He wanted to know what happened between Emma and this guy all those years ago that made her leave the only home her parents ever had. And he wanted to kill the guy for torturing her now. Son of a bitch. He was so tense over this thing he had broken out in a cold sweat.
He drove back down the main highway to Lindbergh Field and was directed from one building to another in the sprawling complex where jet engines and airplanes and rockets were made. Finally, in a new office building, he was shown into the office of Bill Patterson.
Jason glibly repeated the story that he was a reporter from New York Magazine to the secretary guarding the door, and asked if Mr. Patterson could spare him three minutes.
“Well, he’s here, but he won’t talk to you.” She looked Jason over with vague distaste. “You might as well forget it. We have a rule here. We’re not supposed to talk to the press about anything. Not the government contracts, not anything.”
“Tell him I’m doing a story on a girl he knew in high school,” Jason said evenly. “He’ll see me.”
A few seconds later, not bothering to hide her surprise, she ushered him into the office.
“Hi, what can I do for you?” Bill Patterson was a fit young man with a conservative haircut, in a white button-down shirt and striped tie. He looked up from some papers on his glass-topped desk, and examined Jason with unguarded, curious blue eyes.
“Thanks for seeing me. I’m Frank Miln. I’m doing a story on Emma Chapman.”
Patterson nodded and scratched his chin. His expression didn’t change.
Jason looked around. The walls of the room were covered with prints of airplanes. The man was pure middle management. He was wearing loafers. On his desk were pictures of a sailboat, two golden children in bathing suits, and a smiling woman. Jason got a sinking feeling.
Patterson moved his scratching on to his temple, worked on that for a moment. “Who is she?” he asked finally.
“She’s an actress in New York. She was in your class in high school.”
“Oh. Emma Chapman.” He paused, as if doing a computer search of his memory. Then he shook his head. “I’m not sure I remember her.”
“That’s very surprising, because when I was talking to her, she mentioned a guy with a motorcycle who works for General Defense.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, she specifically wanted me to say hello.”
“Gee, I haven’t been on a bike in years,” Patterson said nostalgically, He pointed at the photos of his family. “Well, say hello right back, but it must be some other guy. I didn’t know her.”
Jason nodded and got up slowly. Before he got to the door, Patterson stopped him.
“Hey, wait a minute. There is a guy who works for us. But he wasn’t in our class. He was a year behind us. Matter of fact he still rides a bike. I see him in the field lot sometimes.”
Jason’s throat constricted. “What’s his name?” he said carefully.
Patterson scratched his face some more. “Funny name.” He reached for the company directory and started flipping the pages. “Here it is. Grebs, Troland.”
Jason leaned forward to look at the page. Grebs, Troland was in Technical Drafting, Building 4. The guy drew. It sounded right. For the second time that day Jason felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through him. He checked his watch. If he hurried, he might still be able to get home to Emma that night.
37
Sanchez had a hit-and-run on Amsterdam. In broad daylight a van running the light hit a woman with a dog and a baby carriage. Mother and child were squash flat, as Sai Woo put it when April told her about it. The dog, which had been tied to the carriage, managed to escape injury. Sai liked hearing stories like that. Happen to other people, not happen to her.
“I had a dog once, long time ago in China.” She reached for the story, offering it up to April as favor for favor.
April nodded seriously, accepting the gift she’d already received a hundred thousand times.
“One day dog gone. I very sad,” Sai said. “Look for it and look for it. Ask everybody.” When she paused to shake her head, April knew she was thinking about how everybody said they didn’t see a thing. Didn’t remember ever seeing any dog. And that was how Sai learned she couldn’t trust anybody.
“Neighbors ate it,” she said now, playing it for all it was worth.
“Serve dog right,” she added, “for going outside without me.” She looked at April slyly out of the corner of her eye. She was eating melon seeds, cracking the shells open delicately with her teeth at the kitchen table after dinner. The TV was on, but neither of them was watching. Sometimes Sai left the picture on and the sound off, just for company when Ja Fa Woo and her daughter were both at work. Now it was on for show. To show April she didn’t have to be there and
could go home whenever she wanted.
“Probably dog’s fault. Why he tied to carriage anyway?” she asked. She couldn’t stand the sight of a dog now, didn’t like her neighbors either. She brushed an errant shell off her lap impatiently.
She had given April perfectly good story. Very good story about her life. And now April’s turn to tell something. Dead baby and mother not enough. Sai wanted to know important things, like what happened to red Camaro, and why white Baron was back with no sign of Jimmy Wong.
April was writing something and wouldn’t say. Sai leaned over to see what it was, but couldn’t see a thing without her glasses. She never liked Jimmy Wong. Not so good as a doctor or dentist. Jimmy Wong wore a gun in a shoulder holster and walked like gangster. Had no good future. Boo hao. “Ni, you listening to me?” she said.
April nodded without looking up.
“Main thing is, lose innocence but not hope,” Sai said pointedly.
“Okay, Mom.” April rolled her eyes because she had no idea what that meant and her mother still called her “you.” Like, hey you, you listening to me? How could she avoid it?
April looked her mother over critically. Desperate to be “new style” right up-to-date, Sai Woo always wore extravagantly colored blouses which she tucked into matching tailored pants. Her hair was still black as patent leather, and though she swore up and down she didn’t touch it, April knew she dyed it promptly at the beginning of every fifth week.
In spite of these details, she was “old style” in her soul. No getting around it. She ate melon seeds, cracking the shells with her teeth, gossiped like an old woman, and sometimes hunkered all the way down on her heels without warning. Just the way they did in China, because not so many chairs there. Nobody who was born in America would dream of doing that. No one could. Well, cowboys maybe. But there weren’t many of those in Queens.
“You should be the detective,” April said.
“Not so good detective, not find out much,” Sai replied disgustedly, ending the discussion as usual on a sour note.
By the time Sanchez found the van, it had been sold. But he didn’t have too much trouble getting to it. The person who bought it lived only a few blocks away from the suspect, and hadn’t had time to get the bumper or the broken headlight fixed. It was after four when he came back from the indictment.
The squad room was always pretty empty between four and four-thirty. Day shift going or gone, night shift coming in.
“I was afraid I’d miss you,” he said.
April was sitting at her desk, tying up a few loose ends. Sergeant Riley was already there and hassling her to get out so he could have her desk. She looked up at Sanchez. It was nowhere in her thoughts that she might be waiting for him.
“Why?” she asked. Then lowered her head with some confusion because he seemed tired and discouraged.
“Why what?” Sanchez asked.
“Why were you afraid of missing me? Did something come up?”
“No. Just wanted to know what was going on, uh, with you. Bad day.” He said it as fact, not a question.
“Had a DOA on Broadway. Homeless. Poor guy sat there on the bench for nearly thirty hours before the neighbors were willing to admit he hadn’t moved in a long time.”
They didn’t look at him when he was alive, but a crowd had gathered to watch him bagged and taken away. But that wasn’t what Sanchez was asking about.
“The positive ID came in on Ellen Roane,” she said at last.
“I heard.”
“I had to talk to the mother.”
“Rough.”
“Very rough.” April looked away. That was the worst part of the job. That and collecting more pictures and information about Ellen to send to Sheriff Regis. She would have liked to follow up on this case herself, go out to San Diego and follow Ellen’s tracks all the way to Potoway Village in the hills to see if she could come up with anything resembling a suspect. Now Sheriff Regis would have to do it. She’d found her Missing Person. For her, the case was closed.
“I see you got your car back,” Sanchez said after a minute.
“Yeah, last night.”
It was in the lot downstairs. April took a lot of flak for it. Very flashy car for a cop. Couldn’t miss it coming, couldn’t miss it going.
“That have any special meaning?” Sanchez asked.
“Why don’t you two woo somewhere else,” Sergeant Riley said with a leer. He’d already been married twice, had the white hair to show for it, was now engaged to be married for the third time, and still didn’t think much of women. “Ha, ha. Woo woo, get it?”
April saw the words “fuck off” jump into Sanchez’s mouth behind the mustache, and then saw them jump out again when he looked at her.
“Hey, man. We’re doing business, got a problem?”
“Yeah. I want to sit down.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” Sanchez put his hand up to touch April’s arm, then checked the gesture.
Good. She didn’t want him embarrassing her. She picked up her bag. It was heavy. It had mace and a .38 in it. He followed her out.
“So, ah, what’s happening with this Hinckley case of yours?” he asked as they headed down the stairs. “You got plans? We could talk about it, eat some Mexican.” He looked at her slyly.
So he knew about Jimmy. April didn’t say anything until they got downstairs and punched out.
“Nothing to talk about,” she said. “No one’s getting letters like that in San Diego. I tried to call the husband to find out if they were still coming, but he’s taken off.”
“What do you mean, taken off?”
“I don’t know. He’s out of town. I guess he doesn’t think it’s so important anymore. On his answering machine, he gives the name of another doctor to call in case of emergency.”
April caught sight of the LeBaron right away, even though it was parked in the back. Sanchez’s red Camaro was right next to it. Yeah, he came in just around four. Maybe someone was pulling out right then. The red Camaro was flashy, too. Even her mother remembered it.
“It’s kind of weird.” She unlocked her car door but didn’t get in. “Maybe it’s like this. One time we went up to this lake when I was a kid. Upstate somewhere. In the middle of the night there was this helicopter with a big searchlight flying back and forth over the cabin. Everybody jumped up and got really scared and thought there was an escaped convict out in the woods gonna kill us.” She laughed, remembering it.
“So what was it?”
“Well, we couldn’t call the police, because Chinese, well, you know how the Chinese feel about the police.”
“No.” Sanchez moved over and leaned against her car, smiling. “How do Chinese feel about the police?”
He was close enough now for her to smell him. His after-shave was not so strong after a whole day of sitting around a stale courtroom. But even now he didn’t smell of sweat. More like shirt starch. She wondered if he took his shirts to a Chinese laundry, or if some woman ironed them for him. Boo hao, ni, ni, she scolded herself in her fish-in-water language. No good, you.
“They think police will steal what’s left in their house after they’ve been robbed, and take their favorite son to jail,” she said. “I have to go.”
Sanchez’s face fell enough so she kind of felt sorry for him.
“I have a class,” she added.
“So what was it doing there?” he said after a second.
“What?”
“The helicopter?”
“Oh, that.” He got her so mixed up she couldn’t remember what she was talking about. “Turned out there’s this wife and husband staying on a boat. They get drunk. Wife jumps off the boat. Husband gets scared and calls the police. Police spend three hours searching for her. They get cars, park them all around the lake with the lights on, send up a helicopter. Everything. Then when they get all ready to start dragging the lake with nets, she walks out of the bushes where she’s been watching the whole thing. Know what? She gets right back
on the boat. Wouldn’t go to the station, make out a complaint against him. Nothing.”
“So you think it might be something between the two of them?” Sanchez asked. “The husband and wife?”
“Well, I haven’t heard a word from her. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” She cocked her head toward the car, so he would move.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Sometimes you think they’re going to add up to something, and then they just go away.” Sanchez shrugged and moved away from the door of her car.
What? Cases or people?
A few days before, on the way back from a call, Sanchez had told her his father was a cook in a Mexican restaurant before he died. He worked in a restaurant in El Paso and then when it failed, someone offered him a job in New York. It was at a red light in a lot of traffic. They were sitting in the car. April had to close her eyes for a minute to keep the Mexican ghost out of her soul. Her father and his father did the same thing. She didn’t want to hear that. Sanchez put his arm out on the seat so his hand was not too far from hers. She knew he was showing her they were the same color. But she wasn’t sure they were the same color underneath, so she didn’t say anything.
“The thing is there’s still the San Diego thing. I have a feeling it’s not over.” April smiled suddenly. “You know, Sergeant, I’ve never had Mexican food.”
Then she looked at her watch in alarm and realized she’d been talking so long she was going to be late.
38
The lights were off, and Jason was not in the apartment when Emma returned from her long lunch with Ronnie. There was no sign that he had been there, and no messages from anybody on her answering machine. That was strange. Usually there were three or four. She wondered if it had stopped recording again. Sometimes it did that for a day or two. The heads or something got stuck. She took off her jacket and, with her heart pounding, she started going through the stack of mail she had picked up on the way in. She knew she was doing this to take her pulse, to see if she was all right. There hadn’t been one of those letters in the mail for three days and she was afraid to hope there would be no more.
