Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  Alvaraz returned with two glasses and handed her one. “Please, sit.” Sam settled in a well-worn chair, and he took a seat on the couch to her immediate right. “Is there anything you can tell me about what happened to Jeff?” he asked somberly.

  Sam gave him a brief rundown of the basic facts as she knew them, concluding with what she needed for her story. “Today I talked to a family friend of Rydell’s parents, but it’s been difficult finding anyone who really seemed to know Jeff and his life in Palm Springs. Was he a parishioner here?”

  “No, Jeff was not Catholic. We struck up a conversation one day at the diner and developed a friendship. We found it very comfortable talking to each other.” He took a drink of water. “You seemed surprised I was a priest.”

  “It’s just that Kylie never mentioned it.”

  “She probably doesn’t know,” Alvarez smiled. “I don’t usually wear my collar out when I’m on personal time. Some people are put off by it these days, but Jeff was never judgmental. Although he was not a church-going man, I found him to be very spiritual. A genuinely good soul.”

  “You’re not the first person who described him that way.”

  “How specifically do you think I can help?”

  Even though Alvarez was not his pastor or official spiritual advisor, Sam assumed a priest would still be reluctant to break confidences. This was one of those times she needed to be completely upfront.

  “Father Gerry, this is what I know. I know Jeff was adopted. I know he hung out at a strip club in Indio. It’s possible he was paid to watch over a dancer there. I know he had a girlfriend back in Tennessee. He was very likely spying on someone. He was apparently expecting to come into some significant money. I know he was unusually committed to Ellen Konrad. But what I don’t know is how all these things tie together and which of these things, if any, are related to, or resulted in, his murder. It’s been difficult getting a clear picture of who he was or what he was after because Jeff was a man with a lot of secrets.”

  Alvarez leaned forward. “One thing you learn quickly as a priest is everybody has secrets—even priests. It’s complicated because secrets are inherently dishonest. But the question you have to ask is whose secret is being kept and why. Are we keeping a secret to prevent others from finding out we are being hurtful or untruthful in some way? Or is the secret being kept on behalf of someone else we are trying to protect from some kind of harm?”

  “In other words, the devil is in our motivation.”

  “Yes. If Jeff was secretive, I suspect it was to protect others. However, the danger is that no matter how good the intentions, when too many secrets collide they have a tendency to isolate people from one another. Often more damage is done than if the secret had been revealed to begin with.”

  Sam digested his words. “But obviously Jeff didn’t have trust issues. He trusted you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I knew Jeff was adopted. He only found out after his mother died. He came across his original birth records buried in the bottom of an old trunk in the attic. As you can imagine, it was quite a shock. Jeff was grateful he’d been raised by such good people, but even though he loved his parents very much, he was still curious about his birth parents. I don’t think his intent was to disrupt anybody’s life. He just wanted to know where he came from. That’s simply human nature. By the time we became friends his questions had been answered, and he seemed quite at peace with it.”

  “Did he say who it was?”

  “No, he didn’t. And I didn’t ask, either.”

  Sam swore under her breath. She gave herself five seconds to pout then pushed her disappointment aside. “Is that why he stayed in Palm Springs, because of his birth mother or father?”

  “Actually, I don’t think so.” Alvarez looked thoughtful. “Are you familiar with rumspringa?”

  Sam nodded. “That’s when Amish teenagers leave their community to go experience the sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll ways of the secular world.”

  “Right. Palm Springs was Jeff’s rumspringa. He came from a small town in a relatively conservative area then found himself in Palm Springs and was taken in by the wealth, the clubs, the movie stars you see walking the streets. He was so impressed getting to meet Ellen Konrad, somebody he had watched on TV. This was a different world, and Jeff was suddenly in a position to explore who he was without anyone looking over his shoulder. He could be whoever he wanted to be. He could reinvent and start over.”

  “So what did he discover about himself?”

  Father Gerry’s smile was sad. “That he wasn’t ready for that much freedom. He told me he had decided to go home and settle down with his girlfriend. I’m drawing a blank on her name.”

  “Larissa.”

  “That’s it. And I’m sure a part of him wanted just that. But I also think part of his decision was based on guilt.”

  “Over what?”

  “Jeff explored his sexuality while here,” the priest revealed. “I think it proved too much for him to handle.”

  “Because he didn’t like what he did,” Sam asked, “or because he liked it too much?”

  “Self-awareness doesn’t always lead to happiness. It takes a lot of courage to be who we really are, especially if it puts us at odds with those we love or our upbringing.”

  “Or our religion,” Sam added. “Did he ever mention anyone specifically?”

  Alvarez sat back. “No. He was vague.”

  “Did you notice any change in his behavior over the last couple of months?”

  “Not then, but now in hindsight I can see that there was something on his mind. He was more distracted the last several times we spoke. But he was also making plans to go back home so I assumed it was that, until two weeks ago.”

  “What happened then?”

  “This.” Alvarez reached behind the couch and lifted a small wheelie bag, grunting with exertion. He set it on the floor by Sam. “He asked me to hold this for him. He joked that in case he got hit by a bus, he wanted to know it was in the right hands.”

  “Do you know what’s in there?”

  “Some papers, some computer disks, one of his laptops.”

  “One of them?”

  “He had one of his own, and Ellen Konrad gave him an old one of hers.”

  Sam stared at the bag, convinced it held the answer to a lot of questions. “Father Alvarez…”

  “You want to take this with you.”

  She nodded, worried she’d sound too desperate if she spoke.

  The priest rested his elbows on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin in a pose of reflection. “When Jeff gave this to me, I was puzzled by his choice of words, that he wanted this in the right hands. In light of what’s happened, I think what he really meant is that he trusted me to find those right hands.” He sat thinking, eyes closed. It occurred to Sam he was praying. She waited, the clock on the end table sounding loud in the silent room. Finally he asked, “If I entrust this to you, will you promise to return any personal belongings to Larissa when you are done?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you will let the police know if you find anything relevant to their investigation?”

  “I will.”

  Alvarez stood. “Then I would like you to take it.”

  “Thank you.” She got up and released the bag’s retractable handle. “I have a friend waiting in the car, so I should be going.”

  He walked Sam to the door and shook her hand. “Thank you for trying to find justice for Jeff.”

  “That’s for the police to do, Father. I’m just trying to honor his memory in words.”

  “I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. And by the way, if you ever start going to church again you’re always welcome to come to Mass here.”

  “How did you know I was raised Catholic?”

  The priest just smiled and closed the door.

  “Well, shit,” Sam muttered, “that’s really annoying.”

  She pulled into her parking space at 9:30. Joe lift
ed out the wheelie bag from the back seat and set it next to the car.

  “Since you’ll be busy I’m going to take the rental to Arenas for a nightcap.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Do you want me to take this upstairs for you?”

  “No need.” She hugged him goodnight. “Go have fun.”

  By the time Sam walked the dogs, gave the bird fresh water, said hello to Hamlet the hamster, fed her sea horse Sea Biscuit, took a quick rinse-off shower, changed into sweat pants and tank top, and got herself a glass of iced tea, it was almost ten o’clock when she finally sat down at her desk and unzipped Rydell’s bag.

  On top of his pile of possessions was a high school yearbook. She leafed through it, marveling at how hairstyles were as specific as carbon dating for pinpointing an era. Toward the back, among the photos of the incoming senior class, was an envelope. Sam took it out and saw that underneath it was the senior class studio portrait of Nell Overton. The picture confused her, but the document inside the envelope was a punch in the gut.

  She opened her notebook and logged back onto her public records database. She typed in “Gail Tolliver,” the maiden name of Nell’s mother and searched for marriage records. There were two. The most recent was to Dale Overton. No surprise there. But it was the first marriage that told the story. Sam sat staring at her computer screen for a long time. Finally she picked up her cell phone and placed a call.

  Sam printed out the marriage records and put those sheets and the envelope back inside the yearbook, which she tossed in her bag. She put on a workout bra and slipped on a long-sleeved shirt over her tank top. After a moment of indecision, she grabbed the wheelie bag and headed out. On the drive over, Sam wondered if Ellen would ever want to see her again after this visit.

  She parked on the right side of the cul-de-sac and put the top up before getting out. The air was uncomfortably muggy without a breath of breeze. Not even the crickets were chirping. Sam noticed a dark bank of clouds gathering over the mountains.

  The gate buzzed as she walked up to it, and Ellen opened the front door, waiting. She was wearing yoga pants and a sleeveless jersey with a towel draped over one shoulder. Her hair was in a loose ponytail. “Do you always work out this late?”

  “No, but I was wound up after the party. I have a small gym upstairs where I can take out my aggressions. Comes in handy a lot these days,” she said wryly. “Let’s go in the den.”

  As they walked under a hallway light, Sam noticed a crescent-shaped mark by Ellen’s right eyebrow. “Did you smack yourself?”

  She absently touched the mark. “No, that’s an old scar.”

  “I never noticed it before.”

  “It’s usually hidden under a dab of concealer, plus it’s more prominent when I work out. I fell climbing a tree when I was fourteen and was gashed by a branch on my way down. Lucky it wasn’t a half-inch over or I’d probably have lost my eye. I forget it’s there.”

  “Still climbing trees at fourteen?”

  Ellen smiled. “I was playing hard to get.”

  The rooms downstairs were quiet but Sam heard the sounds of a television drifting from upstairs, and the kitchen lights were on. Once in the den Ellen pulled the door half closed and turned on a lamp behind the couch. “What is it, Sam?” she asked, sitting down. “Something in your eyes tells me this isn’t a casual visit.”

  Sam sat beside her. “That interview I went to tonight was with a friend of Jeff’s who had some of his personal belongings. The friend gave them to me to look through. In there was this.”

  She set the yearbook on the coffee table. Sam flipped to the page with Nell Overton’s picture. Ellen glanced at it but showed no outward reaction. Sam handed her the envelope. She opened it and took out the document inside. It was Jeff’s birth certificate, which listed Ellen Konrad as his natural mother. The space for the father’s name was blank.

  Sam showed her the printouts of Gail Tolliver’s marriage licenses: one to Dale Overton, the other to a David Konrad. “I didn’t understand what the connection to the yearbook was until I found these and remembered that Nell is a common diminutive for Ellen in certain parts of the country, including the Appalachians.”

  When Ellen didn’t say anything, Sam talked to fill the silence. “After your mother married Overton, I’m guessing he wanted you and your sister to go by his name. That’s why people knew you as Nell Overton. Then you went back to your legal name, Ellen Konrad, after you moved to California to get away from Dale.”

  Sam stared at the photo. “You’ve changed somewhat in appearance…maybe just grown into your looks. Do your children know about this?”

  “No.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, Sam closed the yearbook. “I understand why you didn’t but I wish you could have told me; been honest with me. You didn’t have to lie to me.”

  Ellen’s eyes met Sam’s. “I have never lied to you.”

  “How can you say that? You told me you didn’t know anything about Jeff’s background.”

  “No,” she raised her hand in objection, “I told you I didn’t know about his childhood, and that’s the truth. You never asked me if I knew anything about the circumstances of his birth.”

  Sam rolled her eyes in irritation because Ellen was right. It was the kind of deft omission she regularly employed herself. “Okay, maybe you didn’t outright lie, but you weren’t exactly forthcoming. It’s still dishonest.”

  Ellen’s words were strained. “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand?” Sam asked harshly, expressing her disappointment and hurt through anger. “That a story like this in the middle of an election wouldn’t be the best timing?”

  Ellen grabbed her arm. “Do you really think that’s my primary concern here? Being elected?”

  Sam tried to read the emotion in Ellen’s eyes. “No, probably not,” she admitted, still stubbornly listening to her gut. And her heart. “Then explain to me what your motivation is.”

  “I can’t,” her voice was weary. “But it isn’t what you think.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I wish to God I could tell you, but I can’t.”

  “Was Rydell trying to blackmail you?”

  “Jeff would never do anything like that.”

  Sam slapped the couch in frustration. She was missing something. There were too many loose ends. Who were Bill and June Konrad? Where was her sister Elizabeth now? What was Ellen still afraid of? The answer was in front of her but just beyond her grasp. Go back to the basics. Journalism 101. Start at the beginning. Don’t assume the obvious. Double check all your facts. Ask the right question. Follow your instinct.

  “Ellen, was he your child?”

  “You’ve got the paper that says so.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Did you give birth to Jeff Rydell?”

  She pulled the hair-band off and closed her eyes. “Please Sam—”

  “God dammit!” Sam abruptly stood. “Why can’t you talk to me?”

  Ellen pulled her back down and brought one leg up on the couch so they were face-to-face. She spoke quietly but with impassioned urgency. “Because I promised. Because there is so much that can never be undone or fixed or made right. Because too many people might get hurt.”

  Sam was equally emotional. “Somebody already has been hurt.”

  “I swear to you that I had nothing to do with Jeff’s death.”

  “I believe that. To me, that’s not even a question.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Sam ignored the lump in her throat and kept pushing. “If Jeff was here to find you, then you need to at least consider the possibility that it might be related to his death in some way. While I personally don’t think it would matter to most people that you gave a child up for adoption as a teenager, especially with the abuse involved, perhaps there are people in your own camp who it would matter to.”

  “I refuse to believe anybody under my roof is involved.”

 
“I’m sorry, but that’s not something I can just accept on your blind faith.”

  Ellen sat quietly a moment. “So you know about Dale.”

  Despite being intimately familiar with the long-term emotional effects of physical abuse, Sam couldn’t begin to imagine the ignominy of sexual abuse. “I know he molested you and your sister and the cousin who came to live with your family after the accident.”

  “Molesting always sounds so sterile,” Ellen said in a distant voice, absently rubbing her shoulder. She shook off her reverie and leaned forward to emphasize her words. “Dale Overton was a serial rapist.”

  “Jesus, I am so, so sorry.” For what he did to you. For not having the words to take away your pain. For not having been there to stop it. For what I’m putting you through now. Sam hesitated but had to confirm the obvious. “Ellen, Overton was Jeff’s father, wasn’t he?”

  She didn’t answer and just sat staring at the floor. Feeling like an abuser herself at the moment, Sam put the birth certificate and printouts back in the envelope and stuffed it inside the yearbook. She leaned closer and tried again. “You know I can’t just let this go.”

  “I know that.”

  “And whatever the whole story is, I’m going to figure it out, sooner or later.”

  “I know that, too.”

  Sam reached out and grabbed her hand. “Then why can’t you trust me enough to tell me yourself? I’m only looking for the truth. Help me find it—for Jeff’s sake. And if it turns out to have nothing to do with his death, I will take what you tell me to my grave.”

  Ellen intertwined their fingers. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”

  “I’m asking you to trust me. You have to know I’m not out to hurt you.”

  “I do know that.” Her eyes were a storm of conflict and her resolve was visibly wavering.

  “Please,” Sam whispered, “let me help you while I can, before it’s out of my hands.” She was skirting a dangerous professional line but didn’t care. Her primary concern now was not the story but to protect this woman. “Listen to me. Things can be made right because ultimately truth wins out.”