We decided to ride to Houston in Luna’s car – me in the back seat, of course – with the plan for Willis and me to return by Am Track, which had a station in Codderville. I’d always wanted to take a train – it was just unfortunate that Houston is only a few hours away. I’d like to do the whole compartment overnight thing. Pretend Willis was Cary Grant and I was Eva Marie Saint, get a little North by Northwest action. That would be cool. Elena and Eddie would drive her car back to Codderville.
Since this was half work and half vacation, Luna was driving her personal car and would turn in the mileage which would be half paid – a portion by BCRPD and a portion by Codderville PD. All the fractioning was boggling my mind. I am not a friend of math. Her personal car was a 2001 Lincoln Town car, in pristine condition. Since she usually drove her unmarked, the Lincoln had very little mileage on it and was gorgeous. It’s interesting that as I age, cars I used to make fun of – like Cadillacs and Lincolns and those enormous Chryslers – I now look at and go ‘ahhh.’ Is it just me? Of course, I wouldn’t trade in my two-seater Audi for all the big luxury cars in the world. But Luna’s Lincoln had plenty of legroom in the backseat, which put me too far away from the front seat to hear clearly what Willis and Luna were discussing. So, after trying to pull my seatbelt up enough to lean forward and listen, I finally gave up and sat back in the plush seat and thought about the past few hours.
It had been a lovefest when Graham packed his car around ten this morning, ready to take off for Austin. There was a tearful scene at breakfast when Megan and Graham made up – she was crying, not my macho son – and as he packed his car, Megan and Bess were all over him, hugging and kissing him, telling him to buy them things that could only be found in Austin – what, I don’t know. Then Willis and I took our turns, hugging and kissing him, and telling him to study, study, study. Then the four of us went back into the house by the kitchen door to leave Graham and Alicia alone. I’m not saying we didn’t all peek through the window. Graham finally got in the car and started it, then, with one last long kiss from Alicia through the window, he took off. Alicia headed for the kitchen door and the four of us headed to the sofas, Willis quickly turning on the TV.
When she came in the door, she was crying. I’d decided it would look more natural if I was in the kitchen, which was my usual spot when not in my office, so I was closest to her when she came in. Seeing her face, I engulfed her in my arms, took her to the bedroom and sat her on the bed.
‘You can cry here all you want. Either alone or with me.’
She reached up and pulled me by the hand down to the bed. And laid her head on my shoulder and we both cried. In about three minutes both my other girls poked their heads in the door to my bedroom, saw what was going on, and jumped on the king-sized bed, both bawling, and holding on to Alicia and me. And I thought maybe I shouldn’t wish to go back in time like I had earlier. I was very uncomfortable physically – they weren’t little kids anymore. Somewhere during all this musing my early morning rising got to me and I fell asleep.
When I woke up we were pulling off the freeway in search of Reasoner Street – home of the main Houston cop shop.
SUNDAY
VERA’S STORY
Today would be the close of the convention. A big breakfast event with a church service while we ate. I thought that was sacrilege, but I’m just an old woman and no one cares what I think. Gerald was going to do a solo, as was that Louisiana woman, and there was a quartet from the Atlanta choir also performing. And then we had to check out before noon.
Luckily none of the drinkers from the night before were going to perform today – I could see a few of them dotted among the tables, bleary-eyed, drinking coffee like crazy and holding ice water glasses to their foreheads. There’s a reason we Baptists, as a rule, don’t drink. And I was seeing it right before my very eyes. Not to mention it’s a sin. And don’t start with that old saw about how Jesus drank wine. That’s all they had. I’m sure the water was polluted.
There were so many preachers at this convention that they had to take turns giving the sermon and everybody wanted to one-up each other. Luckily Brother Joe wasn’t one of them. It might just be me, but he’s a piss-poor example of a Baptist preacher. The first preacher to speak really knew his fire and brimstone, only he went on a little too long, like forty minutes, which left the second and third guys only ten minutes each, but I’ve never known a preacher who could say hello in less than half an hour. It was near on eleven in the morning before we got out of there.
Once in my room, I remembered I hadn’t sent E.J. those pictures of Brother Joe. I glanced through them. Three pretty good shots. And one with Gerald in the background. I bet I could blow that up, crop out Brother Joe, and I’d have a very nice picture of Gerald. If I wanted one, and I’m not saying I did. It was just a possibility. I hit send on all three pictures and started packing up the last of my things – I’d packed most of them the night before – when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find a bell hop standing there. As I hadn’t called for one to help me with my bags – I’m perfectly capable of handling my own bags, thank you very much, and don’t feel like it’s worth a dollar a bag just to have them taken downstairs! – all I could say was, ‘Yes?’
‘Ma’am,’ he said, flourishing an envelope addressed to Rachael Donley. I took it, smiled and said thank you. I didn’t tip him. I suppose I should have, but I forgot.
After Mom and Dad left, Alicia headed for her room. ‘No!’ Megan said, grabbing her by the arm. ‘You’re not going to mope around all day, right, Bess?’
‘Absolutely!’ Bess agreed. They dragged her toward the back door. ‘We’re going to go do something.’
‘I’m not in the mood—’ Alicia started.
‘Who cares?’ Megan interrupted. ‘He’ll be back on Friday. Get over it. Now, movie, fast food, or bowling?’
‘Miniature golf,’ Alicia said.
Megan and Bess looked at each other, shrugged and Bess said, ‘Sure. Miniature golf it is.’
No one knew whose turn it was to drive, so Megan declared it hers and no one argued with her. Arguing with Megan often got tiresome. It was while they were driving to Codderville, the location of the nearest miniature golf course, that Alicia decided to check her messages.
We were sitting at a round table in a conference room on the second floor of the main police station, simply called Reasoner Street, as it resides on a street called Reasoner – clever, these Houstonians – waiting for the lieutenant in charge of homicide, Buddy Nixon, to show up. There were the three of us – Willis, Luna, and me – plus the Hatfields and McCoys, aka Mayfair and DeWitt from Austin, and the Houston detectives in charge of the case, Larry Mann and Dave Marshall, known in the squad as ‘Marshallman.’ Larry looked like Paul Newman in his later years – in his sixties, trim build, blue eyes, gray hair and a wicked grin. Dave was thirty years younger, small in stature, and totally unremarkable.
We’d talked a little bit – all small talk – and were quietly awaiting the lieutenant’s arrival when my cell phone made an urgent sound. Worried about my kids for all sorts of reasons, I picked it up to see a text from my mother-in-law. Who in the world taught her to text? I’ll have their heads! The text said, ‘Sending you pic. Bro Joe. Get Luna to ID.’ And sure enough a picture came on my screen of two men, one young, one old.
I showed the picture to Luna. ‘Vera wants you to ID this guy.’
‘Which one?’ she asked.
‘The younger one, I think. It’s her preacher. She suspects him of having murdered her roommate.’
‘Like I have time for this?’
We were still looking when the lieutenant walked in, crossing behind Luna and me.
He stopped short and grabbed the phone out of Luna’s hand. ‘Where did you get this?’ he said, his tone gruff.
‘My mother-in-law just sent it,’ I said. ‘It’s her preacher. She wants an ID on him.’
‘Oh, I can ID him all right!’ the lieutenant said. �
��He’s the prick who killed my brother-in-law.’
SUNDAY
VERA’S STORY
I opened the letter addressed to Rachael. It was postmarked from some town I’ve never heard of in Florida. Inside was a note: ‘Rachael, here’s that picture of your uncle Thomas. That’s your me-maw he’s standing with. If you did find him, honey, stay away! He’s very dangerous! Call the police immediately! Love you, Mom.’
I looked at the picture. Two people standing in front of a barn, looking at the camera, a young man with his arm over the shoulders of an older woman. She was scowling; he was smiling fit to beat the band. The older woman was wearing a housedress from the fifties, maybe, her hair in pin curls, wearing shoes and socks, with a sweater pulled over her shoulders. The young man was wearing blue jeans with cuffs, motorcycle boots and a motorcycle jacket over a white T-shirt. He had a hairstyle I remembered from my youth, called a DA – the top slicked back with Brill Cream – and, I’m sure, even though the picture didn’t show it, the back was combed into a duck tail. Hence the term DA: duck’s ass. The picture was in black and white. He was a good-looking young man, I thought.
Did Rachael run into this man, her uncle Thomas, here at the convention? Is that what happened to her? Her mother said he was dangerous: did he kill Rachael? I sat down on my designated bed. This was getting real. I think maybe I was just playing at this, pretending to be E.J. in my head. Thinking in my heart of hearts that it was just as likely that Rachael had run off with some man or something. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe she really was in trouble, or worse, already dead. Uncle Thomas was a dangerous man. Her mother said so. What she didn’t say was why.
Well, the picture certainly wasn’t of Brother Joe. He was barely older than the young man in the photo. I still didn’t like him, but maybe he wasn’t a mass murderer like I’d hoped he was.
I finished packing, put the picture of Uncle Thomas in my sweater pocket and headed out the door, taking the elevator to the lobby. I’d just finished checking out when I saw Gerald walking my way. I smiled and walked up to him. He was grinning back at me.
‘I got us two connecting rooms at a small – they call it boutique – but very nice hotel in Georgetown,’ he said, still smiling.
‘Well, I don’t know that we need to stay, Gerald. Whoever did away with poor Rachael, it wasn’t Brother Joe. Looks like it was her uncle,’ I said, pulling the picture out of my pocket.
It wasn’t until the picture was in my hand and I was looking at it, then at Gerald, that I realized that the good-looking boy had turned into a good-looking old man. Gerald grabbed the picture out of my hand.
‘Brother Joe?’ I said, standing up. ‘How did he’ – I said, pointing at Brother Joe, ‘kill your brother-in-law?’
‘Not him!’ the lieutenant said. ‘Him!’ And he pointed to the older man. ‘I’d recognize that scumbag anywhere! Old man now or not!’
I took the phone back from him and handed it to Willis. ‘Who is that?’ I asked him.
Willis shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ Then he stood up and looked at me. ‘Ah, you don’t think that could be Gerald, do you?’
‘Oh my God!’ I said. I turned to the lieutenant. ‘What did this guy do?’
‘He’s a real winner,’ he said, sitting down at the head of the table. Willis and I took our seats next to each other, holding hands. ‘His name is Thomas Gregory, a white supremist who was hording guns back in ’seventy-two, I think. An ATF agent came on his land to deliver a warrant to search the property for illegal firearms, and Gregory shot him dead. The FBI got him and he was arrested. A year later he was standing trial at the federal courthouse here in Houston. On the day the trial was to end and the verdict come out, I guess he didn’t like his chances. So he killed one of his guards, severally wounded the other and made it out a window. He was never seen again. My little sister’s husband was the wounded guard. He ended up in a coma and, after six months, she had to make the decision to pull the plug.’ The lieutenant’s hands were balled into fists, the knuckles getting whiter and whiter, his face getting redder and redder. ‘Gale, my little sister, was a widow and single mother of two toddlers when she was only twenty-five. So, yeah, I know who this guy is and I want to know where that picture was taken and how to get him.’
Willis and I looked at each other. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said, and grabbed my phone, still out on the table, and called his mother back. It went to voicemail. ‘Mom! Call me! Now! It’s urgent,’ he said and hung up. He looked so terrified I almost burst into tears. I had no idea what to do now. We were in Houston – she was in Washington, D.C.
I turned to the lieutenant and said, ‘She’s at the Hyatt in D.C. at a convention. This man is there with her. It’s a church choir thing. Can you call the D.C. police? Her name is Vera Pugh, from Codderville, Texas. She’s five foot one, gray hair, thin—’
I turned to Willis. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if she has any birthmarks or anything,’ he said.
Luna was on the phone before the lieutenant had even pulled his out of his pocket. ‘We’ll find her,’ she said to Willis and me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her!’
‘OMG!’ Alicia shouted from the back seat. ‘Listen to this!’ She held up her phone and pushed the speaker button. ‘Hi, Alicia, it’s Mr Jones. I’m in Houston at Mr Big’s house. He’s Russian, I think. Anyway, they’ve got this lady here against her will and I think it’s that guy’s wife, the one who fell off the Driscoll? Anyway, they’re torturing her! The house is in River Oaks, but I don’t know what street—’ And then there was a dead line.
‘Shit!’ Megan said.
‘Oh my God!’ Bess said. ‘Call Mom! Quick!’
‘You call her!’ Alicia said. ‘I don’t know how I can call her and play this back at the same time.’
‘Well,’ Bess said, ‘what you do is—’
‘Jesus, Bess!’ Megan shouted. ‘Just call Mom, for God’s sake!’
‘You don’t have to get all uppity about it!’ Bess said, pulling out her phone. She hit the button for her mom’s cell and waited. Three rings and she picked up.
‘Can’t talk now,’ Mom said.
‘Don’t hang up!’ Bess shouted. ‘We have big news from Mr Jones!’
Alicia grabbed Bess’s phone. ‘Mom, listen! I just got a call from Mr Jones—’
‘Oh my God! How did he get your number?’ Mom demanded.
‘Later, Mom! He called me. Listen!’ And she played Mr Jones’s message.
‘Let me put this on speaker and then play it again. OK, go.’
After she’d played the message for a fourth time, Alicia asked her mom, ‘Now what?’
‘Just sit tight. We’ll get back to you,’ and she hung up.
‘What did she say?’ Bess asked.
‘She said to sit tight,’ Alicia said.
‘What does that mean?’ from Megan.
‘Go home?’ Alicia suggested.
‘Hell, no,’ Megan said, hitting the accelerator. ‘She can call us just as easily at the miniature golf course as she can at home.’
‘You think I should call Mr Jones back?’ Alicia asked.
‘You have his number?’ Bess said, turning around in her seat to gape at her sister.
Looking hang-dogged, Alicia said, ‘I should have told Mom that, huh?’
‘Only if you want Mr Jones arrested!’ Megan said. ‘Me? I don’t care. But he did save your life, Alicia.’
‘True,’ Alicia said. ‘I’ll call him when we get to Codderville.’
‘I want it on record that I think you should tell Mom that guy’s phone number,’ Bess said.
All in agreement, they headed to Codderville.
Mr Jones made his way back to the door of the lab. ‘Mrs Unger?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes?’ she answered.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I mean, did he hurt you bad?’ Mr Jones thought she might be thinking he meant about the whole situation, rather tha
n just the slap on the face.
‘The slap?’ she said. ‘No. I’ve had worse from his precious Misha before that.’
‘Look, I’m going to try to get out of the house today at some point. I haven’t heard back from Alicia, my friend, and I called her yesterday. I guess she hasn’t checked her messages—’ His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Alicia’s name on the screen. He smiled big. ‘Hey! Speak of the devil! Here she is now!’ He punched the phone on and said, ‘Hi, Alicia!’
‘Oh my God, Mr Jones! Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, physically, but Mrs Unger’s being tortured. They pulled off one of her fingernails!’ Mr Jones said.
‘Oh, yuck!’ Alicia said. He could hear her repeating what he’d said to others.
‘You with your family?’ he asked.
‘Just my sisters. My parents went to Houston with our neighbor, Mrs Luna. She’s the pol—’
‘Yeah, the police lady. I sorta met her,’ Mr Jones said.
‘They’re looking for you,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m no friend of the cops, but I think they need to come here with a warrant. Mrs Unger is in the basement in a locked room. There are three other people in the house – wait, what day is it?’
‘Sunday,’ Alicia said.
‘Right. No maids or gardeners on Sunday. So upstairs is Mr Brown, I don’t know his real name, but Mr Big’s real name is— Mrs Unger, what’s Mr Big’s real name?’
‘Vladimir Andronikov. And the address here is 410 Dalton Lane.’
Mr Jones repeated that information, getting the correct spelling of Vlad’s last name from Mrs Unger.
‘And the last guy is Misha, aka Mr Green. He’s bigger than me and a lot meaner. He’s Mr Androno— Whatever, Mr Big’s henchman. So tell them to take him down first.’
‘What about you, Mr Jones?’ Alicia asked, her voice sounding worried.
‘Don’t worry about me, sweet girl. I’ll find a way out of here. Mr Jones always lands on his feet.’ He hung up the phone and turned to the locked door. ‘You hear all that, ma’am?’ he asked.
Gone in a Flash Page 22
