by Medora Sale
“She won’t. Not now.”
Three people turned the corner and raced rapidly down the corridor. Kate Abbott was in the lead, with a tall, lanky man and a small determined-looking woman in full cry behind her. They swept into the room without a word; John stuck his head in after them and beckoned to Eleanor. She picked up her purse and raincoat and left Amanda to her family.
With unnecessary gallantry, John Sanders swept open the front door of the blue unmarked police car and helped Eleanor in. She lay back on the seat, head tilted, her chaotic red curls pouring over the headrest, eyes closed. “I’m taking you home,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s on my way.”
“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I’m past worrying about anything right now except how long it’s going to take me to get into bed.” She yawned. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the school—to tidy up some details; then I’ll check up on this Rick and maybe I’ll get some sleep. Dubinsky can take over the rest.” Eleanor fought a brief battle to stay awake, lost, and sagged against the doorframe. The gentle bumping of the car as it hit a rough spot in her driveway woke her up.
“Omigod, we’re here. I’m sorry. I couldn’t manage to stay awake. I don’t know how you do it.” She sat up, shook her hair free of her coat collar, and tried to smile without yawning. Sanders leaned over and kissed her, lightly at first, then with sudden strength. Her body sleepily molded itself into the bends and folds of his, and she clung.
He finally pulled himself back, holding her away from him. “I feel like coming upstairs too. But I won’t.” He kissed her nose, still holding her away from him. “But I’ll call you later—or will you be asleep?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just let the phone ring until I answer it.” She tried a vague smile. “It was a horrible night, but I’m glad you were around.” She opened the door and left him quickly, walking briskly into the house without a backward glance.
It was near noon when Sanders stuck his head in the principal’s office and asked Annabel if he could talk to the people who would have taken the phone message for Amanda. She pointed him laconically in the direction of the general office with hardly a pause in the rhythm of her typing.
Neither of the hard-pressed occupants of that spot admitted to having taken the phone call, however. “I delivered the message when I got back in the office,” said Ruth, “but I didn’t take the phone call. I was off on a tour—showing a pair of prospective parents around the school,” she added, by way of explanation, “and it was sitting there along with a couple of others.” She looked over at Sylvia. “You were on late lunch, weren’t you? Who was on the phone? Annabel?”
“Don’t think so. She might know, though,” and Sylvia rapidly dialed through on the intercom. “Who was on the phones yesterday afternoon when everyone was off—was it you?” A pause. “Oh, of course. Thanks.” She put the receiver down. “That explains it. It was Joyce. We never take a call for a student telling her to get in touch with someone at once without some explanation. It interrupts classes if it isn’t really important, and if it is something truly serious—a death or something—we want some control over the situation. And, of course, boyfriends—and others—do try to reach the girls sometimes.”
“What do you mean ‘others’?”
“We have some girls here from fairly wealthy families, and we have to be careful about messages sending them off to a rendezvous—especially if we don’t recognize the caller’s voice. And it seems to me—yes, a couple of days ago, someone called, all full of politeness, you know, and wanted Amanda’s address. He said it was because she had lost a parcel at his restaurant and he wanted to mail it to her.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To mail it to the school—that we would be delighted to give it to her. And I thanked him ever so for being so thoughtful. It might have been genuine; you never know. But we don’t give out addresses.” She turned back to the pile of envelopes she was stuffing. “But Joyce is new—she’s the assistant in the infirmary; it was nice of her to help on the phones, but we wouldn’t have taken such a vague message and passed it on. And you can see why. Amanda’s the first girl we’ve actually had snatched from the school area that I can remember, and we’ve had quite a few vulnerable ones over the years.” She smiled competently at him. “If you want to talk to Joyce, I’ll get her on the phone.” She dialed again, assuming that he would, of course, want to talk to Joyce, if only to make her feel that she should think, the next time, and be more cautious.
Joyce had nothing to add but apologies; the message had been just what she had written down. The caller was male, and no, it had not occurred to her that it was odd that a man should be calling on behalf of Amanda’s aunt. Sanders hoped fervently but silently that she was a better nurse than she was a receptionist and hung up, no further ahead than he had been, except for the added knowledge that someone might have made more than one attempt to get at the girl.
Sanders glared with distaste at the corned beef sandwich and coffee sitting on his desk in front of him. They seemed to be looking back at him in much the same frame of mind. He pushed them aside and decided that there was no use in attempting to carry on; it was well past one o’clock and his mind had long since ceased to function. The door opened silently; Dubinsky glided in and tossed his coat down on a chair.
“I went out there myself. Absolutely nothing. I had picked up a warrant and we managed to get into his apartment without too much trouble. You should see it. Must cost him at least a thousand a month. And there’s several thousand just sitting there in equipment: the stereo, TV, VCR, with piles of porn tapes. Anyway, the super said that his parking space is empty, but that’s all he knows. He says he doesn’t bother tenants if they don’t bother him, and so on. We got hold of his sister; she says he drives a new Corvette, and no, she hasn’t the faintest idea how he paid for it. She assumed he bought it on time, like anyone else. Sure—on a beginning constable’s salary, it would only take him twenty years or so to pay for it.”
“Could you tell if clothes were missing? Has he packed up and left?”
“Who knows? There’s enough stuff in the closets to keep me in clothes for ten years. But there was probably room for some more. And there wasn’t any shaving stuff in the bathroom, so I guess he packed something before he went.”
“Get a description of the car from Motor Vehicles, and put it out along with his picture. Better cover the border posts, airport—not that he’ll still be around there. But it would be enlightening to discover that his car is in the lot at the airport. And contact the O.P.P. up north—he might have headed for cottage country. I want to talk to his partner; he should have had enough sleep by now. Tell him to drag his ass down here. He must have known about the goddamn Corvette—someone like that doesn’t keep all that stuff a secret. I want to know where that money came from—and why. And why we haven’t heard anything about it. And if anyone else around that division seems to have too much money as well. Christ! This is going to have to go upstairs before we get too far into it.” He slumped back in his chair and picked up his cold coffee. “And help yourself to the sandwich if you feel like it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to face food again.”
Gruber’s partner was as slight as recruiting regulations permit. Carruthers had an eager, anxious face, like a nervous kitten’s. He was somewhat older than the man he worked with, but the impression his light blue eyes and hesitant smile gave was of youth and naivety. He was sandy-haired, freckled, and homely in a pleasant sort of way, and obviously much taken with Gruber’s style.
“Yeah, I mean, we knew he had a pretty fancy car. He sort of said he got a real deal on it. I never asked him about it. He was a really nice guy, always got along with people—you know, great at handling complaints and making old ladies feel good, that sort of thing.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?” asked Sanders, his voice sharpening with dislike.
“I don’t think so. I mean, not a regular girlfriend. He went out with lots of girls all the time—I went along with him a couple of times—real knockouts.” Carruthers’ voice became wistful with nostalgia. “But I don’t think he had a steady girl.”
“It never occurred to you that he lived in a pretty extraordinary manner for someone with his salary? You must have known about how much he made.”
Carruthers squirmed slightly under Sanders’ gaze. “Well, I never really thought”—his glance slid past Sanders to the desk—“I mean, you can never tell if people have actually paid for things, you know. I mean, all that stuff could have been on credit cards and—”
“Only it wasn’t, was it? And you damn well knew about it, but you didn’t want to get him in any trouble, did you? Because you thought he was a really great guy, and he tossed you his leftover girlfriends and garbage like that.” Sanders stood up abruptly. “That’s all. This will all get passed upstairs. You might be sorry you thought he was such a great guy. But it’s not my baby—I’m just looking for Gruber, your dear friend, who kidnaps helpless fifteen-year-old girls and tries to kill them. I’m glad he wasn’t my friend, Carruthers.”
Sanders watched the shaken Carruthers walk out of the small interview room and threw his pen down on the untouched pad of paper in front of him. Let someone else sort through all this crap, he thought, and get the unlovely details down. He had lost interest as soon as Carruthers had admitted that he hadn’t the slightest idea where Gruber might be. Maybe California, he had said, Rick had always admired the California style. He dropped his head into his hands. As anger drained off, fatigue came washing in like a Fundy tide. He could have fallen asleep at that moment, sitting bolt upright at the utilitarian little desk, but the enormous shadow of his partner spread across the paper in front of him. “You get anything more?” he asked, yawning himself awake again.
“Not on Gruber,” he said. “But Cobourg just called.”
“Well?”
“They found Hutchinson. Or at least, they found what was left of him. Up north. He blew most of his head off with a hunting rifle.”
“Goddamit,” said Sanders. “Goddamit to hell. I wanted that man. If he was up north where they could find him why didn’t they do it before he blew his head off? How did they find him anyway?”
“His father finally got worried about not hearing from him and told them he had a little cabin up on Lake Kashagawigamog. That was where he was. The O.P.P. found him. He left a note. They need it for the inquest but they’re willing to send it down afterwards if we think we want it.”
“I don’t suppose you went so far as to find out what was in the note, did you, Dubinsky?”
His partner ignored the heavy sarcasm in his tone. “Yeah. I’ve got it here. You want to hear it?” Sanders repressed the reply that rose to his lips and merely nodded. “Okay. Here it is.” Dubinsky stared down at his notebook. “Dated Tuesday, April 17. ‘Dear Dad. I’m sorry about this but after Jane I can’t face any more. I should have had more understanding about the fix she was in. It was my fault she died, I know it. Try to explain to Mum, and you should let Bill have my share in the store, he hates his job. Say goodbye to Elaine. Your loving son, Mike.’ That’s it.”
“What does he mean it’s his fault she died? Are you sure that’s what’s in the note?”
“That’s exactly what they said. And I guess maybe he’s saying he killed her. Which wraps that one up.”
“It’s a pretty funny way of putting it, if that’s what he meant. Who in hell are Bill and Elaine?”
“Elaine’s his sister. Bill’s her husband.” Dubinsky shrugged.
“She must have told him she was pregnant. What other ‘fix’ could he mean? And does that make him the father—or an old friend you tell your troubles to? What a mess,” said Sanders, his voice hollow with fatigue and depression. “Get in touch with Cobourg again and ask them to let us have everything they can, will you? Coroner’s report, ballistics, blood type, and anything they can get out of the family about him. Are they sure it’s all genuine? The note, the set-up?”
“So far. But they’re poking around a bit still.”
Sanders yawned again and blinked in an effort to clear his head. “I’m going off to grab a couple of hours’ sleep. Call me if anything else exciting happens. Then maybe we can start chasing down some of Gruber’s pals. Get me a list of everyone he’s worked with since he started, then go home. I’ll take over later.”
Sanders woke up with his mouth dry and his heart pounding, his body tensed to defend itself; he lifted himself halfway to a sitting position and then collapsed again as he recovered a sense of his surroundings. With a muffled groan he looked at his watch. 6:30. a.m. or p.m.? The way he felt it could have been either. The soft light filtering into his bedroom didn’t give much of a clue; he flipped on the radio and listened for a minute. p.m. He flipped it off and reached for the phone.
The ringing came to Eleanor from far, far away. She shrugged irritably and tried to brush it off, but its pestering insistence continued. She reached over and picked up the receiver. “Oh, hi. It’s you.” She yawned for the hundredth time that day. “I know I told you to call me—I never said I’d be awake when you did, though. God, I feel awful.”
“Then how about feeling awful together for a while,” he suggested. The warm tangle of his bedclothes increased his desire to transport her bodily at once to his side. “Why don’t you come over?”
“Mmmm,” said Eleanor. “I’m thinking about it. Let me take a shower and see how things are around here. What time is it?” She picked up her watch and peered at it. “Say in an hour and a half? Is there any place safe to park around that place you live in?”
“Take a cab. I’ll drive you back.” He placed the receiver gently on its cradle and headed for the shower.
Eleanor looked at Sanders over a large bowl of Armenian black bean soup with a doubtful cast to her eye. “Are you sure this is really what I need?”
“Believe me. When you’re a cop you spend too many days and nights without any sleep, and you learn to cope. This stuff is worth bottles of pep pills and tranquilizers. I live here when things get really tense.”
The light was dim, the music very soft, and vaguely Middle Eastern, the waitress a quiet, slow-moving motherly type. Eleanor took a cautious spoonful of the dark, strange-looking liquid. It was hot, savoury, and fiery. Her mouth and throat burned, but the butterflies in her stomach quivered once or twice more and settled down to sleep. She smothered the fire in her mouth and throat with a large swallow of beer, and suddenly felt as if she could now proceed with her life. “You’re right,” she conceded. “It works.” She nibbled on a piece of warm pita. “Is everything all right now? Have you heard anything new on Amanda? I couldn’t reach Kate before I left.”
“As far as I know, she’s okay. They’re all probably still over at the hospital,” he said, gesturing in that direction with his soup spoon. “This whole thing worries me, though. We’re really not much further along, and I don’t like the look of it so far. I can’t see a clown like Gruber organizing to that extent just to kidnap a girl like Amanda. Her family isn’t rich—not rich enough to tempt someone like him—and they aren’t famous—no one should even have heard of her. Usually when a girl like that gets abducted it’s a straight rape case or some kind of demented boyfriend—the marry-me-or-I’ll-kill-us-both kind—but according to her, they seemed to have planned on getting rid of her from the start.”
“Isn’t it more likely that it’s connected with Jane Conway?” Eleanor leaned forward to make her point. “I mean, that’s the only connection that Amanda has had with anything criminal that I can see.”
“Yes, but how? Is someone going around mopping up all her students? That doesn’t seem likely. And there is very big money in this somewhere. Someone has been paying Gruber a lot—his apartment looks like a pimp’s delight, he’s driving a Corvett
e, he’s had money to burn. But the Griffiths kid seems too young—and clean—to be mixed up in anything.” He went back to his soup.
“Mixed up in something? What sort of something?”
“You know—drugs, prostitution, anything that’s organized by the big boys. She doesn’t have any connections that I can see. I mean, her father isn’t involved in manufacturing stuff, is he? He does work in a lab.”
“I doubt it. From Kate’s description, it wouldn’t seem to be the right kind of lab.”
“Anyway, killing his daughter is a pretty drastic way of warning him off. It doesn’t smell right.” He pushed aside his plate. “And that leaves only the Conway case. But the connection escapes me. Conway’s boyfriend from the country killed himself, you know. And left a note saying that it was all his fault.”
“You mean that he killed her?”
“No, that her death was his fault. Does that sound to you as if he killed her? Dubinsky is inclined to think it does, but he’s a lazy bastard most of time.”
Eleanor shook her head. “It sounds as though he forgot to do something—you know, didn’t get the car brakes fixed and she drove into a truck—something he blames himself for. Funny way to put it. I wonder what he meant? But let’s get back to something more important. Is Amanda safe now?”
“Until we find Gruber, and this guy Jimmy who was with him, and figure out why they snatched her, no, she isn’t. But there are people on at the hospital keeping an eye out for her. She should be okay.”
“But what if someone you put on to guard her is another one of them? I mean, how can you tell?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve handpicked them all. They all have wives and kids, frayed collars, and big mortgages. They’re safe.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
Chapter 11
He checked his equipment one last time. It was ten o’clock. Almost time to leave. One last trip to the bathroom. Careful visual check of his appearance. Neat, and clean, but not too slick. Hair washed and shiny but curls a little tousled. Clean shaven, no cuts, no funny shine to his skin from too much attention or shaving lotion. He practiced his pleasant and open smile one last time in the mirror, and then turned abruptly and headed for the garage. As he backed out slowly and carefully, he saw the young woman who lived next door, out for a walk with her infant in a stroller. He smiled and waved. “How’s Ginny?” she called.
