Y Is for Yesterday Page 11

  “I need to sit and collect myself.”

  “Understood. You take care. I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Hey. I almost forgot to ask. How’d your meeting go?”

  I blanked on him. “What meeting?”

  “With Lauren McCabe.”

  For a moment, I was stumped. There was no way I could tell him about the tape or the blackmail demand. “Good. It was fine. I met Hollis and Fritz,” I said, as though that were relevant.

  “She putting you to work?”

  “We’re still discussing it,” I said. If he asked a direct question about what sort of work it was, I’d have to stonewall or lie, which I prefer not to do with friends. He would understand my being protective of a client, but I felt the less said about it the better. “How are Courtney and Ashley? I haven’t seen them lately.”

  “Camilla doesn’t want them coming in. She says this is a low-life dive and they have no business being here.”

  “She makes herself right at home, I note.”

  “She’s an adult. They’re impressionable girls.”

  “Come on. An occasional visit doesn’t do any harm. You know Rosie keeps an eye on them.”

  “I told her the same thing. She’ll loosen up, I suspect, and in the meantime, they’re making themselves scarce, which I should probably do myself,” he said. “Good seeing you.”

  “You, too.”

  He gave Rosie a wave on his way out. Anna remained where she was, nursing a gin and tonic, her attention focused on a Cosmopolitan magazine.

  Rosie appeared behind me with a glass of bad white wine without even being asked.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “I’m keeping baseball bat behind bar. That guy comes in, I make him sorry in the head.”

  I got up and gave her a hug, which surprised both of us. “Thank you. I mean it. Go for the knees first,” I added under my breath.

  As Rosie moved away, I turned my attention to Anna. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Help yourself. What was that about?”

  I took a seat. “It looks like Ned Lowe is back,” I said. I repeated my story about the broken office window and the sighting of the man in a raincoat. I noticed a certain relief in the telling, as though the repetition took the sting out of the two incidents. “Pearl tells me a ‘friend’ stopped by looking for me shortly before I got home tonight.”

  “Oh, man. That’s not good.”

  “What about you? How are you doing? You look depressed.”

  “Who, me? Not a bit. I’m not the one being stalked.”

  “Jonah said he’d put out the word, but that’s not much help.” I drained half a glass of wine that went down like water with about the same effect. No wonder people get in trouble with this stuff.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew. I’ll step up security measures, but I haven’t decided yet if I should carry my gun. I used to park it at the small of my back, but that’s Ned’s favorite spot. I might buy pepper spray, which is effective as long as you don’t shoot your own sorry self in the face.”

  A shudder went down her frame. “We ought to walk home together.”

  “Sounds good to me. You ready to go?”

  “I am if you are.”

  I finished the glass of wine and waited while she gathered her sweater and bag.

  “You running a tab?” I asked, indicating her drink.

  “It’s paid for.”

  We walked the half block to my place following the beam from my flashlight. Once we reached Henry’s drive, I watched while she covered the short distance to Moza’s. She climbed the porch stairs and after she let herself in, she blinked the outside light twice to let me know she was okay. In the meantime, I was attuned to every shadow and the rattle of leaves in the wind. I moved through the squeaky gate and rounded the corner to my front door. There was no sign of Lucky or Pearl, so I assumed they were safely zipped into her tent. I felt more secure knowing the two were out there like human watch dogs.

  I let myself in and locked the door behind me. Before I went up the spiral stairs to the loft, I turned on the outside lights. I hoped the glare wouldn’t penetrate the tent and keep the occupants awake, but if so, they’d have to endure. It seemed like a smart move to keep the premises lit up. For the second time in an hour, I checked the locks on all my windows and doors. I still had the door handle alarm unit Robert Dietz had supplied years before when I enjoyed the dubious distinction of being one of five names on Tyrone Patty’s hit list. I put the portable alarm on the knob, where it would issue an ear-splitting blare if the door was tampered with. I also did a quick walkabout, making sure Ned Lowe hadn’t crept in, flattened himself like a spider, and slithered under my sofa bed. I didn’t think four inches was sufficient to conceal him, but I looked anyway.

  Once in bed with the light out, I thought about the situation. Ned was the kind of guy who enjoyed the hunt. He’d want to make sure I felt spooked because my discomfort would contribute to his happiness. I was not one of those defiant female types determined not to let a man threaten my peace of mind. What peace of mind? Even the idea of seeing him half a block away was sufficient to keep me awake. To distract myself, I thought back to the encounter with Fritz McCabe. Something in the conversation nagged at me, but I couldn’t think what it was. Next thing I knew, I was dead to the world and then my alarm clock buzzed.

  • • •

  I took an alternate route to work. Ned Lowe knew where my office was and he had my home address, but I didn’t like the notion of his tailing me. As I pulled into the office driveway, I took a few minutes for a visual survey before I got out of the car, locked it behind me, and crossed the short distance to my door. When I entered the alarm code, the light on the system moved from red to green, which I took as evidence the premises hadn’t been breached. I kept the front and back doors locked and the perimeter armed. If Ned Lowe jimmied the lock, hoping to catch me by surprise, I’d have a few seconds of warning.

  By the time I sat down at my desk, I realized the question my subconscious had been flirting with, trying to flag my attention. I peeled off my windbreaker, picked up the phone, and put a call through to Lauren McCabe, who picked up after two rings.

  “Hey, Lauren. This is Kinsey. You have a minute?”

  “Sure. Hollis just left for work and Fritz is sleeping in. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about a couple of things that came up in conversation last night.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I’m wondering why you haven’t heard from the extortionist. You’d think he’d have followed up by now. He said he’d leave a message with instructions.”

  “I’ve been curious about that myself. Every time the phone rings, I’m prepared for the worst. The same when the mail arrives. I thought maybe he was giving us time to put the cash together.”

  “Unlikely, but that would be considerate.”

  “What’s your take on it?”

  “I think you’re dealing with a rank amateur. I’m not even sure this guy has a plan. The longer he waits to act, the more time he’s giving you to notify the police or the FBI.”

  “On the other hand, this is the riskiest moment of any blackmail scheme, isn’t it? Once we’re told where to drop the money, he has to play his hand. He must be aware we could contact law enforcement and have them lying in wait.”

  “True, but the whole setup seems odd to me. I mean, so far there’s no guarantee there aren’t a dozen copies out there. Surely he doesn’t expect you to pay until he’s addressed that point.”

  “I can’t answer that one. Hollis assumes the terms will be laid out when he gives us instructions about the twenty-five grand.”

  “Which brings up another point. A couple of times Frit
z said twenty-five thousand was nothing to you. I’m not asking about your finances, but I gather you’re well-to-do.”

  “You could say that, I suppose. We’re not wealthy, but we’re comfortable. More than comfortable,” she amended.

  “And anyone who knows you is aware of it, yes?”

  “No doubt. We’re not ostentatious, but we make no secret of the fact that we live well.”

  “So why didn’t the extortionist ask for a hundred thousand dollars or even half a million? You could put that much together, too, couldn’t you?”

  “Oh, lord. Please don’t wish that on us.”

  “Far from it. I’m wondering about his frame of reference. Maybe to him, twenty-five grand is big.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning there was a kidnapping case here in town some years ago. I got involved long after the fact, but what struck me was that the ransom demand was low. Turned out later the kidnappers were two teenaged boys who thought fifteen thousand dollars was a lot of money,” I said. “The other possibility is that your extortionist has a specific goal in mind and twenty-five is all he needs.”

  “To do what with?”

  “This might be a bid for independence.”

  There was a moment of dead silence. “You’re not suggesting Fritz is behind this.”

  “It would certainly explain why he’s so adamant in his urging you to pay.”

  “He wouldn’t do that to us. The notion’s ludicrous.”

  “You might not like the idea, but it’s not ludicrous,” I said. “The note and the tape didn’t arrive until he got home.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve been assuming his release is what triggered the demand. Isn’t that your take on it as well?”

  “That doesn’t mean the demand came from him.”

  “What if he’s had the tape in his possession since he went off to CYA?”

  “That couldn’t be the case. He was livid when he realized the tape was gone. I’m sure he wasn’t faking his dismay. Besides which, we sold the house and moved while he was gone, packing up everything he owned. If he’d had the tape, we’d have found it.”

  “Unless he left it with a friend. He might have an accomplice who’s helping coordinate the deal.”

  “In that case, why accuse Sloan of stealing it?”

  “To take the focus off himself.”

  I could tell she was getting agitated. “He told us Sloan used that tape to threaten Austin, which means it’s much more likely she gave it to someone for safekeeping. I doubt she’d have entrusted it to Iris, but Poppy’s a good bet. Actually, it could have been anyone. The point is, I’m not paying you to implicate my son.”

  “All I’m saying is, I don’t think we should rule anything out at this point.”

  “I’m ruling it out, so let’s move on to something else.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked, trying to keep the frostiness out of my tone.

  “The obvious move is to find Troy and Bayard and ask if they’ll corroborate Fritz’s claim about the missing scenes. If there were cuts and the tape was a hoax, the two aren’t in any jeopardy as far as I can see.”

  “True in theory, but without the original, who’s going to believe them?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said irritably. “If Troy confirms what Fritz is telling us, you can move on to the issue of outtakes and tracking those down. Right now, all we have is his word for it. You should also contact Poppy and see if she knows what Sloan did with the tape.”

  “I can do that,” I said. I made a face at the phone to show I wasn’t knuckling under without a protest.

  Once we hung up, I took out the list of names I’d jotted down after my initial meeting with her. I thought my suspicions about Fritz had merit. Clearly she did not. The fact remained that I was an employee and she had every right to call the shots. At least I’d planted the idea and if Fritz was involved in the scheme, he might tip his hand.

  I’d met Iris, but Poppy, Troy, and Bayard were still unknown entities. I should also talk to Sloan’s mother to see what she knew. I didn’t relish talking to the mother of the dead girl and quickly convinced myself it would be better to cover the easy ones first. I pulled the phone book from the bottom drawer and did a finger search. There was no listing for Poppy, who might have married or left town in the past few years. I did see a Dr. Sherman and Loretta Earl with an address on Eden Way in Horton Ravine. His office address and phone appeared in the listing below and I copied those as well, noting that he was a cardiologist. Bayard Montgomery and Troy Rademaker were both listed and I made a note of their respective addresses and telephone numbers. I put in a quick call to Ruthie and picked up the name of the automobile repair shop where Troy Rademaker was employed. This would give me a running start.

  Fortified with the information, I pulled on my windbreaker and grabbed my shoulder bag. I armed the system, locked the office, and then headed for my car. Before I hit the road, I locked my gun in the trunk, not wanting to alarm anyone I chanced to interview. I took my city guide from the glove compartment and spent a couple of minutes looking for Eden Way. Fifteen minutes later, I was swinging through the wrought-iron gate, which stood open at the entrance to the enclave. The cobblestone driveway bordered a sloping front lawn that swept up to the left and terminated in a circular parking area. The house was gray stone, in a mock Tudor style, complete with cross-timbers and mullioned windows. How many of these houses did we have in town? Seemed like every time I turned around, I was looking at a Tudor-style house, expecting Ann Boleyn to emerge. A yardman on a riding mower had created a manicured path across the bright green shaggy grass and I took brief note of his progress.

  At the top of the drive, I parked and followed the front walk to the door, where I rang the bell. I turned and looked out, admiring the massive oaks that dotted the grounds. I realized the sound of the mower had ceased and the yardman was coming up the driveway in my direction, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief.

  “Can I help you?” He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap that he removed, revealing a balding pate with short-cropped gray hair on either side.

  “Is this the Earls’ address?”

  “It is. I’m Dr. Earl.” He held out his hand and I shook it.

  “It’s nice meeting you. I’m Kinsey Millhone. I assumed you worked here and I apologize.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. He was in his late fifties, not heavy-set, but he’d apparently picked up the pounds as the years went by and hadn’t yet adjusted the size of his pants. “This is my afternoon off. I mow because it’s mindless and allows me time to collect my thoughts. You’re the private investigator?”

  “That’s right. Have we met?”

  “I remember reading about you in the paper when Dowan Purcell disappeared.”

  “That was a bad deal,” I said. “Were you a friend of his?”

  “We belonged to the same country club, though we didn’t socialize. Are you here with regard to him?”

  I shook my head. “I’m hoping to locate Poppy. She isn’t listed in the phone book, so I thought maybe you could steer me in the right direction.”

  “My daughter’s a popular girl these days. The fellow who just got out of prison was hoping to connect with her as well.”

  “Fritz McCabe? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  His gaze shifted to a point behind me and I turned to see a black Lincoln Continental easing up the drive with scarcely a sound.

  “My wife,” he said.

  We watched as she pulled into the parking area. The trunk popped open with a muffled thunk. She got out and walked around to the rear, where she pulled out a number of Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bags. She wore a full-length mink coat that seemed excessive in the tangible autumn heat.

  When she rea
ched her husband, the two exchanged one of those dutiful kisses that signify marital niceties, but not much else.

  “My wife, Loretta,” he said. “This is Kinsey Millhone.”

  We shook hands briefly before he went on. “She’s looking for Poppy.”

  Loretta said, “What’s this about, or has Sherman already asked?” Her hair was dark at the roots, the strands highlighted with blond as though the sun had done the job. Her smile carried little warmth and her tone, while polite, had an edge to it.

  “I just arrived, so he hasn’t had the chance. I’m sorry to stop by unannounced.”

  “It’s a little late to worry about that now, isn’t it?” Her smile became more winsome, as though she were being witty instead of rude. Just my luck. Bitchy and brittle as a dry stick.

  Dr. Earl put on his cap. “If you ladies don’t mind, I’ll get back to work.”

  Loretta moved toward the front door. Over her shoulder, she said, “As long as you’re here, you might as well come in.”

  “If this is inconvenient, I can try you another time.”

  She didn’t deign to reply. She opened the door and paused briefly in the foyer to shed her mink coat, which she tossed across an occasional chair before she continued toward the back of the house.

  I followed her, resigned to an excruciating few minutes of conversation, during which she’d spar and parry, doling out information in bits and pieces if she cooperated at all.

  But I’d misjudged the woman. As luck would have it, this wasn’t Poppy’s mother. This was her stepmother, steeped in opinions about the girl she couldn’t wait to share.

  10

  THE TAPE

  May 1979

  Lauren McCabe sat at her desk and wrote a check for twenty-six thousand dollars. It was Friday and the contractor wanted to pay his subs, not to mention himself. She noticed that the builder and his merry band of underlings came to work when it suited them. Some days they came late and some days they didn’t show up at all, but when they wanted a check she was expected to pony up right that minute. There was plenty of money in the checking account, but she flinched watching thousands going out the window, week after week. She tore the check from the register and crossed the hall to the front door, which was standing open. The contractor stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, probably hoping to make small talk as he accepted the check. Lauren was having none of it. Her relationship with the man was cordial, but she wasn’t in the mood to feign friendliness. “Have a good weekend,” she said briskly.