By My Hands (9 page)

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I usually see Lea when she gets her
newspaper.”

“Lea?”

“Yes. Lea Hailey, Lisa’s mother. You see, the
newspaper comes about the same time every day—about 4 o’clock. I
hear the paper land on our porch where the delivery boy throws it.
Then I go out to get it. Lea does the same thing. I often see her
picking up her paper. She always waves at me. Seems like a real
nice person.”

“Seems? Then you don’t know her very well?”

“Only talked to her once. That was when we first
moved here—about three months ago. Can I get you some coffee or a
soft drink?”

“No, thank you.” Priscilla thought for a moment.
“You say the paper comes about the same time every day, yet you
haven’t seen Lea pick up the paper. Have you seen anyone else pick
it up?”

“No, no one.”

“Perhaps they’ve had the paper stopped.”

“No, I don’t think so. I saw the paper there today
and yesterday too.”

“But, there was no paper when I was there a few
moments ago.”

“Perhaps they’ve gone on a trip and someone is
picking it up for them.”

“Perhaps.” Priscilla couldn’t say why, but something
didn’t seem right. It made perfect sense for them to leave with
their recently healed daughter—probably to get away from the
onslaught of reporters who would descend after yesterday’s report.
Or, maybe to get away from doctors who would want to run more
tests. It made sense, yet Priscilla’s reporter instincts said there
was a story here.

Priscilla repeated the scene with the other
neighbors, but with the same results—no one had seen or heard from
the Haileys since yesterday morning, and no one knew them well
enough to suggest where they might be.

Priscilla walked back to her car and pulled away
from the curb. If she hurried, she could be at the Langfords in
fifteen minutes. Maybe they would have some answers to the
questions that were percolating in her mind.

Priscilla made it to the Langfords’ street in
thirteen minutes. As she slowed and looked for the address, a black
and white car caught her eye. On the door were painted the words,
“To Protect and to Serve.” She parked behind the San Diego Police
car and quickly walked up to the officer standing on the doorstep
of the Langfords’ home.

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 8:15
P.M.

“I’M SORRY,” THE POLICEMAN said with polite
firmness, “but this is a crime scene, and only authorized personnel
are allowed in. You’ll have to remain outside the barricade.” The
officer was so young that she guessed he was fresh out of the
academy. The barricade he spoke of was a three-inch-wide yellow
plastic ribbon with the initials SDPD printed in large, black
letters. The ribbon enclosed the entire front and side yards.

“I’m Priscilla Simms of KGOT-TV,” Priscilla said,
attempting to sound authoritative. “I’m here to cover the
story.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t help you.”

“You don’t understand, I’ve just used my car phone
to call for a camera crew. They’ll be here any minute. I would
really appreciate some information and a chance to film inside the
house.”

“I still can’t help you, ma’am.” The young officer
was resolute. Priscilla would have to take a different
approach.

“What exactly are your orders, officer?”

“To keep individuals away who might disrupt this
investigation.”

“You may not know that that doesn’t include the
press.”

“Until I am told otherwise it does.”

Priscilla’s anger was growing. As she considered
what to do next, another officer appeared through the door. He was
a short, heavy-set man with close-cropped hair.

“Is there some problem here, Officer Gerrick?” The
man directed his question to the young officer.

“This woman has identified herself as the press. She
insists on entering the building.”

Priscilla noticed the officer had three stripes on
the sleeve of his khaki-colored uniform. “Sergeant, I’m
Priscilla—”

“Simms,” interjected the officer. “I know very well
who you are. I watch your show when I can.” In an easy, gallant
move he gently placed his hand on her elbow and walked with her
away from the house to the street.

“Sergeant . . .” Priscilla paused to look at the
name plate on his uniform. It bore the name T. Reedly. “Sergeant
Reedly, I wonder if you could tell me what is going on here.”

“Not much to tell.” His voice was pleasant, and his
manner disarming. At first glance Priscilla thought he would be
harsh, impatient, and gruff. Although he had the appearance of the
stereotypical Marine drill sergeant, he spoke and acted like an Ivy
League gentleman. “We are still conducting our investigation.”

“Investigation of what?”

“Those questions are best asked of the investigating
detective. I’m merely the officer in charge of the scene. My job is
to secure the crime scene until the detectives from the proper
department can arrive.”

“Can you tell me if the Langfords are hurt?”

“Do you know the Langfords?” he asked glibly.

“No, not really.”

“Did you have some reason for meeting them
today?”

Priscilla was infuriated with herself. Without her
knowing it, he had switched roles with her. She was the
investigative reporter—she was supposed to be asking the questions.
She had to admit that Reedly was smooth.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Priscilla said. “I’ll
tell you all I know, if you will tell me what went on in that
house.”

Reedly was smiling. “How do I know that this will be
an equitable trade?”

“I’m with the press; you can trust me.”

Reedly’s laughter could be heard three houses away.
A moment later he said, “Forgive me. I’m afraid my dealings with
the press have been less than pleasant. I love to read my quotes in
the paper to see what I’ve said. They usually bear little
resemblance to my original comments.”

Priscilla said nothing, but stared hopefully at
Reedly.

“All right, I’ll trust you. About an hour ago we
received a call from one of the neighbors. She had just returned
home from work when she saw a car leaving the Langford house.
According to her it left rather quickly. There were two people in
the back seat. They may have been the Langfords. That, however, was
not what caused her to call the police. As she drove past the
house, she noticed that the front door had been left open. No one
in this community would leave their house unlocked, not to mention
leaving the door standing open. She became suspicious and called
us.”

Priscilla looked around the neighborhood. The houses
had been built after the second world war to accommodate the
returning Navy personnel who had decided to settle in San Diego. At
one time it was a pleasant community, but now it had gone the way
of many such neighborhoods: as the newer subdivisions were built,
more affluent homeowners moved out. The families who moved in were
too cash poor to maintain the houses they had rented or bought. The
area was known for its ever-increasing crime rate and deteriorating
property values.

“So what’s in the house?”

“Not much. There are signs of a struggle.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s about it. Now, it’s your turn.”

Priscilla lived up to her promise. She told Reedly
about the mysterious healings and her visit to the Haileys. She
informed him that her reason for being there was to gather
background material for tonight’s 11 o’clock broadcast. Now she had
a little more than expected.

“So it’s your intention to broadcast this
tonight?”

“Absolutely. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not if you promise not to quote me,” he said
smiling. “We have a P.R. officer for such things.”

“I promise. How about if I refer to you as ‘an
officer at the scene’?”

“That will be fine.”

A van with the initials KGOT-TV parked across the
street just as an unmarked sedan pulled to the curb.

“Well,” said Reedly, “it looks like it’s time for
both of us to get back to work. I do have one other question for
you.”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t ever say that to a policeman.” Reedly
laughed. “My question is, would you consider having dinner with me
sometime?”

Priscilla was taken aback. On a purely physical
basis, she had no interest in Reedly. Yet, there was something
about him—a charisma that attracted her. She could think of no
reason to refuse, so she simply said, “I think I would like
that.”

“Wonderful.” His grin was enormous. “I’ll call you
at the studio later this week.” With that he turned and walked
toward the two detectives who were approaching him.

Priscilla turned her attention to the cameraman and
sound-man who asked, “Where do we set up?”

Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 11:35
P.M.

IRWIN BAKER STEPPED ONTO the news set after the 11
o’clock broadcast.

“Priscilla, you can be a royal pain, but I’ll be the
first to admit that you’re doing a superb job with this hospital
story. That videotaped remote about the missing Langsfords was
sheer genius. If you were a man, I’d offer you a cigar.”

“Keep the cigar and buy me a drink instead.”

“It’s a deal, but I’ll make mine coffee.” Irwin
understood this was a purely platonic gesture on Priscilla’s part,
but it was as close as he ever got to dating her. He would have to
be content with this occasional gesture.

They left the station together in Irwin’s white
Mercedes 240 SL. It was not a new car, but one that Irwin had spent
many hours restoring. Priscilla had been in it twice before; both
times she was amazed at its immaculate condition. The floor of her
car was always covered with maps and portions of newspapers she had
meant to read.

“Where to?” Irwin asked.

“Johnny’s is close.”

“So be it.”

Irwin directed the car down Balboa Avenue and turned
north on Genesee Avenue. Johnny’s was a small, intimate bar in East
Clairemont that catered to the Yuppie crowd. It was also close to
the Haileys’ house.

“Listen,” Priscilla said, “do you have any objection
to taking a little detour?”

“Your place or mine?” Irwin asked, grinning.

Priscilla smiled, “Neither.”

“I thought so.” Irwin feigned hurt. “Don’t tell me,
let me use my Sherlock Holmes deductive powers to determine where
you want to go. You want to drive by the Haileys’ house, don’t
you?”

“An amazing deduction, Sherlock. How ever did you
guess?”

“Elementary, my dear Priscilla. A true detective
must always know one’s enemies and one’s friends; and I know
you.”

“Which am I? Friend or enemy?”

“Friend, usually.” Irwin paused for a moment. “And
hopefully more someday.”

An uneasy quiet filled the car. Priscilla had long
known of Irwin’s interest in her. Unfortunately, the interest was
not reciprocal. There was nothing wrong with Irwin. He was handsome
enough, and he was certainly intelligent. But there had never been
time in her life for Irwin, or for any man. She dated occasionally,
but usually found such outings boring. Most men were intimidated by
her or had ulterior motives.

Irwin broke the silence. “What street was that
on?”

“Charger Boulevard.” She was grateful for the change
in subject. “Take Clairemont Mesa Boulevard to Doliva Street.
Doliva dead-ends into Charger. Turn left at the intersection. The
house is about two blocks from there. It will be on our right.”

“Got it.” Both settled back into silence.

Since it was nearly midnight, few cars were on the
road. Within ten minutes Irwin was parking in front of the Haileys’
house. “Looks like a nice place.”

“All the lights are out.”

“It’s nearly midnight, Priscilla. What did you
expect?”

“I was hoping they were home.”

“How do you know they’re not?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. Their
curtains aren’t drawn.”

“So?”

“So, do you leave your curtains open at night?”

Irwin thought for a moment. “Now that you mention
it, I don’t.”

“Very few people do. Most people like privacy at
night; closing the curtains provides that. It also provides a
certain psychological security.”

“Is there no end to your talent?”

“What’s that?” Priscilla asked.

“What’s what?”

“I thought I saw a light.”

Irwin leaned over, trying to see around Priscilla
and out the passenger window.

“There it is again.”

“You’re right. It looks like someone playing with a
flashlight.”

“They’re being burglarized.” Priscilla’s heart
raced. “Get on your car phone and call the police.”

Irwin reached down and pulled the handset of his car
phone from its cradle and dialed 911. The emergency operator
answered, “Operator 32.”

“Operator, this is Irwin Baker. I’m calling from my
car phone. I, believe there is a burglary in progress at—” A light
came on inside
\
the car, startling Irwin. At first he was
confused why the dome light in his car would come on by itself.
Then he realized that Priscilla was opening her door. “Hey, where
do you think you’re going?” It was too late; she had already
slipped out of the car.

Irwin was flustered. He could hear the operator
calling him as he watched Priscilla approach the house in a
crouched position. Irwin quickly gave the Haileys’ address and
demanded that a patrol car be sent immediately. He slammed the
receiver down and exited the car.

“Have you lost your mind?” Irwin said in a hushed
voice, as he crouched next to Priscilla who was now near the front
window that she had peeked in earlier that day. “If the burglar
doesn’t kill us, the police probably will.”

Priscilla placed a finger to her lips motioning
Irwin to be quiet. “I want to see who is in there.”