Hocus (11 page)

Cassie didn’t live far from Frank’s mother, and the conversation with Bea Harriman probably didn’t last more than twenty minutes. Although Bea Harriman had stoically borne the worries of a cop’s wife throughout her marriage to Frank’s dad, as a cop’s mother she felt no similar need to confine her emotions. Healthier for her, I’m sure, but it had been a long twenty minutes for me.

I looked over at Pete. He was sitting on the couch, hunched forward over his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He was staring at the floor. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. “You’ve met Frank’s mom, right, Pete?”

“What?”

That was how he had answered my last three questions. I asked the question again, as I had the others. It was like listening to a radio that was losing a signal — I had to tune him in again before he could reply.

“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, sure, I’ve met his mom.” His eyes widened suddenly. “You told her yet?”

Rachel swore under her breath, but I simply repeated the gist of the conversation he had been too preoccupied to listen to.

“I shoulda thought of calling her,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Rachel said testily. She held out a hand and began counting off his regrets on her fingers. “You should have known something was hinky when Ross left a message asking for Frank. You should’ve gone out to Riverside with Frank. You should have checked up on him earlier. You should have told Carlson and the rest of the assholes in Homicide to quit riding Frank—”

“That’s right, goddammit!” he snapped. He stood up and walked toward the sliding glass doors, then abruptly turned away. I knew what had happened just then — it had happened to me earlier. He had looked through those glass doors and had seen Frank’s garden. His fists were clenched now, and he looked like he wanted to punch something. Seeing him pace toward the kitchen, Henry Freeman stood up and made a hasty retreat to the guest room. Cassidy, who had just showered and changed clothes, was leaning up against the counter that separates the kitchen and the living room, drinking a cup of coffee. He didn’t flinch as Pete approached.

In a voice that barely reached above a whisper, Cassidy asked, “You get any sleep at all last night, Pete?”

Pete stopped pacing, unclenched his fists.

“I didn’t think so,” Cassidy said. “Why don’t we take a stroll down to the end of the block? I haven’t even seen the water yet. I could use some fresh air.”

Pete looked at his watch. “They might call….”

“I doubt it. I think they’ll be right on time.”

Pete seemed to consider the offer, then said, “I can’t. They might call.”

“Let’s just go out front, then, sit on the steps for a while.”

Pete looked over to Rachel. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll run out and get you if the phone rings.”

When they had gone outside, Rachel said, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him. This is so hard on him.”

“I know.”

“Sorry. Not any easier on you.”

“Pete learn anything more out in Riverside?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

“A little. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Cassidy, because I don’t want to get Pete in trouble. It’s not much, anyway. The Riverside PD was canvassing the neighborhood, trying to locate anyone who might have seen anything, but it’s a pretty isolated area. There’s a business park and a railway nearby, but not many houses.”

“Do they have any idea when this happened? How long Frank has been with these people?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say. They know roughly what time Frank probably arrived at the house — figuring the time he left here, allowing for traffic, and so on. And they can estimate the time of Dana Ross’s death. No one saw the car arrive at the
Express,
so that leaves a big gap between Ross’s death and the time it would take for Hocus to bring the car to Las Piernas. And no one knows if Frank was still in Riverside when Ross was shot.”

“No one saw anything?”

“If they did, they aren’t saying a word. Like I said, it’s an isolated area. Riverside PD is doing all they can. You know Pete — he wouldn’t have come home if he thought he could pester them into doing more. Several freight trains passed by during the day, and Riverside is even trying to contact the crews, just in case anyone happened to see or hear anything.” She paused, then added, “They found a .38 slug in the porch railing; the bullet that killed Ross was the same caliber.”

“Frank’s gun.”

“Maybe — but even if it is, that doesn’t mean Frank was the shooter,” she said quickly. “And he wouldn’t just hand over his weapon. Like I told you last night, there were signs of a struggle — he probably fought them.”

I covered my face with my hands, as if that act could block images of what “signs of a struggle” might really mean; the words had not registered in the same way the first time.

“There was blood,” she said. “I mean, other than the victim’s.”

I pulled my hands away and looked at her.

“On the porch and in the house,” she said. “Could be Frank’s.”

I groaned. “Oh, Jesus.” I thought of the trunk of the car. If that was Frank’s blood… and there was more in the house….

“How much blood?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How much blood?”

Still she hesitated.

“Rachel, if our situations were reversed—”

“Pete thought it could have come from a good-sized cut or gash.”

As we grew closer to the time for Hocus’s call, conversation died off. I started pacing. Rachel seemed to be staring out into the backyard, but I think she was keeping an eye on Pete. Although she wasn’t touching him, she would look at him every time he moved. Pete sat staring at his wristwatch, his expression tight and strained. Henry Freeman kept checking the connections on his computer. Cassidy had positioned himself between Pete and the phone and was reading from a file folder — this one filled with old clippings about Hocus. He was wearing an earphone for a remote extension that Freeman had hooked up. Cody was on the mantel — he barely managed to keep most of his twenty pounds on it. His attempt to appear to be sound asleep was spoiled by the twitching of his tail. The dogs lay near me, heads on paws, brows raised in worried watch.

Ten o’clock. Silence, except for Pete murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon….”

The first ring brought everyone — man, woman, and beast — to their feet. Pete started to move closer to the phone, but Rachel blocked his way. Cassidy said, “You gave me your word, Baird.” Pete sat down.

I clasped the receiver, nearly unable to restrain myself from answering until Henry nodded. I picked it up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Irene Kelly,” a voice said. A young man’s voice, not the same as the one on the tape recording. “Give our regards to Detective Cassidy, too, please. There, that saves you having to resort to any silly business — what would it have been, a brother from Texas?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I suppose Detective Baird is there, also?”

“I want to talk to Frank.”

“Of course you do. But we haven’t got much time. In fact, let me call you right back.”

There was a click and a dial tone.

Henry Freeman made a call on a cellular phone.

His face registered disappointment “Not long enough,” he said to Cassidy.

“Tell them to stay on the line, we’re expecting another call,” Cassidy said. He turned to me. “Hank is in contact with the folks who are working with the phone company to trace the call. Notice anything different about this last call?”

“It wasn’t a tape recording this time,” I said. “The caller replied directly to what I said. I couldn’t hear any background noise this time, and the voice was much clearer.” My hands were shaking.

“What did they say?” Pete asked, frantic.

“Hang in there, Baird. I’ll go over it with you in just a sec. You all set up, Hank?” Cassidy asked.

Freeman nodded just as the phone rang again.

“Ms. Kelly? Sorry.” The same man’s voice. “This should work a little better. Cassidy will try to trace all of these calls, of course, so you and I will have very brief conversations.”

“You know my name, what’s yours?”

“We’ll get to introductions later. Now, listen carefully. I’ll be speaking rapidly, but you’ll undoubtedly have a tape to work from. First, you must learn how we met Detective Harriman. We met him where you met him. Drive out to your former employer’s offices there. Go to the library. Talk to Brandon North. He’s expecting you to arrive at one-thirty.”

“But it takes three hours—”

“Yes, and that’s if traffic isn’t bad. Mr. North isn’t usually there on Saturdays, so he might not wait around. You’d better get going. And don’t make Mr. North wait, because that forces us to wait. I’m sure you understand that Detective Harriman’s health depends upon your willingness to follow instructions in a timely manner.”

“Wait—”

“Oh, we can’t wait too long. But you want to talk to him, don’t you?”

“Yes—”

“We’ll call back.”

He hung up again.

“Hank?” Cassidy asked.

“No, sir.”

This time the silence began to stretch out longer.

“After we get this next call, I’ll let you listen to the tape, Pete,” Cassidy said. “Irene, did you—”

The phone rang again.

“Irene?”

“Frank! Oh, Jesus—”

“You sound scared. Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he said, his speech thick and slow. “God, I had the best dream about you.” He started laughing. “I’d better not tell.”

Laughing? “Frank?”

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

“God, no, Frank—”

“So where are you?”

“Where am I?
Frank, are you—”

The call was disconnected.

“No!” I cried out.

The phone rang again.

“He’s fine,” the young man’s voice came on again. I could hear Frank saying, “Hey, I wanna talk to her.”

“He doesn’t sound fine. His speech was slurred. What have you done to him?”

“Versed. Just a small dose, a little something to take the edge off. You give it to someone, and later they tend not to remember what happened to them while they were on it. Thought we’d use it this time instead of the morphine.”

“Instead of morphine? Why was—”

“He’ll be fast asleep in a few minutes. We’ll take care of him, Ms. Kelly. As long as you cooperate, of course.”

“What is it you want?”

“Let’s just take this one step at a time. Meanwhile, I assure you, we sincerely hope we won’t be required to cause Detective Harriman any further injury.”

“Further injury?”

“Not to worry. We’re taking good care of him. He’s our hero, after all.”

“Your hero?”

“Henry Freeman has probably made some progress by now, so we’ll say good-bye.”

“Henry Freeman hasn’t got a clue where you are. Let me talk to Frank again, I have to tell him—”

A click.

Henry, still on the cellular phone, looked at Cassidy and shook his head.

Pete started shouting questions.

“Play the tape for them, Hank,” Cassidy said.

We all listened together. Freeman had made a very clear recording. This time around I was prepared for Frank’s laughter, so it affected me differently. He was alive. He could speak to me, he could laugh. He was alive. I felt tears of relief welling up. I needed more sleep, I told myself, and made another grab at a slender thread of self-control.

Focus on the immediate problem. Think about what they said. I glanced at Cassidy. He was studying me. “What’s Versed?” I asked.

Freeman opened a black nylon packet and pulled out a compact disc, then slid it into his computer. He typed something, then said, “Schedule Four drug.”

“It’s a product that’s subject to the Controlled Substances Act of 1970,” Cassidy translated. “Morphine is Schedule Two, the category for drugs with high potential for abuse; they may lead to severe dependence. Schedule Four has a low potential for abuse.”

“What are you reading from, Detective Freeman?” I asked.

He looked up. “The
PDR — Physician’s Desk Reference
— I’ve got it on CD.”

“What else does it say about Versed, Hank?” Cassidy asked, then added quickly, “Just the basics.”

“Short-acting benzodiazepine CNS depressant,” Freeman went on. “Sedates three to five minutes after IV injection, fifteen minutes after IM.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Pete asked.

“It’s a central nervous system depressant,” Cassidy said, and began reading over Freeman’s shoulder. “Looks like they’ve been around hospital drug supplies — had access to them or stolen from them. Hank, let’s make sure we get calls going on that. This isn’t something that’s popular out on the streets. My guess is, Frank’s hooked up to an intravenous feeding device; I’d assume that means his hands aren’t free, or they’d have to worry that he could take it out. IM means ‘intramuscular’ — a needle injection.”

“A shot?” Pete asked.

“Yes. Versed has to be given as a shot or through an IV. Isn’t available in pill form. Sounds like they started him out on morphine, but gave him this for the phone call. It’s something like Valium. When you first give someone a dose of it, he may be giddy and talkative.”

“You’re saying Frank was high,” Rachel said.

“Absolutely. They’re clearly sedating him,” Cassidy said.

“Is he in danger from these drugs?” I asked.

Cassidy paused, then said, “Any sedative can be dangerous, especially if the person administering it doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m guessing these people know something about medicine, because they’ve chosen to use a drug that isn’t commonly on the street, and knew its effects.”

Pete put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Irene. I’m so damned sorry.”

“Not your fault, Pete. No one is blaming you but yourself. I want to talk to you more about that later, but right now I’ve got to get out to Bakersfield.”

“That’s what he was asking you to do? To go to Bakersfield?”

“Yes.”

“You used to work for the library there?” Hank asked, regarding me with new respect.

“No, the newspaper. The
Californian.
He means the library at the newspaper — newspapers used to call that part of the paper ‘the morgue.’ Among other things, it’s where you find back issues, file photos, stuff like that. Brandon North has worked there for a long time. We haven’t talked to each other for a couple of years now, but we used to keep in touch. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.”