Hocus (27 page)

“I don’t know who the others are, but that’s Sam,” Regina said, pointing to a young man in a blue ski cap. He looked more relaxed in this shot than he did in the driver’s license photo that was shown on the eleven o’clock news, but he was easily recognizable as the same person. There was a dark-haired woman standing next to him. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew the faces of the other two men in the photo.

“Lang and Colson,” I said.

I
T WAS AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING
when we pulled into Bea’s driveway. The reporters were gone, although once the story broke in the
Californian,
I expected them to be back before I left to have breakfast with Cecilia. I wasn’t too surprised to see Cassidy sitting on the front porch swing.

He was reading through some papers, apparently the latest faxes from Hank Freeman. Pete and Rachel murmured, “Good night,” and went inside. I sat on the swing and handed the photo to Cassidy.

“I think Lang’s and Colson’s neighbors might recognize her,” I said. “The Szals think she might be Sam’s girlfriend.”

Cassidy studied the photo. “She fits the description the neighbors gave us all right. This is terrific. What else did you learn?”

“What an M number is,” I answered, ignoring his puzzled look as I went on to tell him what the Szals had said about Sam and Bret. Not long after I started, Cassidy took out his notebook and began making notes — lots of them.

“This is great,” he said, far too enthusiastic for the hour. “This is the kind of information we can only get from people who know them. We can predict Bret and Sam a little better because of it — especially the info about how they work with each other. And this photo — these folks you talked to have done us a world of good.” Then he sobered and added, “I suppose it wasn’t too easy on them.”

“No,” I said “But it seems to be in their natures to be helpful. And they care about Frank. Fortunately for us, that prevailed over their loyalty to Bret and Sam.”

“Yes. I’m going to take them up on their offer for a talk.” He stood up and stretched. “Well, I better get this off to Hank while it’s fresh in my mind.”

“Don’t you sleep?”

“Had a short nap while you were working. I’ll be fine. You look like you’re all tuckered out, though.”

“I am,” I said. “I just don’t know if I can sleep.”

“Give it a try,” he said, and we walked in. I said good night as he went into his room, which was across the hall from mine.

I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down but awakened at four-thirty. I could hear Cassidy talking, and although I couldn’t make out what he was saying, there was an urgency in his voice that was unmistakable. I put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and was reaching for my socks when I heard him fall silent. I listened and decided to forgo footwear when I heard him stumbling down the hallway at a hurried pace. I opened the bedroom door but could not see him. I heard the front door open and rushed to follow. By the time I reached him, he was standing on the front porch, gripping the railing, taking deep breaths.

“Cassidy?”

He whirled to face me, his eyes wild and unseeing, his face covered with sweat. My own eyes widened — Cassidy, frantic? What god-awful news had he received?

In the next moment, though, I understood what was happening. “Wake up, Cassidy,” I said quietly but firmly. “Wake up.”

He looked at me, and I could see the change in his eyes when he focused on me as something more than a voice invading a dream. Those eyes were quickly lowered in shame.

“God damn,” he said with feeling.

“Somebody once told me that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about having nightmares,” I said.

“That guy is more full of horseshit than a rodeo wheelbarrow,” Cassidy said, still not looking at me, sounding none too steady. “Everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, but they like him anyway. Let’s sit on the swing until you get your land legs back.”

He went along with the suggestion, maybe because he wasn’t in any shape to move much farther. It takes a lot of energy to have a really horrific nightmare. They wear you out.

I set the swing in motion, and we rocked back and forth in it for a time.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally said, still not making eye contact.

“Who asked you to? You think I give a crap about your problems?”

He looked at me then and abruptly started laughing. Doubling over, wheezing laughter. He did his best not to wake the household, but it looked like the effort was going to give him a hernia.

“What?” I asked, too punchy from sleeplessness to keep myself from laughing in response.

Tears were rolling down his face. “Your hair,” he choked out.

I looked over the back of the swing into a picture window, where I saw my admittedly ridiculous reflection. I had slept on my hair funny, and now, on each side of my face, it spiked out in fantastic angles from my head. I looked like I had hired my hairdresser after a layoff at the circus.

“Glad you like it,” I said, trying to smooth it down. Hopeless. As hopeless as not laughing about it myself.

Eventually we wound down from it. I felt suddenly ashamed.

“You think Frank would resent you for laughing?” he asked, his accuracy annoying the hell out of me once again.

“You’re full of horseshit, remember?”

“Yeah,” he said, starting the swing in motion again.

After a moment he said, “I have this dream sometimes — about an old, old case. An early-morning bank robbery. There were three employees inside, but two got out while this one woman distracted the robbers, told them she was the only one there. They kept her hostage. In real life, they shot and killed her in the bank. In the dream, she’s alive again. Instead of shooting her, they’ve taken her with them to a hiding place. I’ve got another chance to find her, and I’m out looking for her. Sometimes, that’s all there is to it — I just search in vain. Wake up frustrated. Other times, like tonight, I find the hiding place, but no matter what I say, they shoot her.”

We sat in the swing for what seemed like a long time.

“Thanks,” he said at last.

“You’d do the same for one of your friends, right?”

He looked at me and smiled. “Sure would.”

A little later he said, “If we’re friends, then—”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Here it comes.”

“If we’re friends,” he repeated, “why don’t you tell me what you have planned for the day?”

“Why should I?”

“Why not?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I guess I’ve never been too hot on getting permission. I like to be able to work independently.”

“So you’re feeling hemmed in.”

“But you can see what my concerns are? Not just for your safety, but for Frank’s?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “And I understand — it’s a police investigation.”

“Well, as far as that goes, if a case requires me to get someone outside of the department to work with me, I don’t get too fussy about it if they don’t have a badge. I’ve got bigger problems to solve. But I also have to keep a handle on things, so I can’t just let everyone who wants to help go haring off in any old direction they please.”

“I have a feeling you have a compromise in mind.”

He smiled. “You do, huh? Well, you’re right. How about this — you go on and tell me what your plans are. You tell me what you’re going to do today, and unless I’ve got a reasonable objection, you do it. But you talk to me before you talk to anybody — I mean
anybody.
That includes friends, family, editors, Pete, Rachel, reporters — you name it.”

“And your part of this bargain?”

“I don’t have you tailed or hound you or force you to stay around here just so I know where you are — all of which I can easily do, you understand. But I prefer it this way. I trust you. You trust me. That’s it. You don’t waste your time trying to sneak around, I don’t waste mine keeping a leash on you.”

I thought about it. “All right,” I said. “I’m meeting Cecilia Parker at seven. Then I’m going to the library.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yes, the library, Cassidy. Not as direct as going to the Bakersfield PD, but it won’t set off as many alarm bells if our man has friends in the department.”

“You don’t believe they’ll protect someone like this, do you?”

“No, I don’t believe the department is crooked, if that’s what you’re asking. But if word gets around that you’re asking for personnel files, don’t you think we’ll give this guy a head start?”

“I haven’t asked for any yet.”

“Why not?”

He sighed. “For the reasons you just mentioned.”

“I’m thinking of asking Bea to invite Brian’s old friends over for dinner. They’re the right age group. Maybe we can pick up a few leads from them. I’ll tell Bea that we need to talk to people who were around at the time, who know about the case.”

“Sounds good, but I don’t understand what you’re going to be doing at the library.”

“On a Sunday, it’s probably the fastest way to get a look at photographs of the Bakersfield PD.”

“Photographs of officers in the library?”

“City annuals. They’ll have them in the historical collection at the Beale Library on Truxtun. At the very least, they’ll include a group photograph of the department. And while I’m doing that, there is something you can do for me that might not raise much suspicion.”

“What’s that?”

“Get Powell’s arrest records.”

Cassidy smiled. “The records are in storage, but Bakersfield PD has promised me they’ll have them for me this morning. Along with everything they can find about the Ryan-Neukirk case.”

“Sorry. Of course you would have thought of that already.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m spread pretty thin here, so I might miss something along the way. Keep making suggestions.”

“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but right now my best suggestion is to try to catch a little more sleep.”

“Sounds good,” he said, and we walked into the house. Just as I turned to go into my room he whispered, “Irene?”

I looked back at him. “Yes?”

“Careful you don’t muss your do.”

I flipped him the bird and shut the door. I could hear him laughing as he shut his.

I woke up in a good mood, in spite of little sleep and big worries. Maybe it was that I had tamed my hair or that I had Cassidy’s assistance in escaping the encampment in front of Bea’s house. Cecilia Parker, who now sat across from me in a booth at the Hill House Hotel Cafe, did not seem nearly so chipper.

She wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Not everyone can wear yellow without looking as though they’ve got liver problems. She looked good in it, I was disappointed to note. She kept her dark sunglasses on until the waitress innocently asked her if we’d like to be seated where the light wasn’t so bright.

Cecilia refused to order more than a cup of coffee. I ordered coffee and a breakfast roll and hoped she was hungry.

“So what’s all this about?” she said, apparently not in the mood for small talk.

I had a copy of the “Father’s Day” fax in my purse, and the easiest thing to do would have been to give it to her to read, but I didn’t know if I could trust her.

“You watched the news?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Have you read the
Californian
this morning?”

“Yes. Is this a media quiz?”

I ignored that. “So you know that Frank was taken by—”

“The boys he rescued. Some thanks, huh?”

“You remember them?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. They gave me the creeps back then.”

“Why?”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I felt sorry for them, just like everybody else. But even if they had a reason to be messed up, they were still messed up. You know what I mean?” She gave a dramatic shiver. “The silent treatment got to me. They could be in a room and not say a word to each other and communicate with just a look. Almost like they were psychic.”

The coffee and my roll arrived. She looked at it and said, “Maybe I’ll have one of those, too.” The waitress shrugged and brought one. I realized how petty I had been in wanting her to covet my breakfast roll as much as she coveted my husband.

“So, you think the boys were psychic?” I asked.

“No. I don’t believe in any of that crap. They must have given each other very subtle nonverbal cues, that’s all.”

I thought about saying something like, “I hear they had a good-looking speech therapist” but thought better of it. I needed her cooperation.

“They’ve only made one demand,” I said.

“Free their buddies who got caught.” She said it in a bored tone.

“No.” I savored her surprise, then said, “They want me to find someone who was involved in their fathers’ murders.”

“What? They
are
completely nuts, aren’t they? Everybody who had anything to do with their fathers’ murders is dead.”

“Everybody?”

She gave me a narrow look. “Everybody.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Powell. I mean Powell.”

“Just Powell?”

She hesitated only slightly before saying, “Of course just Powell!”

“But why use the word ‘everybody’?”

She shrugged. “I’ll go home and brush up on my grammar. Right after I get some sleep — which I didn’t get last night, worrying about Frank.”

I studied her for a moment, during which she studied me right back. “You really
are
worried about him, aren’t you?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, a little less hostile. Then, almost as if she’d caught herself backing off, added, “Maybe more than you are.”

“We can come up with some contest about it later.”

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

“Look, Cecilia, right now, I just want him to live. To do that, I’ve got to try to meet the kidnappers’ demand.”

“Well, best of luck to you.”

“I need your help.”

“I’ve told you—”

“Take me to the place where you found Powell.”

“What?”

“The place where you found Powell.”

“I heard you. I just don’t — What makes you think I remember it?”

“Think of Frank Harriman and answer truthfully—”

“All right, all right, I remember it. Of course I remember it. First time I found a body outside a car — first one that hadn’t gone through a windshield, anyway.”