Motion to Suppress (11 page)

He was lighting up again. The cigarette smoke plus the disinfectant smell drifted across the body. Nina breathed it in.

"Thanks," she mumbled, and ran for the door. She felt better at the park, gathering up the happy kids, but the curving road after Apple Hill was too much. She got carsick and they had to stop by the side of the road at the Audrain turnout.

Paul drove over Carson Pass on Monday morning just about dawn, stopping when he got hungry. Here, wagon trains from the staging point at St. Joseph, Missouri, had rolled across Nevada to settle California. Struggling up almost nine thousand feet of steeply inclined massif, the pioneers came at last to the same place he was standing, looking west out over the pass, past the peaks of the western Sierra to the fertile, golden-green valleys of California.

Turning from the view and pulling up his collar against a brisk breeze, he entered a one-horse casino and ate a platter of bacon and eggs.

He had an appointment with the Tengstedts in Fresno and a pocketful of questions Nina wanted answered.

"Talk to the father, Paul," she had said that morning. "Find out more about her childhood memory loss. Bruno thinks she may have had a similar memory loss on April twenty-sixth. Bringing back one memory may bring back the other. Try to get more on Misty’s relationship with Anthony. Give me your impressions of the parents. Oh, one other thing. Find out what Carl Tengstedt was doing on the night of the twenty-sixth."

"You think he might have visited the Lake?" Paul said.

"He and Misty used to go fishing now and then. You do that in the early hours, right? Maybe he got the urge, came up late the night before without calling her. Or maybe Misty called him and he drove up. It’s only three hours. Maybe he just disposed of the body for her."

"With all the other males around your client, why are you looking so hard at the old man?"

"Just a feeling about the parents. They do have some kind of secret, and they’re very frightened about whatever it is. And one other thing."

"What?"

"Remember, I mentioned he was a swimmer? Tengstedt’s wife said that he was shot down in Korea in stormy seas and managed to hold on to another man for hours before he was rescued."

"So?"

Nina had said, "The boat was drifting out there, out of gas. Whoever took Anthony out on the lake had to swim half a mile back in frigid water. It took a hero to do that and survive. I don’t think I could do it, and I’m a pretty good swimmer."

Now Paul pushed his notes aside and leaned back on the vinyl back of his booth, observing his bleary-eyed fellow customers. Just outside the open door of the coffee shop, he could hear a pleasant ringing and the jingling of coins falling into a slot. Some lucky bastard had actually won something in a slot machine.

He loved his job. He was making a lot more money than he could have dreamed of as a cop, and he got to roam over the countryside in search of the facts, answerable only to the IRS.

Just before leaving, he had called his secretary and play-mate, waking her from a sound sleep in the water bed in her cottage in Carmel. Marilyn told him to come back with a big check. Since leaving the police force, besides the independence of having his own investigative business, he was enjoying his first financial success. Certain large corporate clients, most of whom he farmed out to reliable subcontractors, footed the daily bills. He missed being on the force, but he was not stupid enough to go back when he wasn’t welcome. There was a certain type there, and he wasn’t it.

In addition to an increased financial payback, he was now able to pick off the plums, like this job, and indulge a well-honed interest in people. He had always been very self-contained, but as his work threw him into situations that demanded it, he discovered the fine pleasures of instant intimacy. People in trouble were vulnerable. Interviews were so much more gratifying when you could ignore police procedure. He had a talent for getting people to tell him what he wanted to know, and he was no longer averse at all to sharing select pieces of himself, particularly when he knew he would never see the person again. In return he got friendship, advice, and an instant relationship. It was remarkably like a one-night stand, only nobody expected a callback.

Nina had changed over the five years with Jack. She still liked to joke around, and she had the same voluptuous figure he remembered from their first meeting, but five years of lawyering had sharpened her. With her brown bangs, intent brown eyes, head thrust forward and shoulders squared, she now looked more like a little hawk. The tentative girl in law school, the unsure one, had seemed softer, needier, more approachable. It was just too bad. He would protect her now as well as he could, but she didn’t belong where she was in the first place. He didn’t like having as his boss a woman on the loose, the sole support of a child, running her own business. He was sick and tired of these pushy broads trying to take over. They were all stressed out and divorced, just like she would soon be.

How exasperating it was that precisely this kind of woman always attracted him. He couldn’t resist their convolutions and moodiness, their direct speech, their self-doubts, their strength in the head and their weakness in the heart.

She needed him, even more than she knew.

He got back in his van. Behind the wheel once again, he flipped on the news. A San Francisco station two hundred miles away tried to create some radio excitement out of gridlock on the Bay Bridge. Out the window a line of snow-covered peaks receded into the sharp, bright air. Highway 395—someone should write a song about it, because it had to be one of the most beautiful roads in the world. An hour to Mammoth Lake, around Yosemite, cutting across the top of Sequoia National Park ... he turned off the news and searched for a jazz station.

If he thought of Fresno at all, he thought of a hot, dry, dull agricultural town. Today, however, deeply into spring, the whole San Joaquin valley lay strewn with yellow mustard flowers. Fruit trees dripped with blooms in pink and white. It was the pioneer’s dream. The town boiled with the scents of flowers and fertilizer.

Tengstedt had agreed to meet him at home, before going to work at the auto dealership. The house was in the old part of town, a mock Southern plantation house from the thirties, painted white, its lawn disciplined into a military buzz cut. The Tengstedts must be doing well.

He walked under an arch into the green front yard. Carl Tengstedt was there, waiting for him. "Beautiful day," he said.

Paul agreed and they went inside. Mrs. Tengstedt, a worn-out-looking blonde, was sitting at the kitchen table. They sat down and had some coffee, talked about the case and got used to each other for about twenty minutes.

Then Mrs. Tengstedt got up and said she had things to do and invited Paul to dinner. Paul said thanks, but he was on a tight schedule and was driving back to Tahoe tonight to get on with the investigation. She kissed her husband on the top of the head and went out the door.

"Okay, then," Carl Tengstedt said, settling himself on the striped couch in his living room. "You said you wanted to know more about Michelle’s background. Well, you’re looking at it. This is her home. She’s a good daughter and we love her."

It was so quiet, Paul could hear the tick-tock of the pendulum clock on the mantel. He looked around him. A doily adorned the top of the entertainment center; a Winslow Homer print decorated the other wall. A neat pile of Fresno newspapers sat in an ornate brass container. Mr. Tengstedt had his recliner, Mrs. Tengstedt her rocking chair and cushion, and even a sewing basket on the rug next to it. A big Bible rested on a mahogany stand in the corner. The all-American living room, Penney’s catalog, circa 1960, and in this home Father clearly knew best.

Tengstedt was nervous. Paul could see it in the hands folded tightly, the stern expression on his face, but he had the stolidity of a burgermeister too. He looked honest. The good-citizen type. Very effective with a jury, likely to be believed. He said, "We’re putting a lot of faith in Ms. Reilly, Mr. van Wagoner. I wish I could believe it’s well placed."

"Nina Reilly is an excellent attorney," Paul said, hoping it was true. "I’ve known her for years."

"Then she can settle this quickly. Is it possible Michelle could be sentenced only to probation? After all, this is her first offense, and that man was violent. He was arrested before."

"Michelle doesn’t believe she killed Anthony," Paul said. "There may be a trial."

"That would be very foolish, from what you have told me about the evidence and my daughter’s statements. Michelle has always had difficulty accepting the consequences of her actions."

"You seem so sure, Mr. Tengstedt, that your daughter’s a murderer," Paul said. "I hope you’ll allow Michelle’s attorney to handle this as she sees fit."

"We don’t have any choice, do we? Michelle has made that clear. Tell Ms. Reilly the loan on the house is coming through next week, and we’ll post Michelle’s bail. But we want Michelle home with us."

"I’ll pass that along," promised Paul. Some of it, he would.

Tengstedt changed the subject abruptly. "You know, we would have got her back somehow after she ran off to Tahoe, except for one thing."

"What’s that?"

"I strongly disapproved of her marriage to Anthony Patterson. I felt it would be disastrous for Michelle to link her life to his. But I have to say this one thing about Patterson: He really loved Michelle. I could see it when they were together. I never dreamed he would strike her, harm her. He seemed to idolize her. We prayed for her happiness."

"Of course," Paul said. "I understand that you are Christian Scientists."

"Science of Mind, yes. My wife and I both were practitioners, you know, spiritual healers. No longer."

"You left the Church?"

"No. We left that particular congregation when we came back to the States from the Philippines in 1982, of course. But we are still followers."

"Why did you leave?"

There was a pause. "We had some irreconcilable religious conflicts," he said finally. "And we found ourselves at odds with our neighbors. It seemed better to leave."

"Mmm-hmmm," Paul said.

"I joined the Science of Mind Church at a very young age. My grandparents had been members of the Boston congregation, the Mother Church, for years, and they were close to Mrs. Eddy. Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of the Church. Barbara joined the Church when we married."

"Tell me a little about the Church," Paul said.

"There are thousands of congregations all over the world. I’ll give you the book, Science of Mind, if you’d like. Basically we’re Protestants, one of the few Protestant churches that was born in America. We believe the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ was the central event in history, and we believe that heaven is located right here on earth, if we can develop the attitude of the Christ mind."

"Heaven right here on earth ..."

"You see, the material world is nothing but a hypnotic construct. Belief in a world of matter is what causes sin and suffering. So we believe that disease is merely a delusion of the material world, and that prayer and understanding through Bible study can rectify any problem."

Tengstedt said this as though he had said it many times before, with complete conviction. Paul listened hard for the point of this earnest religious statement.

"So I was a practitioner, healer. A doctor of the spirit, you might say. I ministered to the nationals as well as to people on base in need of help."

"Tell me about Michelle’s life in the Philippines," Paul said.

"I don’t know why you’re so interested."

"For us to understand Michelle, we need a few details about her life growing up," Paul said.

Mrs. Tengstedt appeared in the doorway, a ghost in a white apron. She carried a tray toward them and set it on a table nearby. "Please help yourselves to some refreshment. You’ve had a long drive," she said to Paul. As she stood up, she looked directly at her husband. "Michelle has been our greatest blessing, also our greatest heartache," she said, moving toward the kitchen.

"Will Michelle be told about the things we discuss today?" Tengstedt said.

"It depends. I believe you know Michelle cannot remember the first ten years of her life. She has forgotten some events of the night of April twenty-sixth as well. Nina feels that if she were helped to remember her early childhood it might help her remember the more recent events."

"She’s on the wrong track. She’s not going to take her to some quack psychiatrist, is she?"

"I don’t know if Nina plans on bringing in a doctor." Tengstedt had jumped up from his recliner as if he had been bitten by a Filipino snake. "Take it easy, Mr. Tengstedt. Ms. Reilly would never do anything that would hurt your daughter."

"You tell that lawyer for me that Michelle’s first ten years are not something we’re prepared to discuss at this time. Events from long ago could not possibly influence the legal problems she has."

"I hope you’ll reconsider your decision, Mr. Tengstedt. We think it might have some relevance."

Tengstedt said nothing.

"Do you mind talking about Michelle’s life in Fresno?" asked Paul, moving on to what he hoped would be less explosive territory.

"I put in my time and I retired. My family was here in Fresno, so we moved back," Tengstedt said shortly.

"Go on," Paul said.

"After we moved here, things steadily went downhill for her. She got wild, got secretive, did poorly in school, though she tested out as very bright," he said, a sad note of pride in his voice. "And then she ran off with this backstreet thug, Patterson. Who’s been killed." He fingered a picture on the mantelpiece of a young woman in a yellow dress and hat, haloed with golden hair, a flat Easter backdrop behind her. "It broke my wife’s heart to see her throwing herself away like that."

"I was so afraid that something like this might happen someday." Barbara Tengstedt was standing in the entryway between the kitchen and living room, smoothing her hands over her apron. Her husband walked over to her, put his arm around her shoulder. They were about the same height. The effect was almost comically bland, Mr. and Mrs. America in their living room, but it was a tableau, with a frozen, waiting quality. It seemed to Paul as though, by touching her, Carl Tengstedt had silenced his wife.