Vultures at Twilight (30 page)

‘What? Say that again.'

‘Eyes and teeth. Don't you consider them doctors?'

‘I hadn't,' she admitted, reaching for the phone. ‘But maybe I should.'

THIRTY-FIVE

H
olding her umbrella against the driving wind and rain, Mattie surveyed the wreckage of Lil's Lincoln. The hood had taken the worst, crumpling like an accordion. The airbags hung limp and empty. The driver's door wide open and Lil was gone, her pocketbook unmolested on the passenger-side floor.

Scrapes of dark paint bore witness to the other vehicle that had rammed her head on. Even more disturbing were the scrape marks on the rear bumper. This hadn't been a simple collision. Lil had been forced off the road.

Mattie felt sick, knowing she needed to act fast, but not having clear direction. There had to be something here, but the raging Nor'easter was rapidly erasing traces of what had happened. Puddles flowed into roadside streams, washing away evidence. Traces of blood on the driver's door grew faint and would soon be gone.

On either side of the road cattails, wild roses, bramble, sumac and poison ivy formed an impenetrable wall. There were no signs of broken branches or fresh footprints. Either dead or alive, someone had taken Lil.

Flashing lights from more than a dozen cruisers and unmarked cars clouded her thoughts. Lillian Campbell, a respected doctor's widow, had been taken, but where? By whom? And most importantly, why?

She examined the tire marks beneath the sheets of water. She placed her foot against the skid marks, using it to measure; the wheel had to be at least a fifteen-inch tire; a small truck or van.

What worried her most was that it had been a head-on collision. How could the killer have been certain that he would walk away? It stank of desperation. The mounting pace, the persistent phone calls; he was out of control.

Hank, in galoshes and yellow slicker, approached; he followed Mattie's gaze to the blood-tinged puddles. ‘Why would he go after her?' he asked.

‘It has do with Wendy Conroy. Those diaries . . . I had the dispatcher trace down her psychiatrist but that's another dead end . . . literally. The guy died four years ago. We're missing something.' She looked at the local chief as he stood in the rain with the flashers reflecting off of his slicker. She was about to say more when her cell rang.

‘Here, let me.' Hank held her umbrella, while she answered.

‘Detective Perez, here.'

It was the dispatcher. ‘I have an Ada Strauss, said it's very important.'

‘Put her through.' She waited, praying that Lil had come home.

‘Mattie?' Ada sounded winded.

‘What is it, Ada?'

‘It wasn't the psychiatrist Wendy was talking about.'

‘I know,' Mattie said.

‘It was her dentist.'

‘What?'

‘That's who the other doctor was. She was having all sorts of dental work. It's in her chart. I've been going through it.'

Mattie stood holding the phone. How could she have missed that? She looked at Hank. ‘Who was Wendy Conroy's dentist?'

‘Same as everyone: Doc Williams.'

‘On High Street?' she asked.

‘Yeah, doesn't practice out of his home anymore, but the family's been there forever.'

‘Ada, I've got to go.'

‘You haven't found her, have you?' Ada's voice betrayed her fear.

Mattie surveyed the wreckage, while moving fast toward her car. ‘No, but we will.'

THIRTY-SIX

A
da paced, then stopped. ‘Aaron, get me the yellow pages; it's in Lil's bottom-right kitchen drawer.'

‘Sure.'

As soon as he left the room, she grabbed the phone and dialed the Pilgrim's Progress taxi service. ‘This is Ada Strauss. I need a cab right away. If you get here in the next couple minutes it's a fifty dollar tip.' She gave them the address and hung up.

‘It wasn't there,' he said, holding the local yellow pages. ‘It was in the drawer next to the sink.'

‘She must have moved it. Let me see.' She flipped it open, found Calvin Williams and ripped out his number and address. As she stuffed it into her cardigan pocket a horn beeped twice.

‘Who's that?' Aaron asked.

‘I called a cab,' Ada told him. ‘I have to take care of a couple errands. I won't be long.'

‘I thought we were supposed to stay here.'

‘You will. If Lil calls, you'll need to phone the dispatcher at the police station, let them know where she is. Then call me on my cell.'

He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Where are you really going?'

‘Don't question your grandmother.'

‘I won't stop you,' he said. ‘But at least tell me where you are in case I need you.'

‘I'm going to the dentist's.'

‘You think he may have done something to Mrs Campbell?'

‘I don't know; but I can't stay here doing nothing.'

‘Grandma! That's for the cops. What are you doing?'

‘I called them. They'll be there.' The cab tooted again. She dumped her pocketbook on Lil's couch and grabbed several items, rapidly stuffing them into her jacket pockets. ‘Good, money and keys.'

‘Is that mace?' he asked as a small silver cylinder vanished into a pocket.

‘Pepper spray, dear.' She kissed Aaron's forehead, snatched an umbrella from Lil's hall tree and bolted down the slick path.

Ada thanked the cabbie for being so prompt, and gave him the address.

Recognizing Ada as one of his regulars, he started to chat. ‘Nothing worse than having to wait on a rainy day. Tooth problems?'

‘Something like that . . . Please hurry.'

‘I thought Doc Williams closed his office,' he commented while pulling out.

‘Not entirely,' she replied. ‘You know him?'

‘Not so much, but you know around here, everyone's business is everyone's business. I just thought after his mother passed away, he closed things up.'

As they drove down High Street, the pulse of red and blue police lights glittered on the rain-spattered windshield. ‘That's odd,' he commented as they drove up. ‘Something's going on.'

Ada peered through her window as they approached. ‘Pull up close,' she instructed.

‘Sure.' He eased in behind a cruiser that had blocked the dentist's driveway. There were easily twenty vehicles, equally split between the local black-and-whites and an assortment of unmarked cars and SUVs.

Through the rain, Ada counted more than a dozen officers in yellow parkas as they swarmed the eighteenth-century house, some carrying large black rifles. On the back of several were large fluorescent letters: SWAT.

‘How much?' Ada asked, opening her door.

‘You're going in?' the driver sounded incredulous.

‘Yes, I need to see what's happening.'

‘Want me to wait?'

‘Could you?'

‘Sure, I'll just keep the meter running.'

‘Thanks.'

She opened her door, feeling the cold rain against her cheeks. She pulled her jacket tight. The wind swirled down and then changed direction; it grabbed her umbrella, ripping it inside out. She dropped it, and struggled up the sloped drive. Thankful for her rubber-soled shoes, she inched toward the house.

‘Mrs Strauss,' Kevin Simpson called out, and offered her his arm. ‘What are you doing here? Go back!'

‘I had to see if I could help.'

‘That's real kind, but you shouldn't be here.'

‘She's my best friend,' Ada pleaded. ‘I couldn't stay at home. Have you found her?'

‘No. Not yet.'

Ada felt tears. What if she was wrong? What if she'd pushed all of this in the wrong direction?

In front of them, an excited voice called from the garage. ‘There's a van in here . . . It's been in an accident.'

Kevin seemed torn between being polite to Ada and checking out the discovery.

Ada had no such qualms and, grabbing his arm, said, ‘Come on.'

Mattie Perez was the only one without a parka. Her dark hair plastered to her head, she ran to the garage. ‘Open it,' she ordered.

Three officers strained to raise the door, while two others stood back with guns raised. ‘It's not budging,' one of them panted.

From the side came the sound of breaking glass as the officer who had spotted the van wrapped his hand inside his coat and smashed the window. Mattie, her service-revolver in one hand, ran around and shone a flashlight into the darkened space with the other. She spotted streaks of white paint on the crumpled front bumper. ‘Probable cause enough,' she muttered. ‘Hank!' she yelled.

‘Right here,' he said, following the trail of her beam. She shone it quickly around the interior of the space; dirt floor, no upstairs.

‘You,' she barked, to the officer that had smashed the window, ‘check out the garage. We're going into the house. You –' motioning to a trooper with the SWAT team – ‘we're going in the back door.'

‘No problem.' Half a dozen rifle-armed troopers joined him.

Using a metal truncheon, he smashed the side of the door and the hinges splintered off the ancient frame. Two helmeted troopers entered, securing the entry as others swarmed behind.

Without waiting for an invitation, Ada let go of Kevin and, staying close to Mattie and Hank, followed them inside. Someone found the switch and flooded the room with a rose-colored light filtered through a cranberry-glass shade. It was only the kitchen, but Ada couldn't help but notice how carefully it had been decorated, and how incongruous it was with the drawn semi-automatics, carbines and pistols. As booted and muddy feet stormed the house, she couldn't help but notice the exquisite cabinetry and millwork that appeared original to the house. An oversized step-back cupboard rose majestically against the far wall, its shelves filled with early flow-blue china. There was a massive fireplace on one wall, surrounded by a staggering collection of hand-forged cooking tools and, across from it, a beehive oven. Everywhere she looked were fine antiques and dust and cobwebs.

‘Hold up,' Mattie said, noting a single set of half-dried footprints, different from those of the booted troopers, that tracked across the floor. They disappeared inside the pantry. Cautiously, Mattie approached, her revolver drawn. She pulled back the door while one of the officers flooded the space with his flashlight.

Mattie shone her beam on a pair of muddy boots that lay on a plastic mat.

‘Bag those,' she said as she scanned the shelves.

‘Look at this stuff,' Ada commented as they confronted row after row of pre-colonial pewter: teapots, chargers and porringers that crowded the pantry from floor to ceiling, like some overstocked two-hundred-year-old department store.

‘What about it?' Mattie asked, needing to get on with the search, but wanting to make some sense of the crammed pantry that held no food.

Ada grabbed the closest teapot, freeing it from its mooring of spider webs and dust. It bore no signs of machine manufacture and the hallmarks were eighteenth century. ‘This stuff is worth a fortune. It's all over two hundred years' old.'

‘Jesus,' Mattie muttered as she surveyed the vast collection. ‘Just in the closet.'

‘It doesn't make sense,' Ada agreed as they stepped out of the pantry. ‘It's museum quality. This whole place is like a museum.'

‘You shouldn't be here,' Mattie said to Ada.

‘Please,' Ada said, determined to not leave, unless forcibly removed.

Mattie realized having a civilian was a dangerous breach of protocol, but then again . . . ‘If anyone asks, you're a consultant. And stick with me.'

Ada nodded, and followed Mattie from the kitchen to the dining room. Ada could not remember ever having been so afraid, her thoughts on Lil:
please be OK. But this house.
‘Are you kidding?' The words blurted out as she stared at the mahogany furniture.

‘What now?' Mattie asked.

‘The dining set – it's Chippendale – not repros.'

‘What's it worth?'

Ada quickly tipped a chair and stared at the underside. ‘It's real American Chippendale . . . either Philadelphia or Newport. The chairs alone are six figures. And that's one hell of a table; maybe a couple hundred grand.'

The living room, now with armed troopers at every door, held more of the same: priceless antiques covered in dust, but no trace of Lil.

They passed through a small parlor with a side door that led to Williams' dental suite. Even here, there was a sense of having stepped back in time. Careful rows of stainless-steel drill bits and grinding wheels that seemed archaic and cruel. Plaster molds of teeth lay toppled in large bins, with their owners' names scribbled in pencil across the bottom.

As they searched, Mattie tapped walls with her knuckles and listened for the reverberation of her foot on the solid floors. There were three examination rooms, a small area for a receptionist and a waiting room. Mattie took a cursory glance through the appointment book; even that was covered with dust.

‘He closed his office,' Ada commented. ‘He works in nursing homes now.'

‘You know him?' Mattie asked.

‘Not really. I lost a cap last Sunday after you left. Lil brought me here.'

‘What was he like?'

‘Nice . . . Accommodating. He didn't bat an eye when we showed up. Although, he looked like he'd been working on something and maybe we'd interrupted.'

‘Working on what?'

‘No idea; he had smudges on his hands and arms.'

‘What else do you remember?' Mattie asked as she retraced back to the main house and toward the front-hall stairs.

Ada followed. ‘Not much. Kevin Simpson called while we were there, looking for dental records.'

‘How was he with Lil?'

‘Like old friends. I kidded her, because she'd been his babysitter, and I kind of thought he might have a crush on her, or at least did at one point.'