Mexico Is Forever Read online

  I turned on the television, walked back to the bedroom, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. The stencil was a stubble-faced, bleary-eyed, cigar-chewing guy with a huge gut, sitting splay-footed at the intersection of barroom wall and floor. The logo identified him as THE GREAT WHITE SHIRK. The face was that of Virginia’s sixth-ranked child support deadbeat. His wife had the shirts made up to celebrate my finding him in Norfolk.

  I grazed without hunger before the refrigerator and closed it. The dishwasher still wasn’t full. I was running it once a week now, along with the laundry. My metabolism was definitely slowing down. I couldn’t even make trash in a hurry.

  I opened the sliding glass door, walked along the patio, and hung my newest wind chime. Six now, more to come. Metal ones, ceramic, glass. On a breezy night I could sleep in bed, listening to their beautiful conversation. Still nights, it was Creature Feature, Sherman’s memoirs, and I.

  I sat in my recliner, turned the TV down, and read Randi’s letter. She wasn’t going to be here this summer after all. A great opportunity had come up at the Governors Institute and she had decided to stay in Charlottesville. I couldn’t blame her. Nineteen years old and she’d had two families flame out. I’d keep my distance too.

  I fell asleep in Sherman’s tent at Vicksburg. By flickering light he wrote to his commander-in-chief urging that the war be fought with such ferocity that the South would be “so sick of war that generations would pass away before they would again appeal to it.” Within a year he would bring it all to pass.

  CHAPTER 8

  By the time I got to the office, Larry had worked his way through my list and the answers were on my desk.

  1. Edward Timmons had kept notebooks of his work and “theories” even way back and they were central to his psychosis. He refused to let his employers see them—even though he would lock himself in his office and work on them all day. They must have thought they were a “work product” they were underwriting—silly clods.

  2. The police catalogued the contents of his knapsack on the crime scene report made at the time he was discovered. No notebooks.

  I buzzed Larry on the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Larry, call the bank that had Timmons’s CDs. See if he had a safe deposit box with them.”

  “Will do.”

  I called the pharmacy and library to see if anyone remembered Edward Timmons. They both did and I arranged to interview them in the afternoon. A few minutes later Larry was on the intercom.

  “The bank doesn’t have any safe deposit boxes.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I got a map and I’m going to call the nearest branches of other banks and private storage places.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  I called Comstock Associates, a library research firm I use.

  “Roy Comstock, please. This is Leo Haggerty.”

  “What can I do for you, Leo?” Roy asked when he came on.

  “Nothing bizarre this time. I’d like all the published works, books, papers, speeches, everything by an English psychologist named Clive McNair. Also all references to the man. Biographies, interviews, reviews, obituary, remembrances, anything, no matter how obscure.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “He died about a year ago in ambiguous circumstances. The family wants their own inquiry into his death. I want to start by knowing everything I can about the man. His theories, his life work, his life as the public knew it.”

  “Okay. Do you want just a bibliography, annotations, or document delivery on everything we find?”

  “Send me a copy of everything.”

  “Of course you want it immediately.”

  “Of course. Is that a problem?”

  “No, the only problem will be assigning the work. It’s a great relief from the stuff we usually do.”

  I was Roy’s only individual client. These days all he handled was research and bibliographic work for government agencies. Two things kept me on. My requests were more interesting, having included searches of all the literature on transsexuals, complete or in process, for one missing person’s case and the sequence of appearance of insects on decomposing corpses, broken down by geography and season, for another. Also, I paid my bills on time.

  “Courier it to the office, Roy, whenever anything comes in. The client will cover the expense.”

  “Will do, Leo. Talk to you.”

  I reviewed the mail and then went over to Thor’s for lunch. The Nordic goddess at the front showed me to a booth. I wolfed down lunch and returned to the office.

  There were call slips from Joe Anthony and Rosa Cravat. When I called Joe, he told me that due to trial schedules, he and Duckworth wouldn’t be able to meet for three days. We had a little more time.

  I rang Rosa up. “So you called. What do you have?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been working backward from his current bank statements. This man didn’t write checks. He wrote them to himself for cash to pay whatever bills he had. He must have used only local services. Nothing through the mail. It’ll be easy to retrace his steps from the disability checks he deposited, but he hardly spent a cent. Almost everything he had he rolled over into these CDs.

  “Okay, stay on it.”

  “You know me, Leo, I don’t believe anything I hear and only half of what I see. So far what I see is nothing but I’ll keep on it.”

  Kelly walked in and showed me a memo from Larry. Alice Timmons: Negative on old neighbors. The address the bank had is now a mall. Also, negative on prisons or hospitals, mental or otherwise.

  Our best bets were the girlfriend in San Francisco and locating either set of grandparents.

  I was getting ready to go to the library when Larry buzzed me.

  “Leo, Edward Timmons had a safe deposit box with Cavalier Savings and Loan. Only they drilled it and emptied it over three years ago.”

  Shit. So much for that. I raked my beard. What was it Rosa said? Don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. I rang Larry back.

  “Who’d you talk to, Larry?”

  “A Ms. Barlow, Emma Barlow at the Culmore branch.”

  “Give me that number, okay?”

  I scribbled it down and called Barlow myself. After a little to-and-froing with the receptionist, she got on the line.

  “This is Emma Barlow. How may I help you?”

  “I’m trying to locate the property of an Edward John Timmons. I’m working on behalf of the heirs to try to locate the estate in its entirety. I understand he had a safe deposit box with you.”

  “Yes, but we drilled it a number of years ago.”

  “And why was that, if I may ask?”

  “For delinquency on the fee for the box.”

  “How long was he overdue?”

  “At least two years. When we don’t get a renewal, we wait a year to send a notice. If that doesn’t get a reply, we wait a year and then send a drilling notice. If that doesn’t work, we wait sixty days, then the box is drilled and the contents seized.”

  “Seized? What do you mean, seized?”

  “By law we are entitled to sell the contents at auction to pay the outstanding bills.”

  “So did you sell the property?”

  “No, we don’t do that here. We just emptied the box and sent it to the central office. They handle the auctions.”

  Down, Leo, down. I deflated myself. Old habits die hard. This isn’t the White Rabbit’s hole and you sure as hell aren’t little Alice. It’s just a little chink in the orderly face of the universe. Nothing in there but darkness.

  “Who do I call to see about these auctions?”

  “Call Diego Perez. He’s the manager in charge of that.”

  I went through the same spiel with Perez. He said he’d check out what happened with Timmons’s box.

  “Well, Mr. Haggerty, here it is. We were unable to auction off the contents of that box.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, there was no
thing of value in it.”

  Of course. “So what happened to it?”

  “Oh, it’s here in our vault. We hold it here for five years, then it escheats to the state and we ship it to the unclaimed property division in Richmond.”

  “Do you know what’s in it?”

  “Let me see. The inventory lists some notebooks, loose cards, locks of hair, bags of fingernail clippings, and loose teeth in a bag.”

  Wonderful. Take-out from the refrigerator.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, two scrapbooks.”

  “Can I come over and look at them?”

  “No. I’m sorry. They’re not for display.”

  “Well, what if I wanted to buy it from you? What would it cost?”

  “Hold a minute.” He obviously did some figuring. “The rent on the box was a hundred dollars per year. Two years and two months is two hundred sixteen dollars and sixty-seven cents. The drilling fee is seventy-five dollars. Storage fee here is thirty-five dollars per year for three years two months is one hundred and ten dollars and eighty-three cents. For a total of four hundred and two dollars and fifty cents in back charges you can have the contents of Mr. Timmons’s safety deposit box.”

  “Okay. I’ll buy it. Don’t sell it to anyone else. I’m on my way down. How do you want payment?”

  “Cash, cashier’s check, or bank draft will be fine.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way. Be there in about twenty minutes.”

  I did everything but say “First dibs.”

  I hurried across the street to our bank, got a cashier’s check drawn, and went straight out Route Seven from our Tysons Corner office.

  I walked into Cavalier Savings and Loan and was directed to Mr. Perez’s office. He could have been a sangria poster boy. Bronze skin, wavy black hair, mustache, and a smile you had to squint into.

  “I’m Leo Haggerty, Mr. Perez. I’m here to purchase the contents of Mr. Timmons’s box.”

  He motioned me to a seat and handed me a bill of sale detailing the fees to be paid and the contents of the box. I signed it and handed him the check. He picked up a canvas sack from behind his desk and handed it to me. I pulled back the yoke on the sack and eyeballed the contents: notebooks, bags, scrapbooks, loose papers. Everything I’d been promised.

  I threw the sack over my shoulder and hustled back to my car. There I put the sack on the front seat next to me, opened it, and peered in. I felt like anyone but Santa Claus as I checked my treasures. Notebooks full of mathematical symbols running for pages, chemical equations, diagrams, some of wiring, others I had no idea. Long rambling passages, part prayer, part diatribe. Pleading now, then ranting. Incoherent to an outsider. I counted the volumes. Nine of them. I put them in the backseat. Then the bags. One of nail clippings. Lots of them. Another of teeth. More than a mouthful. Kids’ and adults’. One of hair. Long strands from the head, held together by tape. Shorter curlier bunches from God knows where. Well, at least he didn’t save his body fluids and waste. I thought about the refrigerator and winced.

  Last out were the two scrapbooks. Book one was Edward John Timmons’s youth. Report cards, cards to his mother, pictures, science and math awards, letters, school papers. Some of the loose cards in the bottom of the bag had obviously slipped out of the books. I opened book two. So far what I had would help us find his parents and then, I hoped, their grandchild. College papers, grades, awards, graduate diplomas. Then a wedding photo. Edward John and Alice Cecilia Timmons. She had her head on his shoulder, a wide smile on her face. Happy, secure, not for one second imagining that in a matter of two years she’d run from this man like he was the devil himself. Eddie was smiling, only his eyes were already elsewhere evading the camera. How crazy were you on this day, Eddie? Was this one last desperate attempt to be normal? To look like everybody else? An escape into and through someone else’s life? What undid you? Was two years of close contact with another human being too much? Was it fatherhood? Maybe you were already gone.

  Bad ends everywhere, Eddie. I don’t see anybody who knew you the better for it. I flipped through the last few pages. Pictures of Alice and the baby. More of the child with her father. The baby pictures told me nothing. She was standard-issue chubby with a fringe of hair on top. Then came the divorce papers and that was it. I picked up the decree and a small piece of folded paper fell out of the book.

  I picked it up and unfolded it. The old newsprint was yellow and stiff. It was only one column wide and so brief that it could have been filler for the back pages. It read:

  Alice Cecilia Timmons, 27, and her daughter Sarabeth, aged 2, were killed instantly when their car was struck head on by another driven by a juvenile whose name has been withheld by authorities. Police did confirm that the driver’s blood alcohol level was almost twice the legal limit and that the accident occurred when he crossed into the lane of oncoming traffic going in excess of 90 miles per hour.

  I may not know who you are, Blondie, but I know who you aren’t.

  CHAPTER 9

  Working backward from Alice Timmons’s last driver’s license, we assumed that she’d died somewhere in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. With names, dates of birth, social security number, and the year of death, I had Larry begin to canvas all the city and county departments of vital statistics.

  Around seven-thirty we closed the case. The death certificates were filed at Parker Center in Los Angeles County. Larry read me the details.

  “Larry, have them send us a triple-seal copy, overnight mail. Find out the cost and we’ll wire them the funds.”

  “Okay. But what the hell is a ‘triple-seal copy’ anyway?”

  “It’s the legal equivalent of a snake with its tail in its mouth. The first seal is the clerk of the court authenticating that the document is real. The second seal is the judge authenticating that the clerk is the clerk. The third seal is the clerk authenticating that the judge is the judge. Got it?”

  I rang Joe Anthony at home. “You can cancel your meeting with Duckworth, Joe. This one’s over.”

  “And the answer is?”

  “Sarabeth Timmons, age two, went through a windshield and flew one hundred seventy-two feet until she hit a tree and died I can only hope instantly.”

  “For certain?”

  “Triple-sealed death certificate is on its way.”

  “No way it could have been another kid?”

  “No. The accident happened a block from her home. Neighbors saw them get in the car, the accident, the bodies. She’s dead.”

  “Good work, Leo. It’s a shame about the kid, but it’s good news for my client.”

  “Thanks for the referral, Joe. As always a pleasure working with you.”

  I sent Larry home and went about pulling the plug on the investigation: scraping together the papers for the file, calling off Del and Clancy and Rosa and leaving Kelly a note to prepare a bill for Mr. Skrepinski.

  I sat in the office, quiet and still and dark beyond my door. So much for the hamster wheel of success. I stepped off and came to a complete halt. I didn’t feel like celebrating. A nice dinner out with myself was becoming the booby prize for solving cases. I didn’t want to go home either.

  I screwed my jaws shut, took a long, slow breath, and began to count. Back to basics, Leo, back to basics. When in doubt go back to what you know is true. The truth is this too shall pass. All things do. Love passes. Whether it’s murdered, a suidde, or just natural causes. You know that. Well, so does everything else. I waited until the truth arrived and then went home.

  CHAPTER 10

  There’s no drink as bitter as curdled love, I thought as I read a deposition from one of our recent custody cases. The soon to be ex-Mrs. Rondell Shortley had acknowledged that she was surprised when we had caught her husband with another woman. She couldn’t imagine a woman finding him remotely attractive. She had only stayed with him because of the children, and went on to cite certain shortcomings in his lovemaking. She described his foreplay as leaving her feeling
“sanded” and that he finished “like a badly hung door, always closing too soon and squeaking all the way there.”

  My office door opened and Kelly slipped in, came straight to my desk, and leaned over to tell me that there was a new client outside.

  I closed the deposition, folded my hands, and looked up at her. “Why are you in here telling me this?” I whispered. “Don’t the phones work?”

  “Yes, they do,” she whispered, and then stopped. “But this one isn’t on the books. She just walked in and I thought you might want to know who it is first before I said you were available.”

  “Is it Sam?” I said with too much interest.

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “It’s Ellen Piersall. Sorry.” I thought she truly was. Kelly waited for me to light up with recognition.

  “Piersall? Piersall? Sarabeth Timmons’s lover? What does she want?”

  “She wants to hire us, that’s what she said.” Kelly lifted her shoulders.

  “Sure, why not. What’s our motto? ‘No case too strange,’ right? Show her in. A little talk never hurt anyone.”

  Ellen Piersall strode in, a handsome woman about my age. I motioned her to a seat. She took it, crossed a leg over, and adjusted her skirt to hide her knee. Her hair was ash blond, not quite shoulder length. Hazel eyes. Her face in repose was unlined. Animation would age her.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Ms. Piersall. What can we do for you?”

  She smiled. It was a nice smile, mostly genuine pleasure dusted with a little rue. “I’m surprised to be here, Mr. Haggerty, but I don’t think I have any choice. As for what you can do for me, I’d like you to investigate Sarabeth Timmons. I’d like to know who she really is.”

  I’d heard stranger things but not in sober company. “Considering the havoc we probably brought to her life and yours, why come to us? There’s plenty of detectives in the book.”

  “True on all counts, Mr. Haggerty. But you have an advantage over everyone else. All the work you did proving who she wasn’t. I’m sure it turned up leads you didn’t have to follow. Also, you were successful. You found out things about her that she wanted hidden and you did it very quickly. This is just more of the same. That’s why I’m here. I think you can do the job and do it quicker than anyone else. Believe me, if I thought otherwise, you’d be the last agency I’d come to.”