A Fistful of Empty Page 6

“She know this guy?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She was hitting on him. The way they were talking, I don’t think she knew him before.”

  I let go of Harold’s hand and leaned back. There was something all wrong about this, but I didn’t know what. I ran through his story again, trying to get his actions to lie down with his motives. There were two things that just didn’t make sense. I played with them until I came to a new appreciation of Harold.

  “Why such a nice guy, Harold? First, you tell this guy exactly what he wants to know, and now you tell me what I want. I don’t see a merit badge in this for you, Harold.”

  “What’s your problem? I gave you what you wanted. Isn’t that good enough?”

  “That’s it. It’s too good. So I don’t trust it. Even in here you need money, Harold. For a lawyer, for starters. Bonnie could have gotten that key for you. Unless you aren’t going to be in here.” I let that thought blossom.

  “Oh Harold, you rodent, you. You’re going to roll over on your buddies. Then into the Witness Protection Program. You don’t need money. They’ll get you a job, a new Bonnie, a new everything. So you sicced that fucker on us.”

  Harold pulled his lips back over his tusks and let his head bob in silent glee. “You guys fucked me over, bringing me in. Just thought I’d return the favor.”

  “And you gave me what I wanted, so I wouldn’t come in here and fuck it all up for you.”

  “That’s right, Jew-lover. Now you gotta go looking for him. And hope you find him before he finds you.”

  “You told him Arnie was the tough nut. No talking to him. He should whack him right off, then go to work on me.”

  Harold sniggered. “Guess I was right, wasn’t I? You’re the one here all bent out of shape.”

  “Enjoy it while you can, Harold. If that key isn’t in the car, I’m going to have to come back and talk to you again. Fatally.”

  13

  The guy must have been pretty desperate to come into the police station after Harold. I know I was. Maybe he left some useful information when he signed in. A look at the photo they took of him would help quite a bit. As I walked back to the check-in station, I tried to compose a story that would get me what I wanted. I’d signed in using my real name and told them that I was the investigator hired by Harold’s attorney and needed to talk to the client about what happened. I got my story straight and was prepared to use it, when I saw Rhodasson and Arbaugh walking down the hall. They had their heads together and were pointing at something in a file Rhodasson carried. I turned toward the wall and studied wanted posters and personnel notices. Walk on by, I urged them silently. I saw my scant lead over them shrinking to nothing. Where were the moron cops of TV when you needed them.

  Rhodasson and Arbaugh were at the check-in desk asking to see the visitor list. That was my cue to leave. I turned away from them, ambled across the hall, and right out the front door.

  I left the parking lot as unobtrusively as possible. I couldn’t move this guy from Renee’s party to the jail without going through Bonnie. Who else knew where Harold had gone?

  On my way to Bonnie’s house I called the office.

  “Kelly, Leo here. Couple more things for you. First call Bolton Farms School. Ask for the seniors’ guidance counselor and tell her that Randi Benson will be out of school for the rest of the week. Sudden death in the family.” I thought of where the Rev would hide her. He hated cold weather. So did Wardell. “She’s back in North Dakota for the services and so on. Tell her I picked her up very late last night. Explain that you’re calling for me, I’m her legal guardian, and if necessary I’ll call her later to confirm it. Got that?”

  “Uh-huh. What’s next?”

  “Who went to the morgue to get Arnie’s personal effects?”

  “Bobby Lee. He’s going from there to the Parson’s Funeral Home to arrange for the cremation.”

  “Fine. Call Bobby and have him go from the funeral home to the D.C. police impound yard. Tell him to go through Arnie’s car. The keys should be in his effects. Tell him to feel back behind the rear-seat cushion for a key, a locker key. When he’s got it, have him call me on my car phone or my beeper. I’ll get right back to him. Tell him to assume he’s being tailed and I’ll give him instructions to meet me once he’s on the road.”

  “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”

  Kelly was the first person I hired when I took over. Her predecessor typed twenty-five errors per minute and thought taking dictation was something you did on your knees. She must have thought she was working on Capitol Hill. I hired Kelly right out of high school. She’d been in the Voc. Ed. track even though she was clearly bright enough for academic work. A string of foster home placements had put a big dent in her self-confidence. Two years with us and she was starting to take courses at NOVA with an eye to a criminology degree from George Mason.

  Bonnie’s house was a half-hour drive. I pulled up in front and parked. Four days ago this place had been a fortress to be stormed. Now it was a rundown duplex with a patchy crabgrass lawn and peeling siding.

  I stepped out of the car and glanced up and down the street. No cars with occupants. I tried to convince myself that he wouldn’t be here. He’d already gotten what he wanted, the next link in the chain to his precious key. No reason to return here. No reason at all. I shrugged a little so my holster felt more accessible and walked across the yard to the front steps.

  I pulled back the screen and rapped on the door. No answer. I rapped again. The other door flew open and a figure jumped out onto the divided porch. I whipped out my .45 and nearly blew a hole through a ten-year-old boy who hollered, “See you later, Mom,” and scampered down the steps and out to the street.

  I holstered my gun, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Get a grip, Haggerty. I was shaken. Not just by what I’d almost done but by how thin my veneer of competence was.

  I rapped a third time on the door, then tried the handle. Unlocked. After the unpleasant visitors she’d been having lately, I thought Bonnie’d use more care. I pushed open the door and called her name. Then again.

  Out came my pistol and I stepped into the house. It was surprisingly cold. The thermostat read 55. An ugly thought started to form. The living room bore his stamp, neo-modern chaos. A quick peek into the kitchen showed more of the same. The bathroom was empty.

  I approached the stairs and went up with a sideways cross-step like a cantering horse. My gun swung in a constant arc. My head passed the level of the upper floor and I saw that the bedroom doors were open. A window air conditioner labored and whined. First, the bathroom. I pushed open the door. It was empty.

  Something floated in the tub. I stepped closer and saw an archipelago in the murky water. Toes, a knee, the navel island, two nipples, and her nose. Bonnie floated mutely, her eyes wide open. A cord around her neck anchored her to the drain.

  I put my finger in the tub. Still cold. That and the chill air and it would be a while before anyone knew she was here. Wreak havoc with the time of death, too.

  Arbaugh and Rhodasson would be on their way over here pretty soon. I’d already left a memorable impression on the front porch if anyone was watching.

  I decided not to search the place but just scan what was already exposed. Nothing in the front bedroom. The middle room was full of Harold’s Nazi paraphernalia, including posters, flags, helmets, insignia, and a ton of propaganda. I grabbed a few copies of the Fourth Reich’s newsletter Call to Arms and headed for the door.

  Driving back to Virginia, I called Sam’s room and got no answer.

  Ten minutes later my phone rang.

  “Leo, Bobby Lee. I got your key.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “Storage locker. Number on it is 312.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is the company name on the key? The company that manufactured it.”

  “Yeah, Amerilock Corporation.”

  “Okay. Do
es it have a plastic cover on the top?”

  “Yeah, bright red.”

  “Okay. Call Amerilock. Tell them you have a locker key, the number, and the cover color. That’s how they code the location for the keys they sell to storage companies. When they tell you where the locker is located, go down and empty it. Take Clancy with you. The guy who wants that key has already killed twice for it. Assume you’re being tailed. Once you’ve got what’s in the locker, call me on my beeper and we’ll arrange for a transfer.”

  “On my way.”

  14

  I called the hospital again. This time there was an answer. The nurse who took the call put me on hold while she got her supervisor.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Yes, this is Leo Haggerty. Is my wife there?”

  “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Clayton, Samantha Clayton.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Haggerty, but your wife checked out a little while ago.”

  “Didn’t she have a D&C scheduled for this afternoon?”

  “Yes, but there was a change in the operating-room schedules, so she was moved up and had the procedure this morning. We advised her to stay overnight but she refused and discharged herself.”

  Shit. “The private-duty nurse she had, did that person go with her?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Haggerty, but I believe so.”

  At least something hadn’t gone wrong. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hung up, called Kelly, and asked if Sam had called the office.

  “No. But the nurse you hired, Mrs. Sorenson, did.”

  “Was there a message?”

  “No. But she left a number and asked you to call right away.”

  “Okay, give it to me.”

  She read it off and I wrote it down. “Any other calls?”

  “Clancy called. He’s with Bobby. He said they were on their way to a storage locker to get something for you. He said he’d call you directly when he actually had it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up and dialed Mrs. Sorenson. She picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Sorenson, this is Leo Haggerty. You were contacted by Rocky Franklin to watch my wife, Samantha. I understand she left the hospital. Is she there with you?”

  “No, Mr. Haggerty, she’s not.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “First, Mr. Haggerty, I need to confirm your identity. The scars on your left leg, how did you get them?”

  At least Rocky was thinking. “I tore my knee up playing lacrosse. Torn cartilage and a dislocated kneecap. The surgery was to fix the damage. The surgeon was Geoff Whitney. He did it in 1973. It was pre-arthroscopy, so they look like railroad tracks. Do you want any more?”

  “That’s sufficient, Mr. Haggerty. Your wife signed herself out against the doctor’s advice. I believe she was distressed by your absence and did not want to wait for you or be in the hospital anymore.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She went to your home. She packed a small bag and left in the cab we took from the hospital.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with her?”

  “She fired me, Mr. Haggerty. She said she didn’t want any protection and that if I attempted to stop her or to follow her she’d report me to the police.”

  “Great. Did she say anything else?”

  “No. Nothing at all. However, watching her pack, I’d say she was pretty angry. She was throwing things around and kicking things out of her way when she left.”

  “Were you followed from the hospital?”

  “No. I checked on that.”

  “How about when the cab left the house?”

  “Nobody followed it.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help. Send your bill to my office.”

  “There’s one last thing, Mr. Haggerty.”

  “Yes?”

  “The cab was a Universal, Number 31. He left here at 2:38.”

  “Good thinking.”

  While I was concocting a story for the Universal dispatcher, my beeper went off. I checked the number of the call and dialed it.

  “Hello.”

  “Clancy, it’s Leo, what have you got?”

  “It’s a data disk, Leo. For a computer.”

  “Any markings on it?”

  “None.”

  “All right. Let’s make the exchange at Tysons Corner.”

  “One or Two?”

  “One. You know the escalators near the middle, about halfway between Hecht’s and Bloomingdale’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, you park on the upper level, then hang around the escalator until you see me at the bottom. When I go up, you come down. Leave Bobby behind to watch your back.”

  “All right. When will you be there?”

  I checked my watch. “Give me a half hour or so. If I’m not there by four, leave and I’ll set it up again.”

  “See you there.”

  I dialed information, then Universal Cab Company.

  “Universal Cab. May I help you?”

  “Yes, this is Dr. Kenworthy, Valleyview Mental Hospital. May I speak with your supervisor, please?”

  “Hold one minute.” While I held, I mused on the pastoral motif in naming mental-health facilities. The healing power of chipmunks, mountain streams, and unmowed grass.

  “This is Darnita Terry.”

  “This is Dr. Kenworthy. One of our patients, Samantha Clayton, was picked up today by your cab Number 31, a little after two-thirty p.m. She was supposed to be dropped at our aftercare facility on Rolling Road. Well, she hasn’t shown up there and it’s quite late. Ms. Clayton is just out of the hospital for her latest suicide attempt and we’re quite concerned. She’s due for her Stelazine before five p.m. Can you contact this cab? If he’s broken down en route we’ll send someone to get her.”

  “Let me call that unit and I’ll get right back to you, Doctor.”

  “I’d rather hold on and wait, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” She clicked off and I drummed my hand on the steering wheel.

  A minute later she was back. “Dr. Kenworthy, our driver dropped your patient off about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “That’s not possible. She never checked in at the center. Where was she dropped off? This is quite alarming, considering her history. She may be planning another attempt. She can be very cunning.” I measured out the words for effect. “She may have lied to your driver about where she was to be dropped off. Can you get the address he left her off at? It’s a start. I hope it wasn’t just a street corner?”

  “Hold on, Doctor. I’ll radio the driver, see if I can get you an exact address.”

  “Thank you.” I inflated the words with sincerity.

  A minute later she told me it was Sandy Abrams’s address. She was a friend of Sam’s. I thanked her again, sang her praises, and headed toward Tysons Corner.

  On my way over, I called Sandy and spoke to her machine.

  “Sandy, it’s Leo Haggerty. I’m trying to get in touch with Sam. I know she went to your place. Tell her she can reach me at any time on my beeper.” I waited a second, then went on, “Sam, if you’re there and you’re listening to this, pick it up or call me. I’m in the car. We need to talk.” I held on for thirty seconds, hoping she would cut off the tape and talk to me. When she didn’t, I cradled the receiver in defeat.

  Tysons Corner is a suburban satellite for Washington, D.C. It provides easy access to the halls of power in Washington, without the combat-zone ambience of the city. Corporate America isn’t crazy about doing its business in Dodge City, and has moved out here. It’s now one of the largest commercial centers in America. Fairfax County is still trying to convince itself that it isn’t a city, just an ill-constructed intersection. The place needs its own government, not more turn lanes.

  The land around here is too valuable to let p
eople live on. Developers came in, bought up the next street over from mine, and leveled all the houses so they could put up an office building. It’s not too bad, I guess. You take the money and run to Loudoun or Stafford and buy a farm with twenty or thirty acres.

  With all that wealth clotting in one place, you have to find ways to dispose of it, and so there’s more shopping than Imelda has shoes. Jerusalem for the Yuppite Kingdom. Every possible luxury for sale. A boutique devoted to every conceivable specialty. All things portable, white, or left-handed. Only musicboxes, a gadgeteria, designer cookies. Custom made, handmade, imported.

  I pulled into the parking lot behind Nordstrom’s, got out, walked through the store, and strolled down to Woodies. Inside Woodies, I took the escalator down to the lower level and walked toward Hecht’s. When they’d expanded the mall, they put in an atrium roof and planted palm trees everywhere. In the distance, I could make out Bloomingdale’s. Halfway there was a pair of escalators. I loitered near the bottom until I saw Clancy leaning against the railing above me. When our eyes met, we each moved to step onto the moving stairs. I scanned the people behind Clancy: a McLean matron on her way to or from Anne Klein, three giggling teenage girls, and an impeccably dressed black man, probably a salesman at Britches.

  Clancy was doing the same for me. As we approached, he reached into his coat and pulled out the disk. When we passed, he slipped it into my palm and I dropped it into my inside jacket pocket. Nobody on his side even blinked. If anything was going on behind me, I trusted Clancy to take care of it. The rest of the ride was pleasantly dull.

  When I stepped off the stairs, I saw Bobby Lee sitting on a bench eating a danish. He looked right through me. That meant no one had been loitering around the escalator while I was coming up. I walked past him and moved briskly to my car. Bobby would watch to see if anyone was following me and then fall in behind. I resisted the urge to break into a trot, to whistle, or suddenly spin around, and finally climbed into my car.

  I turned on the engine, pulled out of my space, and meandered around the herd of cars to Route 7. Once on 7, I turned on the radio. Gene Ryder, local boy making good, was telling me that when he picks up his guitar, “It feels like a gun, feels like a gun, feels like a gun.” Why doesn’t it work the other way around?