4

As soon as I returned to my car, I sat and made notes on a series of index cards. I’d picked up an assortment of names: Iris Lehmann, Troy Rademaker, Bayard Montgomery, and Poppy Earl. Austin Brown should have appeared at the top of the list, but he’d done a runner and no one seemed to know where he was.

Lauren had entrusted the tape and the packaging to my care and I took a moment to examine the manila envelope. I couldn’t see how my having it would help. It was a common bubble-cushioned mailer with no distinguishing characteristics. Not even a brand name that I could spot. Identical items were sold daily at office supply stores, drugstores, and stationery stores across the country. I had no access to sales records even if I wanted them, so tracking down the person who purchased it was out of the question. I was in the same fix when it came to fingerprints, assuming there were some. I had a kit and I could dust, but I couldn’t gain entry to a database for purposes of comparison. The same was true with regard to the saliva on the stamp. Chances were the culprit had used common tap water and a sponge. DNA? Forget it. This was the downside of work like mine. I don’t have the resources to pursue the fine points. There have been occasions when I’ve prevailed upon Cheney Phillips or Jonah Robb to run a license plate number, but they aren’t supposed to use their computers for outside inquiries and I didn’t want to get either one in hot water on my account.

I wondered dimly why I’d agreed to try tracking down the extortionist in the first place. If I managed to pinpoint the individual, what good would it do? If I confronted the perpetrator, he or she wasn’t going to admit it. The McCabes couldn’t threaten to turn the matter over to the DA because that’s what the extortionist was threatening to do to them. This was the equivalent of two cowboys facing off with guns drawn. Neither party could afford to make a move.

As for the tape, I couldn’t see how you could ask your local photo shop to make a copy. You’d have the cops on your doorstep within the hour. Then again, the extortionist wouldn’t have sent the original, so this had to be a duplicate. I studied the cassette, which was the standard type you could buy countless places.

I took a quick look at my watch. It was 4:45 and I might still be able to hit one of the local camera shops before it closed. I started the car and headed into town. As nearly as I could remember, there was a superstore on Milagro, which was closer to my neck of the woods.

I slid into a parking space and scurried to the door. The hours listed on the sign in the window indicated the place was open until six, which at least alleviated the time constraint. I went in and waited for the nearest clerk to finish his business with another customer, after which he turned his attention to me.

“What can I do for you?”

He was in his midtwenties, tall and thin, with his hair in a ponytail, a scanty goatee, and his left earlobe punctured with a nut and bolt. His complexion was spotty and his bow tie and red suspenders seemed incongruous. What homely truth was he hoping to convey about himself?

I held up the tape. “I’m wondering if you can tell me how to duplicate a video cassette.”

“That one?”

“Not this. I’m asking in general.”

“When do you need it?”

“The time frame isn’t relevant. The question is hypothetical.”

“Explain.”

“The contents are personal and I wouldn’t feel comfortable turning the tape over to a photo shop for reproduction.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, let’s say, for instance, I recorded nude footage of myself.”

“To what end?”

“Maybe I’m an exhibitionist, hoping to titillate my boyfriend.”

“You’d be better off showing him the real thing. That’s what I’d go for in his shoes,” he said.

“The problem is theoretical.”

“So you say.”

“Actually, the tape shows actions of a questionable sort. The contents drift toward the criminal.”

“Why would a nice girl like you get into something like that?”

I ignored the question, which I thought was impertinent. “If a camera store couldn’t or wouldn’t reproduce the tape, how could I get it done?”

He leaned on the counter, resting his chin on his fist. “I guess you could project the contents on a screen and make a tape of the tape.”

I thought about it. “Nice. I like that. You’re saying I could make as many tapes as I had blank cassettes.”

“True.”

He held up an index finger. “Or. Somebody like me might be willing to do the job for you if the payoff was sweet enough.”

“Don’t think so,” I said. “You might feel obliged to contact law enforcement.”

“Is this a snuff film? Because I’m willing to contact law enforcement right now, if that’s the case.”

“No, it’s not a snuff tape! What kind of person do you think I am?”

“Someone in possession of a smutty homemade video ‘drifting toward the criminal,’ to quote you.”

I had to exercise patience, the Zen of not gnawing his ear off for being such an ass. “Let’s try this. Suppose I want to rent a video camera, can I get one here?”

“Nope. Don’t think so. Ordinarily, yes, but given what you’ve said, I’d be fired.”

I returned the tape to my bag, saying, “Thanks, anyway.”

“Here to serve,” he said.

So much for that idea. At least I had a notion now of how the extortionist managed to duplicate the tape, which I intended to return to Lauren as soon as possible. The damn thing felt like a time bomb. Tick tick tick. I wondered how many copies might be out there and whether anyone else had been slapped with financial demands. I drove home trying to map out an overall strategy, with no particular luck. At that point, I was long on questions and short on replies.

I found an amazing parking spot one door down from my studio apartment, which cheered me no end. I let myself in through the squeaking gate, feeling a rare optimism. I stopped in my tracks. The sidewalk just inside the gate was piled high with junk: a backpack, a sleeping bag, a waterproof ground pad, a duffel, a pup tent, and a portable wheelchair, plus two brown bags stuffed with clothing that smelled sooty even from where I stood. Mystified, I rounded the corner of the building and saw Pearl White on my doorstep, pounding on my door. She was leaning on a pair of crutches that looked like they might buckle under her prodigious weight.

“Pearl?”

“Hey, Kinsey. Long time no see.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Henry. I’ve been banging and banging and he’s not answering.”

I’d met Pearl many months before when I was investigating the death of a homeless fellow found on the beach. She was still big; probably size 22 blue jeans and an XXXL sweatshirt that said UCST, like she was a recent college graduate. Not that I have anything against big, but a shower would have helped. The pile of stuff on the sidewalk was doubtless hers, but what was she doing here? She was probably in her forties, though life had treated her so badly, she might be younger. Her wide face was pink, with cheeks tinted with broken capillaries. Her hair was chopped short. Her lower teeth were dark and every other one seemed to be missing.

I asked her the obvious. “What do you want with Henry?”

“Isn’t this where he lives?”

I pointed to his back door. “That’s his place. This is mine.”

“Oh yeah. I remember now. You rent this studio from him. Nice. I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a roomie? Because I’m looking for a place to stay.”

I indicated the crutches, saying, “What happened?”

“I got hit by a car. In the crosswalk and everything. Maybe crossing against the light, but that’s not a felony in this state. Broke my hip. I’m gonna sue the bastard if I can find an attorney who’ll take my case pro boner. You know someone good?”

“I don’t,” I said. “You were in rehab?”

“I was, but I’m done with that now. Problem is the doctors wouldn’t let me out unless I had a place to go. I remembered Henry because he was so nice when Terrence and Felix died. I had the woman at rehab call and she had a good long chat with him. He said I was welcome here for as long as I wanted.”

“Seriously. Henry said that?”

“You don’t believe me, ask him,” she said.

“What about Harbor House? Why not stay there?”

“A homeless shelter’s not equipped. The director said no right off the bat, which was damn rude of him. I’m practically a full-time resident and you’d think he’d have took me in. I threatened to punch his lights out, but he wouldn’t relent.”

Just then Henry came around the corner in his usual shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He was toting Pearl’s backpack in one hand and the two brown paper bags in the other. He seemed to take her presence for granted, which I considered an indication that what she’d told me was correct. He said, “Oh! You’re here. I wasn’t expecting you until after supper.”

“I figured the earlier the better. Give me time to get settled,” she said. “I’m hypoglycemic, so I can’t go too long between meals or I’ll get all shaky and sweaty.”

Henry said, “Don’t worry about it. I have supper all set up. Kinsey, why don’t you grab that wheelchair out front while I let her in?”

I was certain my face reflected my dismay, but Henry seemed oblivious and Pearl certainly wasn’t concerned. “Sure thing,” I murmured in lieu of breaking my teeth out with a rock.

I returned to the front gate, where I opened the collapsible wheelchair and piled the remaining items in the seat before I rolled it around to the back. Henry’s kitchen door was standing open and I could see lights on in the guest room. Pearl of all people. Had the man lost his mind? Maybe he’d been drinking when the call came through. He was a softie by nature, but to have Pearl White in residence beggared belief. Why his act of compassion so annoyed me, I couldn’t say. I hate to admit how little sympathy I have for moochers and human parasites. My Aunt Gin had raised me with a strongly worded caution about asking anything of others. Self-sufficiency was her goal. She frowned on the idea of dependency and social indebtedness. Given that she’d raised me from the age of five until her death when I was twenty-three, I was constitutionally unable to argue the point.

I took the liberty of opening the screen door, unloading Pearl’s possessions, and placing them just inside. Everything she owned smelled like cigarette smoke. I could hear the murmur of Henry’s voice at the far end of the house and I paused for a moment, wondering if I should wait and have a quick chat with him. Nah, probably not. One of us would walk away mad. I went back to my studio and let myself in. It was clear I wasn’t going to have supper with Henry at his place or anywhere else. I didn’t have the heart to go back to Rosie’s, given her enthusiasm for Hungarian dishes made with animal innards.

In desperation, I checked the paper for movies and ended up downtown sitting through Parenthood. My dinner was buttered popcorn and Diet Pepsi, which contained none of the major food groups unless corn is considered one. When Parenthood ended, it was only eight fifteen, so I treated myself to a double feature, buying a ticket for Turner & Hooch.

I got home well after ten. Henry’s place was dark, so I assumed he’d gone to bed. One jarring note was the sight of Pearl’s pup tent anchored in the middle of the backyard. Maybe clean sheets were too much for her to bear. In my dealings with the homeless, I learned that many prefer the night sky to a nine-foot ceiling, especially those who’ve been in jail. Ed, the cat, seemed puzzled by the pup tent as well. He sat just outside it, his head tilted as he stared at the zippered flap. I knew what was going on in his tiny mind. Why would anyone elect to sleep in the middle of his litter box?

I managed to avoid both Henry and Pearl for the remainder of the weekend. Really, it was Henry’s business if he invited someone to move in. I counseled myself to keep my mouth shut, no small accomplishment for me.

•   •   •

When I left for work Monday morning, the tent was still there and the surrounding dirt smelled like wee wee. I guess Pearl couldn’t be bothered to use indoor plumbing in the middle of the night. If Henry ever intended to resurrect his yard, he’d have to have the topsoil replaced before he did anything else. I wondered if human excrement was considered compost. If so, she could probably provide a sufficient quantity to fertilize his roses.

Once in the office, I put in a call to Lonnie Kingman, who was mercifully available. “Hey, Lonnie. Kinsey. I have a question for you.”

“And I bet I know what it is. You heard from Lauren McCabe.”

“Exactly. I appreciate the referral, but I’m wondering why you declined her business.”

“I didn’t like the position it put me in. If I agreed to represent the McCabes in the matter of the extortion, I’d have to explain the tape and its contents to the district attorney, which would subject Fritz to possible prosecution. In effect, I’d be saying, ‘My clients are being extorted over this tape showing their son involved in a rape.’ And then what? I’d end up trying to defend Fritz on that very rape charge? It just wouldn’t smell right. Because to do that properly, I’d have to convince the McCabes not to contact the police, which would be inappropriate.”

“Got it. I probably should have turned the job down myself, but I feel badly for everyone concerned. Fritz no sooner gets out of prison than he could be facing another criminal charge. The McCabes already paid a fortune for his defense. Who wants to face another round of legal hassles?”

“Amen,” he said, as though the two of us had prayed.

After we hung up, I considered the situation. It was, I could see in retrospect, the moment when I could have backed out gracefully, explaining that I’d had second thoughts about how effective I might be. Lauren might have been disappointed or annoyed, but all I had to do was return the retainer and that would have been the end of it.

But I was already hooked. The little terrier in my nature was busy chasing after the problem, throwing dirt up behind me as I dug my little hole. There was a rat down there somewhere and I would have it for my very own.

I typed up the contract detailing the work Lauren McCabe had asked me to do. I wrote her a receipt for the advance, which I’d include with the copy of the agreement. As I filled out the paperwork, it crossed my mind yet again that my mandate was weak. Find the extortionist and put a stop to the threat. Oh boy. Best not to think too deeply about what lay ahead.

In addition to her check, I pulled out a couple of other checks I needed to take to the bank and completed a deposit slip. I armed the system, locked up, and hopped in my car. I was gone fifteen minutes and when I pulled into the drive, I was greeted by the sight of a black-and-white patrol car and a uniformed officer, who was coming around the side of the building. He was young, early thirties, slim, and clean-shaven, with an air of competence I appreciated on sight. His name tag said T. SUGARBAKER.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“This is your place?”

“My office.”

“May I have your name?”

I gave him my name and showed him my driver’s license and a business card, watching while he made a note of the information. He kept my business card and handed back my license, which I returned to my shoulder bag. “What’s going on?”

“Your alarm went off and the company dispatcher called the number on record. When there was no answer, she contacted STPD. I was sent to check the premises. Kitchen window in the back is broken. It looks like someone took a rock to it.”

“Wow. I paid extra for a couple of glass-break sensors, but I thought I was being paranoid. Did the guy actually get in?”

“It doesn’t look like it. He was probably scared off by the alarm, but you might want to check.”

“Well, you were quick off the mark and I appreciate that.”

I unlocked the office and he followed me in. The two of us did a walk-through, he with an eye out for vandalism and me with an eye to theft. I assured him nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.

“I’ll turn in an incident report. If you want to file a formal report, you can stop by the station in the next few days. I can’t see asking your insurance company to pay for damages so minor, but it never hurts to have something on record. Sometimes you get a repeat attempt if they think you keep drugs or valuables on hand.”

“I don’t have either, but I’ll be on the alert.”

After he left, I sat down at my desk and tried to talk my way through the surge of fear I experienced once I was alone. I thought about Ned Lowe. There are times when I question my reactions, but this wasn’t one. There was nothing silly about my suspicions and I didn’t chide myself for jumping to conclusions. I had no proof it was Ned unless he’d left fingerprints, which he would have been careful to avoid. I couldn’t imagine his purpose, but his thinking was warped in any event and what he considered a legitimate motive would have subjected any other man to a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. A 5150, if you want to get technical.

To offset my anxiety, I put a call through to Diana Alvarez on the theory that being annoyed with her would supersede my apprehension. On the desk in front of me, I had the newspaper article she’d written about Fritz McCabe. She answered on the third ring and I identified myself.

“Well, Kinsey. This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Like there’s any other kind,” I said.

“Uh, good point. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m looking at your article about Fritz McCabe, wondering if you uncovered information you didn’t include.”

“I expressed my personal opinion, but my editor cut that part.”

“What’s your personal opinion?”

“I thought Fritz was fortunate he was tried as a juvenile. If he’d been tried as an adult, he might have been eligible for the death penalty or life in prison without the possibility of parole. Instead he served eight years and now he’s free.”

“Anything else?”

“There’s the matter of Austin Brown. I felt he deserved a mention. He’s on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. You know there’s a bounty on his head? Fifty thousand bucks.”

“Well, that’s generous. The reward’s been sitting there all these years?”

“Untouched. Either nobody knows where he is or they’re not willing to step up to the plate. I was hoping the story about Fritz McCabe would generate interest in Austin’s whereabouts.”

“Maybe you could write a separate article.”

“Afraid not. My editor says it’s old news.”

“But Austin Brown is a bad dude. You’d think it would be important to bring him in.”

“Not to my editor. If you ask me, this whole story is epic and deserves to be told beginning, middle, and end.”

“So far the end is missing.”

“Right, but aside from that, it’s got all the elements: youth, sex, money, betrayal.”

“Death,” I added.

“Right. I know it sounds cynical, but Austin Brown is the last dangling thread.”

“You have a theory about where he went?” I asked.

“Why? Are you going after him?”

“For fifty grand, I might,” I said, though the idea had never occurred to me.

“He’s been sighted half a dozen places, but none of those leads were legitimate. People are so eager to help, they hallucinate. Why are you so interested?”

“Strictly curious.”

“Fifty thousand dollars’ worth at any rate,” she remarked.

“Can I tell you my problem?”

“Why not? You’ve already interrupted my work.”

“Sorry about that, but here’s the deal. I want to talk to the players in the case, but I have no cover story and no bargaining power. I can hardly pass myself off as a reporter.”

“Sure you can,” she said. “People are more interested in talking than you’d think. I see it all the time when I’m trolling for interviews. Here’s the trick. Imply you have the information and you’re looking for confirmation. Better yet, tell ’em you’d like to hear their version of events before you go to press. Say your editor wants an update and he suggested you talk to them.”

“I wouldn’t need press credentials?”

“Only if you’re crashing a rock concert. People assume you’re who you say you are.”

“What about Sloan’s mother? Do you think she’d agree to meet with me?”

“God, you sound so tentative. I thought you had balls. Trust me, she’ll talk. All she does is talk about Sloan’s death. People who know her say she’s obsessed. For years now, she’s left Sloan’s room as it was. Closed the door and locked it.”

“Someone else mentioned that,” I said. “Sounds like she’s still sensitive about the loss.”

“I’m not sure grief like that ever goes away. In the meantime, she loves going back over the ‘facts of the case,’ hoping she can make it come out differently. Look her up in the phone book under the last name Seay.”

“Spell that.”

“S-E-A-Y. Like the word ‘sea’ with a Y on the end. She’s in Horton Ravine.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said. I glanced at the list of names I’d jotted down after my meeting with Lauren McCabe. “You don’t happen to have an address and phone number for Iris Lehmann?”

“The girl who got kicked out of Climp? Why talk to her?”

“I’d like to know what’s happened to her since.”

“Not much, I’ll bet. I have the home number I picked up years ago. Might not be good now, but you’re welcome to try. Last I heard, she was working in that vintage clothing shop on State. That might be the best way to contact her, but I can give you the home number if you like.”

“That would be great.”

“Hang on a sec.”

It took her a few minutes to retrieve her address book and flip through the pages. She gave me Iris’s home phone number with one condition attached. “You have to swear you’ll let me know if anything new develops. That might give me an arguing point for additional coverage of the old case.”

“I can do that,” I said. “In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same for me.”

“Happy to. Of course, then you’d owe me.”

“I can handle that.”

“Best of luck. I can’t wait to see what it feels like to have you in my debt,” she said.

After she hung up, I sat and stared at Iris Lehmann’s contact information. Hers was the first name on the list of people I wanted to talk to, but I was oddly reluctant to get in touch with her. What if the blackmail demand came from her? I couldn’t think why she’d try extorting money on the basis of a sex tape in which she starred front and center. I didn’t think her role was a criminal matter, but it certainly would be an embarrassment if it came to light.