A Case of You Page 18

  A kilometre from the road, the track dipped into a gully, effectively hiding her from any eyes.

  It was at this point she realized that no one knew where she was. That was downright stupid and dangerous. Once in the heat of the chase, she’d completely forgotten about the need to take care of that safety measure.

  Taking a flyer, Jackie pulled out her cell and waited a couple of minutes while it searched vainly for a signal.“Damn!” she said, stuffing it back in her pocket, well aware that any screw-up would mean her job.

  Shoving the map into the small pack she’d prepared back in Toronto, Jackie headed into the bush on foot.

  She’d just have to make sure she didn’t make any mistakes.

  An hour and a quarter later, she was lying on her muddy stomach under a bit of scrub, overlooking Sunnyvale, which lay spread out on the valley floor fifty metres or more below her.

  It was lucky she’d heard about the surveillance cameras, because she certainly would have stumbled within range of them. They were cleverly hidden high in the trees. One missed camera, and she was toast. The lack of scrub under the trees made approaching the compound doubly hard, and she had spent a lot of the time on her stomach, crawling through mud and the carpet of pine needles.

  Her binocs showed manicured grounds, where a few dozen people were strolling around or sitting in groups. The buildings were of varying sizes, and except for the three largest ones, all were a single storey. More ominously, surrounding the place was a tall, chain-link fence with razor wire at the top, the mainstay of Sunnyvale’s “superior security”. A large grass-covered berm had been constructed inside the fence, concealing it from those within, but also leaving more than enough room to stop somebody from climbing over unobserved – if they decided to brave the razor wire. Poles around the perimeter bristled with further surveillance cameras.

  Was it meant to keep the public out or the “Seekers” in?

  Scanning the grounds several more times, she noticed there were two distinct sets of clothing. Everyone seemed to be wearing jeans or sweatpants, with runners for footwear, but the shirts or jackets were either red and orange or blue and green, the latter for staff, the former for patients, judging by the numbers. She also saw three big men in reddish-brown pants and jackets. These had to be security.

  Over the next three hours, Jackie circled the enclave, always at a safe distance, and always with her eyes and ears open for anything signalling that she’d been detected. They’d probably just escort her away from their property, which seemed to extend several hundred metres from the fence line, judging by the cameras in the trees, but she didn’t want to chance that. One look inside her backpack would make it pretty clear she was more than a casual hiker.

  Jackie didn’t learn a lot more, except that everyone seemed to take part in outdoor exercise at three p.m. Buildings emptied, and roughly one hundred people gathered in a large centre quadrangle. At each corner of it, poles with loudspeakers blasted out directions and music. Although more than two hundred metres away, Jackie could make out the occasional word when the wind blew in her direction.

  She spotted three women who could be Olivia, but with all the moving about, Jackie never could manage to see clearly enough to be certain.

  She packed it in around four thirty, knowing that darkness descended quickly up in the hills. The last thing she wanted was to be stumbling around in the bush after dark.

  Her surveillance hadn’t gotten her much in the way of new information, except that if Olivia and Maggie had escaped by scaling that fence, her hat was off to them.

  On her way back to town, Jackie kept trying for a phone signal strong enough to use. It wasn’t until she was about two kilometres away that she got anything decent. She decided to return to the motel, take a hot shower to get the sweat and dirt off, then phone Shannon to give her the bird’s eye lowdown on the little she had – and also to pitch her idea for the next step, one she was sure would upset her boss.

  ***

  My two hired guns had been gone for twenty-four hours, and I hadn’t gotten very far on my own project: Maggie. I’d found out pretty quick when I’d phoned Palmer the day before that the cops only want to speak with you when they want to speak with you. Unless you have something they want, don’t even bother trying to engage them in any sort of conversation. The Toronto detective had as much as told me that, before hanging up on me.

  The papers and TV news had been little help. Their lack of new information led to endless looping of the events on my front porch. The police tape was still up, and that kept most people away, but wackos still had to be chased off the porch and out of my yard at all times of the day and night.

  Palmer was so helpful when I complained about this. “Hire yourself some security company to keep the curious away. That’s the only way to do it.”

  “But I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Not my problem.”

  When it got out that Maggie had been turning tricks, Sandra, of course, went ballistic. “You bring whores to our house?”

  “Don’t say our house,”I snapped, “and I didn’t bring her anywhere. As a matter of fact, I tried my best to discourage her from coming around.”

  “You weren’t very effective, were you? Your own daughter ratted you out on that one! I’ll bet your girly was cut from the same cloth.”

  I felt like throwing the phone through the window but somehow managed to keep my voice steady. “Sandra, you’re overwrought, so I’ll excuse that. I need help to get through this mess.”

  “You expect me to help?”

  “No, I expect you not to make it more difficult than it already is.”

  That at least got through to her. Up until I’d invited Olivia to live at the house, we’d gotten along reasonably well. Always a control freak, Sandra probably felt I was finally slipping away from her. I know that sounds perverse, considering she’d walked out on me.

  “May I talk to Kate?” I asked after a few seconds of silence.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll get her.” She put down the phone noisily, and I could hear her yell, “Kate! Your dad’s on the phone.”

  The little devil picked it up way too fast not to have been listening to our conversation from the top of the stairs.

  “Hi, Daddy? Have you found Olivia yet?”

  Whether she was trying to get her mother’s goat or was simply being an unaware kid, the phone downstairs was hung up far harder than it needed to be.

  “The detective I brought over on Sunday is out looking with one of her assistants. Have you remembered anything else about Olivia that you think she should know? Any help from you might get her back even faster.”

  The line was silent while Kate thought.“We mostly talked about our painting. She said she was glad I was there to help her with it. She also liked living at our house. She said it was so friendly. That’s sort of a weird thing to say, isn’t it?”

  “I’m writing it down, Katie, and I’ll tell P.I. O’Brien.”

  “It’s pretty cool that you have a lady detective working for you, Daddy. All my friends are jealous.”

  I smiled at that. “I’m going to take you out for burgers and a movie on Sunday. How does that sound?”

  “Great! But are you sure Mom will let you? I mean, you should see her whenever a news report comes on. She throws a hairy fit.”

  “I’ll talk to her when we’re finished, honey. I think I can make her understand.”

  “Then we’re finished. I’ll tell her, okay? Love you, Daddy!”

  The Salamander was packed that night, and it wasn’t people who’d be disappointed that Olivia wasn’t singing, either. Nor were they there to hear our new vocalist, who did the job okay, although she just couldn’t hold a candle to Olivia; no one could. They were there to check out the guy who’d found a stiff on his front porch. I’ve never had so many offers of drinks in my life. If I hadn’t been firm in my commitment to stay on the wagon, I could have gone on quite a bender without leaving the club. />
  “Any news on our AWOL singer?” Dom asked when we had a moment alone.

  I really didn’t want to tell him very much. He had liked Olivia a lot, teasing her like a kid sister, but I wasn’t sure how he’d respond to what Shannon and Jackie had found out about her.

  “That investigator you connected me with has sent someone out to look for her at Sunnyvale.”

  “Yeah, weird place. Hard to think of Olivia being there. Ronald was talking to me about it earlier.”

  “How does Ronald know about Sunnyvale?”

  Dom shrugged. “Search me. You know how he spends half his life on the frigging computer.”

  Halfway through the third set, two women came in and took an empty table off to the side. Dom pointed them out to me, and it didn’t take much perception to peg them as ladies of the night. We did get the odd one in occasionally, looking to dig up a little business on a cold night, but Harry usually gave them the bum’s rush pretty quick. He didn’t want trouble with the cops. If they came in on the arm of a male, that was a different matter. Those girls were traditionally welcome in a jazz club.

  They were staring at me as they talked together. When they noticed that I’d caught on, they didn’t look away embarrassed, but their expressions didn’t lead me to think they were interested in me in a business sense either.

  The last set was mostly instrumental, and Ronald was in the mood to cook. When his interest was piqued, the man could blow with the best of them, and that was a pleasure to be part of. Off the bandstand, the only thing keeping us together was the fact that he hustled gigs, good paying gigs, which made up for most of his multitude of shortcomings. It doesn’t cast Dom and me in a very good light, though. I guess people would call us lazy. We’d both be broke if we had to rely on each other for work.

  We got a good round of applause after our last tune of the night, and Ronald even acknowledged my drum solo to the audience, a rare occurrence. But it was one of my better efforts. I’d spent the entire afternoon practising to ease my frustration at the way my life was going.

  With a towel around my neck, I was putting all my sticks back in the leather bag I use for them, when one of the “ladies” walked up to me.

  “You the guy who found that girl on his porch?”

  I straightened up, thinking, Great come-on line. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  Her companion was right behind. “You got time to talk to us?”

  God forgive me, but my first thought was that Sandra was trying to set me up. I actually looked around for a photographer or cop. “May I buy you ladies a drink?”

  We went over to the band table. Dom was making an early evening of it, and Ronald had to take our new singer, Julia, home. We’d have a bit of privacy. Loraine took our order with nothing more than a comically raised eyebrow at my companions.

  “Now, what can I do for you?” I asked, once the drinks had been served.

  “We been talking about this a lot,” said the one who’d first approached me. She was a tall, obviously dyed blonde.

  Her companion, shorter, with faux red hair and enormous breasts, added, “Yeah. We knew Maggie. We don’t want to talk to no cops, but we thought somebody should know what she told us.”

  Chapter 14

  “I will expect you at twelve thirty, then, Ms O’Brien. Luncheon will be served, and we can chat.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. St. James,” Shannon said into her cell. “That will work well for me.”

  She couldn’t believe the turn of events. Since leaving Toronto, she’d gotten useful information, certainly, but it wasn’t enough to lead to any firm conclusions. Then the one person she really needed to see – and had been told she couldn’t – called her office out of the blue, inviting her down to Manhattan for lunch, supposedly to help her understand Olivia’s situation with the family.

  “I don’t want you relying on specious information. That could hurt all of us,” she’d said. “Let me set the record straight for you.”

  Shannon didn’t believe for a moment that there wasn’t an ulterior motive.

  The railroad serving Mamaroneck ran on a raised bed not far from the Jeffries’ house. She stopped next to the large, red brick station at ground level, grabbed a timetable and asked directions for someplace nearby where she could get photocopying done. The timing was incredibly tight, but she managed it and got to the platform just as the train rounded the bend.

  At Grand Central Station, Shannon flagged a cab, which took her to the St. James mansion on the Upper East Side, just off Third Avenue. Built in the early part of the twentieth century, it was an imposing grey stone building, three storeys tall, now uncomfortably flanked by nondescript high rises. The four steps up from the street were covered with a bright red carpet. This was where Olivia had been brought up. Hard to imagine a person from such a background begging on Toronto streets.

  The bell was answered almost immediately by a large man in a dark, impeccably-tailored suit. Despite this, he looked more like a bouncer than a butler. The quality of the staff had gone downhill since the retirement of James Davis.

  “I have an appointment with Mrs. St. James,” Shannon said, looking way up.

  “You are expected. Please come in.”

  Relieved of her light spring jacket, shoulder bag and laptop case, she followed the butler into the depths of the house to a room at the back. The front rooms had been all dark woods with heavy draperies, carpets and furniture, but the one for their “informal luncheon” was light, airy and decorated in whites and yellows. The windows provided a view over a small, exquisite backyard, with a redbud in full spring glory at its centre.

  The lady of the house, coiffed, manicured and elegantly dressed, rose at Shannon’s entry.

  “I’m so glad you could come to meet with me,” she murmured, extending her hand.

  Her grip was firm like a man’s, and she held Shannon’s eyes for several seconds.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Shannon replied, squeezing even harder.

  “Today is so beautiful and warm, I thought the breakfast nook would make a better place for lunch than the dining room.”

  She picked up a little bell, and a maid appeared, carrying an ice bucket. White wine was poured to accompany a clear broth, then the maid served the main course of lobster crêpes and salad, followed by coffee and miniature pastries. The meal was superb.

  While they ate, Shannon’s brain was working overtime, trying to observe the smallest details and detect the tiniest nuances in the vapid conversation, which pointedly stayed away from anything to do with the real reason for this meeting. The widow of Bernard St. James II was very beautiful and knew it. Blonde and in her mid-forties, she obviously made a great effort keeping herself trim and fit. Shannon had already learned from Ellen Stein that she hadn’t remarried and wasn’t seeing anyone. Maybe the supersized butler was there for reasons other than butling?

  After the maid had poured a second cup of coffee for each woman and withdrawn, Mrs. St. James looked across the table. Her deep blue eyes glinted. “I’ve heard that you’re investigating my family.”

  “From James Davis,” Shannon answered, pointedly not posing it as a question.

  “As you know, he was with us for almost sixty-five years. He still thinks of himself as a loyal employee.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I understand my stepdaughter turned up in your city not that long ago.”

  “Did you also know that she was nabbed by two bounty hunters and returned to California?”

  “Of course. Olivia needs to be in the facility where she was placed. If you’ve met her, then you know she is a very troubled person.” Maxine St. James took another sip of coffee. “I asked you here today to make certain you haven’t been getting, ah, suspect information and drawing wrong conclusions from that.”

  Shannon leaned back in her seat. “Why don’t you set the record straight then?”

  “Olivia, quite frankly, lives in a dream world. Her parents spoiled her completely, and her
considerable psychological needs were swept under the carpet. My late husband just could not bear to face the issues.”

  “But you could.”

  “Of course. I was not emotionally tied to the problem. After the tragic death of her brother, Olivia’s grip on whatever reality she still retained crumbled completely. When I finally convinced Bernard that she needed help we could not provide at home, she was little more than a walking vegetable. Quite sadly, her condition has not improved over the years.”

  Shannon leaned forward. “Couldn’t a portion of her problems be put down to her drug addiction? Surely that situation has improved.”

  “Ms O’Brien, I am aware of everything you discussed with Jim. To answer you, yes, that has been taken into account.”

  “Mrs. St. James, what exactly is wrong with Olivia?”

  “Well, not being a trained psychologist, I can only tell you what I’ve been told. She is in a dissociative state. The doctors we brought in – and only the best of the best, incidentally – feel that the horrible experience of seeing her birth mother killed in front of her eyes drove her into this state. Her brother being murdered just put the final nail in the coffin.”

  “Is she examined by these experts on a regular basis to see if there have been any changes?”

  “Of course. They travel to California once a year to examine her. In the six years my stepdaughter has been at Sunnyvale, there has been no change in her condition. As a matter of fact, they feel she’s deteriorating.”

  “Really? That wasn’t the experience of the people who met and interacted with her in Toronto. Yes, she did seem rather odd in many ways, but she managed to hold down a job singing in a band and was quite good at it, I’ve been told.”