U Is for Undertow

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Dolan this morning. He’s been gracious about keeping in touch with me since he retired. He called, saying your name had come up with regard to Mary Claire’s disappearance. He tells me a young man named Michael Sutton has come forward with information that looks promising.”

  “I don’t know what to say. May I call you Joanne?”

  “Of course.”

  “Michael was wrong about the date. This came to light yesterday and I’m still adjusting to the disappointment. He was a kid at the time, six years old, and the incident he remembered actually happened a week earlier, if at all.”

  “I don’t understand. Lieutenant Dolan said he came across two men digging what appeared to be a grave two days after Mary Claire was kidnapped. You’re saying his report was false?”

  “He made a mistake. There was no malice intended. He read a newspaper article and Mary Claire’s name triggered a vivid recollection. His story sounded reasonable. Detective Phillips thought it was worth pursuing and so did I.

  “Yesterday, Michael’s sister came in with evidence showing he wasn’t anywhere near Santa Teresa on the date he claimed, so it looks like he conjured the memory out of whole cloth. Whatever he saw, it had nothing to do with Mary Claire. I wish we had more, but it’s not there.”

  “Well.” She stared down at her hands.

  “I know all of this is hard on you, and I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I should be used to it by now. I should have detached years ago, but I’ve never found a way to do it. Something like this comes up . . . a scrap of information surfaces and even against my better judgment, I feel a flutter of hope. I can’t tell you how many people have come up with ‘clues’ in the last twenty years. They write, they call, they stop me on the street, all of them claiming to know Mary Claire’s whereabouts. Any reference in the paper and the ‘tips’ come pouring out. Some ask for money and some just want to feel important, I suppose.”

  “Believe me, Michael wasn’t doing this for gain. He was hesitant about going to the police and uneasy when they sent him over to me. As odd as his story was, it seemed to hold an element of truth. In the end, it just didn’t hang together.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone. It’s all just so endless.”

  “Look, I know this is none of my business, but can you tell me what happened afterward? I can’t imagine what it must have done to your personal life.”

  “It’s simple enough. My husband and I divorced. It might have been unfair to fault Barry for the way he handled the situation, but watching him those three days taught me things I hadn’t fully understood. He took over. He called all the shots. I was relegated to the sidelines while he dealt with the police and the FBI. My opinions and my reactions meant nothing to him. For the first time, I saw the sort of man I was married to.”

  “What would you have done if it had been up to you?”

  “Exactly what they asked. I’d have kept the matter quiet instead of bringing in the police. I’d have paid the ransom without a second thought. That’s what the Unruhs did and their daughter survived. I’m sure the FBI would have deemed it the worst possible tactic, but what did they have at stake? Twenty-five thousand was nothing to us. I found out later Barry had twice that much in a secret account—money he used to establish his new life after we separated. For all I know, that was always his intention, saving up so he could leave. I reached a point where I didn’t care one way or the other. I suppose if Mary Claire had been saved . . . if she’d come back to us alive . . . we might have smoothed things over and gone on as we had before.”

  “Is he still in town?”

  “He moved to Maine. I think he wanted a location as unlike California as he could find. He remarried and started another family. So much for us.”

  “Do you have any idea why you were targeted?”

  “Barry owns a wealth-management firm. It’s a company he started years ago and he’s always done well. He felt that’s what put us in the line of fire. That and because Mary Claire was an only child.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Eight and a half years.” She hesitated. “I’ll admit when he left me, I took revenge, spiteful little thing that I am. According to our prenuptial agreement, if we divorced, he’d have paid me a pittance in alimony for the next ten years. He was older. He’d been married twice before. I knew the risk I was taking and I did what I could to protect myself, though it didn’t amount to much. When our relationship collapsed, he was hoping for a quick divorce so he’d be off the hook. My attorney argued the prenup should be set aside because I’d signed under duress. By the time the divorce became final, he’d been forced to settle for six million, plus a million in legal fees. So here we are. He’s stuck with me for life, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.”

  “Do you work?”

  “I don’t have a job, if that’s what you’re referring to. I’m a part-time docent at the art museum, and I volunteer two mornings a week at Santa Teresa Hospital in the newborn nursery.”

  “Is there any chance your daughter had medical problems? Allergies, asthma, anything like that? I’m trying to understand what might have happened to her.”

  “She’d had the occasional seizure since infancy and the pediatrician had her on Dilantin. I take it you ask because you think something might have gone wrong.”

  “Exactly. I don’t believe those guys were hardened criminals. Rain tells me she was treated well. She believes they mixed sleeping pills in her lemonade, but instead of going down for the count, she got hyper and slept less and less. Suppose they upped the dose, trying to induce sleep? If Mary Claire was already on an anticonvulsant, the combination of medications might have been fatal.”

  “I see what you’re saying, and it makes sense. My poor little one,” she said. She covered her eyes for a moment as though she might block out the very idea. I watched her work to compose herself and she finally sighed. “What now? Is this as far as it goes?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m fresh out of leads. On the other hand, I can’t quite let go. I don’t like feeling I haven’t done my job right.”

  She leaned forward and put her hands over mine. “Please don’t give up. One of the reasons I came here was to tell you how much I appreciate your efforts. Even if you’re facing a blank wall, don’t concede. Please.”

  “I’ll do my best. I can’t promise you anything beyond that.”

  29

  WALKER MCNALLY

  Wednesday afternoon, April 20, 1988

  Walker pushed his cuff back discreetly and checked the time. He’d stopped wearing the sling and he was happy to have his right arm free. Seven minutes to go in yet another interminable AA meeting, this one sparsely attended, which made his unwillingness to share all the more conspicuous. Some of the regulars were there: an old geezer named Fritz, who was missing half his teeth; a woman who called herself Phoebe though he could have sworn he’d been introduced to her at the club by another name. The only person in the room under forty was a young dark-haired girl, thin as a snake, her eyes lined in kohl. Her nails were clipped short and painted dark red. She smoked and said nothing, which he personally applauded as he intended to do the same. She looked like she was barely old enough to drink and he wondered what had brought her to this sorry place. No sign of Avis Jent, which was a relief. He was nine days sober, a miracle in itself. In the past, when he’d claimed he’d quit drinking, he’d never actually gone more than two days without alcohol of some kind.

  When the meeting ended he bypassed the bad coffee and headed for the side door, trying not to appear too thrilled to escape. The girl was a few steps in front of him and he flirted with the idea of making an offhand comment, something tongue-in-cheek to establish rapport. It would be nice to compare notes with someone in the same boat. He was beginning to understand why nondrinkers hung out together—misery loves company.

  Outside the afternoon sun was brighter than he expected and he raised
a hand to shade his eyes. It was close to three, coming up on the treacherous five-hour stretch between happy hour and lights out. This was the period in which his desire for a drink chafed and his resolve wore thin. He could live without mimosas and Bloody Marys, though he remembered with fondness the many mornings when he was on vacation or invited to a brunch or out on someone’s boat. On those occasions drinking before noon was not only acceptable, but gleefully encouraged. He didn’t mind doing without beer or wine with lunch. Those were pleasures he’d sacrifice in a heartbeat if he could just have a cocktail or two in the late afternoon. Every day he played the same little game. Technically . . . in truth . . . and if you wanted to get right down to it . . . he was free to drink if he wanted. He hadn’t signed an oath. He wasn’t under doctor’s orders, forbidden to imbibe because of some dire medical condition. He hadn’t been admonished by the court, though he knew if he were picked up for any reason while inebriated, things would go badly. Still, he had a choice. He could choose. He could drink if he wanted to, especially if no one found out. For nine days in a row, he’d behaved himself, and he felt good about that. Now the next cocktail hour glimmered on the horizon, and with it came the debate. Should he or shouldn’t he? Would he or wouldn’t he?

  He scanned the parking lot for Brent, who preferred picking him up there instead of out on the street. He’d taken to running errands while Walker was tied up, timing his return so he could swing through just as Walker came out. The girl had paused, apparently waiting for a lift. A turquoise MG pulled to a stop and she got in on the passenger side, where an enormous golden retriever had taken up residence. He watched her wrestle with the dog, which had a prior claim on the seat. The dog rearranged itself, settling in the girl’s lap with an attitude of entitlement.

  Walker watched idly, smiling to himself. The car didn’t move and he realized the driver, a kid, was staring at him through the windshield. He caught only a quick glimpse, but in that instant, he knew who it was: Michael Sutton, whose face was indelibly imprinted on his mind’s eye. Incredible that all these years later, something as ephemeral as the slant of his cheek, the shape of his chin, could spark such a recollection. He’d last seen Michael when he was six and then only briefly. Walker had expected to run into him long before now, but it still came as a jolt.

  He redirected his gaze and walked through the parking lot, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the kid. He glanced back and saw that Michael had turned his head, his gaze still fixed on him. The girl had turned to stare at him as well, probably wondering what Michael found so fascinating. Looking to his left, Walker saw Brent pull into the lot. Relieved, he moved forward as the car slowed. He opened the left rear door and slid into the backseat. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said to Brent as he closed the door.

  Brent made eye contact by way of the rearview mirror. “Fine. How are things with you?”

  “Good.” Walker kept his face averted as Brent turned into the next aisle, passing Michael’s MG. He pictured Michael’s head doing a slow swivel as Brent’s Toyota made the right onto Santa Teresa Street. Walker half turned in his seat and watched the exit. The turquoise MG nosed into view at an unhurried pace and fell into line behind them. Shit.

  Walker put a hand on the seat back in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting, so let’s get a move on. Take a right on Court and go the back way.”

  “The freeway’s quicker.”

  “The back way’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay?”

  Walker saw the shift in Brent’s expression, one of those “You’re the boss” looks. He turned the corner as instructed. Two blocks farther on, Walker took another quick look to see if the MG was still there. No sign of it. Walker wondered if he’d been mistaken. Maybe the kid hadn’t recognized him after all. Maybe it was a situation where someone looks familiar and you can’t quite place them. Thus the long stare. As Brent slowed for a four-way stop, Walker spotted the MG approaching from the right.

  Brent said, “What’s the deal? Do you know that guy?”

  “He threatened me once.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Too complicated to go into. The guy’s a nut.”

  “You want me to lose him?”

  “If you can, but keep it low-key. I don’t want him to think I give a shit.”

  Brent pushed the accelerator, increasing his speed by degrees, four miles an hour, then five. Unfortunately the surface streets presented a constant run of stoplights and stop signs, which allowed the MG to stay close.

  Brent said, “The guy’s climbing up my tailpipe. If I spot a black-and-white, you want me to flag him down?”

  “No, don’t do that. We get to the bank, drive on past and drop me around the corner on Center Road. I’ll walk back from there and maybe shake him that way.”

  “Does he know where you work?”

  “I doubt it, but I’d just as soon not tip him off.”

  Brent cruised into Montebello and turned onto the main street. The MG was hung up briefly. Traffic at the intersection was regulated by a four-way stop sign and cars obligingly took turns. Brent sped up for the next three blocks and made a left turn onto Center, then pulled into the driveway of a small gym. Hastily Walker got out and waved Brent on. The Pelican was right there on the corner, one driveway down. He started to cross the motel parking lot, thinking to skirt the rear of the building, which at least shielded him from view. At the last minute, however, he changed his mind and took Redbird Road, an ancillary road that ran for one long block parallel to Old Coast.

  Walker put his hands in his pockets and covered the distance as quickly as he could. The kid had nothing on him. A chance encounter twenty-one years before and what would that prove? Walker couldn’t imagine why the police had been digging in the woods. Kinsey Millhone had somehow drawn a bead on his dad, using god knows what reasoning, but there was no real link between Walker and the dead dog. Maybe she’d talked to a number of veterinarians who’d been in practice at the time, and his dad was simply one.

  He turned left on Monarch Lane, the side street that intersected Old Coast Road. The bank was on the corner and his office was located at the far end of the building. He traversed the parking lot, making a covert visual sweep as he pushed through the glass door into the reception area. When he paused to look back, he spotted the MG passing on the street. The girl was staring in his direction and he saw her reach over and grab Michael Sutton’s arm to get his attention. The MG slowed and Michael peered past her at the front of the bank. Walker stepped away from the glass and then pivoted and took the side corridor to his office, where he closed the door.

  At 6:00 he left the bank and walked the two blocks to his motel. He’d intended to eat dinner at the bar and grill off the Pelican parking lot, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk in. He’d halted at the door, struck by the smell of whiskey and beer. The cigarette smoke didn’t bother him as much as the clatter of flatware, diners bending over their plates, sawing away at steaks and pork chops. Nine days sober and he felt the old quickening, the automatic spark of excitement when he knew a drink was in the offing. Not tonight. Rather than order a meal, steeling himself against the old associations of red meat and red wine, he turned on his heel and returned to his room. He watched TV for a while, flipping from channel to channel.

  At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.

  After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”

  “We need to talk.”

  There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”

  “I’d rather not say on the phone.”

  “And w
hy is that?”

  “Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid. I’m taking my cue from you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the gas station across the street from the bank. I’m using a pay phone.”

  “I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” Jon said, and hung up.

  Walker checked his watch, unsure what to do with himself until Jon arrived. He went into the minimart adjacent to the service bays, which were dark now. The place was empty except for a clerk who sat at the register reading a comic book. Walker ambled up and down the aisles, looking at the gaudy array of potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, tortilla chips, sun-baked chips, and pretzels, along with nasty-looking jars of salsa and a cheese product as viscous as glue. Crackers, cookies, candy bars, Twinkies, packaged cupcakes covered in coconut. The refrigerated coolers were stocked with cheap beer, canned and bottled sodas, and a row of jug wines. He came to an ordered row of sandwiches and read the labels. Tuna salad, ham and cheese, a bologna with mayonnaise on wheat bread. He selected a bologna sandwich, which he hadn’t eaten in years. At the counter he added four candy bars and paid for the lot. The clerk put everything in a bag for him, which he tucked under his arm. He went outside again and crossed to the half-wall at the far end of the paved area. He sat down, wishing he’d bought a soft drink, but too lazy to go back.

  He opened the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the mild flavor of bologna, the sweet tang of mayonnaise. Montebello Bank and Trust was just across the street. He could see a light on, a low-tech burglar deterrent. Traffic was scanty, though he was certain that farther up the block, where bars and restaurants were clustered, the valet car parkers would be hustling back and forth.

  Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.