The Burning Soul

  ‘And if we find anything useful to the cops?’

  ‘You can tell them I guided your every move with a firm but gentle hand.’

  ‘You make it sound dirty.’

  ‘It is,’ she concluded. ‘And not in a good way.’

  I drove on to Pastor’s Bay, making some calls along the way. According to Haight, Lonny Midas had one older brother, Jerry, but I had been able to find no trace of a Jerry Midas in Drake Creek or its vicinity. Neither could I find a Social Security number linked with a Jerry Midas and originating in North Dakota. It was a long shot, especially as it was Sunday, but I made a call to the sheriff’s department in Drake Creek. After a delay during which I listened to the same couple of bars of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon’ played over and over on what sounded like a child’s xylophone, I was put through to Sheriff Douglas Peck. A Sheriff Douglas Peck had been named in some of the newspaper articles following Selina Day’s killing. Three decades later, he had either started out young or law enforcement in the county was a family business.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said.

  ‘My name is Charlie Parker,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective up here in Maine.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ He didn’t say anything more, which suggested that Sheriff Peck was a man with a sense of humor, albeit a sarcastic one.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the same Douglas Peck who worked the Selina Day killing?’

  ‘I’m Douglas Peck the third. My father was Douglas Peck the second, and he was sheriff at that time. My grandfather was plain old Douglas Peck, and he was never a sheriff anytime or anywhere. If this is about the Day murder, then I can’t tell you more than what you can find on the Internet.’

  ‘You can’t, or you won’t?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Perhaps I could talk to your father?’

  ‘Not unless you got access to one of them mediums. He’s been dead these past five years.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You didn’t know him, so you can’t be sorry. Now, are we done here? I don’t want to be rude, but just because I don’t want it to rain doesn’t mean that I won’t get wet if I step outside, if you catch my drift.’

  I wasn’t sure that I did. ‘I’ve been working for a man your father might have known as William Lagenheimer.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Peck. I heard the phone being put down, and then much of the background noise was muted as a door was closed.

  ‘Run that by me again,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been working for William Lagenheimer, although he goes by another name now.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me in what capacity you’re working for him, or do I have to guess?’

  ‘He was receiving unwanted messages in the mail from somebody who had learned about his past and his previous identity. He wanted me to find out who was responsible.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. He has since dispensed with my services.’

  ‘Not surprising if you couldn’t help him.’

  ‘I try not to take these things personally. I also try not to let them get in the way of pursuing my inquiries.’

  ‘Why? You a charitable man? You must be if you like working for nothing.’

  ‘I just don’t like loose ends. I also don’t like it that a fourteen-year-old girl has gone missing up here, and from the same town in which Lagenheimer now lives.’

  ‘You think he had something to do with it?’

  ‘He has an alibi. I think he’s in the clear. It’s Lonny Midas that I’m curious about.’

  ‘And where are the police in all this?’

  ‘A request has gone to the North Dakota Attorney General’s Office requesting the information contained in the sealed records pertaining to the imprisonment and subsequent release of Lonny Midas and William Lagenheimer.’

  ‘So? The AG will oblige by releasing the information, but as you’re not a law-enforcement officer you have no right to it. Will that be all?’

  ‘Jerry Midas,’ I said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You can’t tell me anything about Lonny Midas, but you can tell me how to get in touch with his brother.’

  ‘And why would I do that, assuming I knew anything about him in the first place?’

  ‘Because there’s a girl missing, and I want her found as much as the cops do. Look up my name, Sheriff Peck. If you need someone to vouch for me, try Detective Gordon Walsh of the Maine State Police. If you have a pen, I’ll give you his number.’

  I wasn’t sure that Walsh would vouch for me, but I figured he owed me for the night before. Even if he didn’t feel any obligation, my interest in Jerry Midas might pique his own interest and I could possibly browbeat him into sharing whatever he discovered.

  ‘Let me have it,’ said Peck.

  I gave him Walsh’s number and my own.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  An hour later I was back in Pastor’s Bay, standing in Hallowed Grounds while the same tattooed barista worked behind the counter, although this time he was wearing a faded Ramones T-shirt and the music playing was a cover version of the Carpenters’ ‘Goodbye to Love’ by American Music Club. I had that tribute album. Hell, I think I even had the original album somewhere.

  ‘Morning, snitch,’ I said. ‘I saw an old lady jaywalking earlier. I didn’t get her name, but she can’t have got far. Maybe you can call someone and have her picked up.’

  He tugged at the massive hole in his left ear created by a circular piercing through the lobe. I could have put my finger through it. It was a tempting image.

  ‘You get a good look at her?’ he replied. ‘We’ve got a lot of old ladies here. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a miscarriage of justice.’

  ‘A rat with a conscience. I may yet find it in my heart to forgive you.’

  ‘Hey, no hard feelings, man. I was just doing what was right.’

  ‘Yeah, you and Joe McCarthy both. It’s okay. In your position, I might even have done the same. To make up for my discomfort, you can brew me some fresh coffee. That pot smells like you’re stripping bones in it.’

  He grinned and gave me the finger: customer service the Maine way.

  ‘The name is Danny, by the way.’

  ‘Charlie Parker. Don’t think this makes us friends.’

  I leafed through some of the paperbacks on the shelf. A sign described them as ‘Gently Used,’ but there were retired hookers who’d been used more gently than these books. Some of them were old enough to have Caxton’s thumbprints on them.

  The front door opened, and Mrs. Shaye entered, her son Patrick ambling amiably behind her. They looked as if they’d dressed for church.

  ‘Danny, do you have that order of subs ready?’

  ‘Sure, Mrs. Shaye. I’ll just be a second.’

  ‘And we’ll need two iced coffees, and as many of those doughnuts as you can fit in a bag.’

  Danny set the coffeepot to fill, and sprinted off to do Mrs. Shaye’s bidding.

  ‘I’m the spare pair of hands,’ Pat said. ‘She made me clean them too.’ He showed them to me as proof.

  ‘They’re spotless. In parts.’

  ‘Don’t talk to strange men, Pat,’ said Mrs. Shaye. ‘Mr. Parker, will you be joining us for lunch?’ But she said it with a wry smile.

  ‘I hope not, Mrs. Shaye. All out of cookies?’

  ‘I’m working such hours now that I don’t have time to bake them. It’s good news for Danny here. You know that this is his business? Before him, we had to make do with takeouts from the store.’

  I raised an eyebrow at Danny, who had just reappeared with a tray of Saran-wrapped subs, and was looking for a bag for the doughnuts.

  ‘And there he was, telling me that the management didn’t like him to play depressing music.’

  ‘The management doesn’t,’ said Danny. ‘The fan does, but the manager wants to stay in business.’

  Mrs. Shaye handed
the tray of subs to Pat, added a half dozen bottles of iced tea to the pile, signed for everything, and took the bag of doughnuts herself. I held the door open for them.

  ‘Bye, now, Mr. Parker,’ she said. ‘Stay out of trouble.’

  ‘Good advice,’ said Pat.

  I went to the window to watch the world, and I witnessed a peculiar moment. A group of young girls were hanging out near the grocery store. They were probably about fourteen or fifteen years old, and well on the way to becoming striking young women. Unfortunately, they hadn’t reached that stage yet, so I tried to find somewhere else to look.

  Chief Allan didn’t seem to have such qualms. He was sitting in his truck on the other side of the street, sipping a soda and taking in the girls’ bodies. One of them had bought a magazine, and they were huddled around it, giggling and pointing. They didn’t notice Allan, but Mrs. Shaye did. I could see her clock him, and the direction of his gaze. As Mrs. Shaye and her son crossed the road, she rousted the girls.

  ‘Hey, you kids, be about your business. You’re like a brood of hens blocking the path.’

  The girls headed east up Main Street. Allan started his truck and moved off. Mrs. Shaye held open the door of the municipal building for her son, her head flicking to follow Allan’s progress before she followed her son inside.

  And I wondered how good Mrs. Shaye’s spelling was.

  Walsh called me while I was finishing my coffee.

  ‘I’m your referee now?’ he said. ‘What are you doing, giving my name out to hick sheriffs as your go-to guy?’

  ‘I hope you said nice things about me.’

  ‘I just got the message. I haven’t called him back.’

  ‘I know there’s a “yet” missing from that sentence. You haven’t called him back yet.’

  ‘I may not call him back ever.’

  ‘And after all I’ve done for you. How’s your head?’

  ‘Surprisingly clear and obligation-free. I don’t recall everything about last night, but I do remember telling you that I wasn’t going to let you see those sealed records, and now you go trying your luck with North Dakota. You just don’t know when to quit.’

  ‘I’m interested in Lonny Midas’s brother. I didn’t think the sealed records were relevant in his case.’

  ‘You’re looking for the brother because you believe that he might know where Lonny is. Lonny Midas is the subject of those sealed records.’

  ‘Come on, Walsh, I just want to talk to the brother. If he blows me off, then we’ll have whatever is in the records to go on.’

  ‘I will have whatever is in the records. You will have nothing.’

  I ignored him. ‘And if his brother does know something I’ll share it with you and you’ll be ahead. So either you win or you stay as you were, but you’re not going to lose on the deal. Come on, make the call.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Did a waitress threaten me last night?’ he asked.

  ‘She promised to feed your nuts to a squirrel if you continued to annoy her,’ I said.

  ‘I thought that was what she said.’

  ‘She also told us to find Anna Kore.’

  ‘I seem to remember that too,’ said Walsh. ‘Shit.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Engel says you got one favor coming to you for the Randall Haight thing, but this can’t be it. It’s too close. We have feelers out for Jerry Midas too, and I don’t want you getting in the way. You let this one drop. Understood?’

  ‘Yeah, I understand.’ And I did: There would be no call back from Sheriff Peck.

  ‘Okay,’ said Walsh. ‘Thanks again for the ride last night.’

  ‘De nada.’

  ‘Right. Más tarde.’

  He hung up. There was free wireless access in the coffee shop, so I opened up my laptop and went through my copies of the newspaper reports of the Selina Day killing. The Beacon & Explainer was still going strong. I found its number and got through to the editor, a man named Everett Danning IV. Like law enforcement, the Beacon-Advertiser turned out to be a family business as well, but Danning was a little more co-operative than the sheriff. He wasn’t able to tell me a great deal, but he confirmed that Lonny Midas did indeed have an older brother named Jerry, except that wasn’t quite his given name.

  ‘He was baptized Nahum Jeremiah Midas, after the prophets,’ said Danning. ‘That’s what you get for having a Bible-thumper for a father. His younger brother got off easier, mainly because even old Eric Midas wasn’t blind to the fights his firstborn got into over his name. He gave Lonny his own father’s name, Leonard, and saved the Biblical stuff for the kid’s middle name, Amos. Don’t ask me how “Leonard” became “Lonny” instead of “Lenny,” although I think it was because there were two other Leonards in his school, and they all had to be differentiated somehow. Jerry Midas ditched “Nahum” pretty early on, or tried to. He was a couple of years ahead of me in school, but that name stuck for a long time.’

  ‘Does Jerry Midas still live in Drake Creek?’

  ‘No, there are no Midases left here now.’

  ‘Any idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘None.’

  I thanked him. In return, I gave him a little of the background to what was happening, but I tried to keep it as vague as possible, telling him only that the former William Lagenheimer now lived in Maine. I did promise him that, if it became possible to reveal more at some point in the future, I would.

  Five minutes later, thanks to the wonders of Google, I had found Jerry Midas.

  31

  It turned out that Jerry Midas had always had an artistic bent. He had been sketching since he was a boy and had adapted his talents to book illustration, graphic design, and, for the past two decades, computer games, providing initial portraits and backdrops for companies that prided themselves on the depth and beauty of their virtual worlds. He was known to those who called upon his skills simply as N. J. M., for that was how he signed his work, or otherwise as ‘Nate.’ All this he told me when I finally tracked him down in San Mateo, California, having first had to persuade his wife to let me speak to him. His voice sounded hoarse down the line, as though speaking might be painful for him.

  ‘Throat cancer,’ he said. ‘I’m in remission, but it’s a bitch. Know what? I never smoked. Don’t even drink much. I always tell people that, because they make judgments, you know?’

  ‘I’ll try not to keep you talking for too long.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of you, but there was a time when I was worried I might never talk again. I don’t take the facility for granted. My wife says you’re a private investigator, and you want to talk to me about my brother?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Until recently, I was working on behalf of William Lagenheimer.’

  From the other end of the line came an expectoration of disgust.

  ‘Now there’s a name from the past. Little William. Lonny told me that he hated being called Billy, always insisted on William. Don’t know why, just the way it was. Naturally, everyone called him Billy, just to watch him burn.’ He wheezed, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat. ‘Dammit.’

  ‘Lagenheimer is living under a new identity in the state of Maine. A girl has gone missing here.’ It was more than I wanted to reveal about Haight, but I had little choice.

  ‘I’ve read about it, I think. Anna – something.’

  ‘Anna Kore.’

  ‘Unusual name. Ironic, even.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s a Greek dialectical variation on the name “Persephone.” Persephone was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter who was abducted by Hades to the Underworld. Benefits of an amateur classical education, you might say. And where does Lonny fit into this? They trying to pin the girl’s disappearance on him?’

  ‘When the girl disappeared, Lagenheimer had the same concern for himself that you just expressed for your brother. He believed his past might lead to him being suspected
of a crime that he did not commit, so he came clean to the police about his past, which meant telling them about Lonny as well. If they haven’t already been in touch with you, they soon will be.’

  ‘But you found me first.’

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Maybe the police should use you to help them find that girl.’

  ‘It’s an unofficial inquiry, but to the same ends.’

  ‘If you’re asking me where Lonny is, I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in many years, not since shortly after his release, and that was just one call to let me know that he was alive and out. He used to write me from his first prison, and I wrote back occasionally, and sent him a card at Christmas, but we were never close. We got on okay, but there was a big gap in age between us.’

  ‘If you’re asking me where Lonny is, I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in many years, not since shortly after his release, and that was just one call to let me know that he was alive and out. He used to write me from his first prison, and I wrote back occasionally, and sent him a card at Christmas, but we were never close. We got on okay, but there was a big gap in age between us.’

  ‘Protective of Lonny? Lonny didn’t need protection. Other people needed protection from Lonny. He was a wild one. But when he killed that girl . . .’

  He paused. I waited.

  ‘He marked us all, you know? Our family name became associated with that crime. That’s why I tried to reduce it to a single letter. I suppose that for all these years I’ve been hiding from my family, from myself, maybe even from Lonny too.’

  ‘But your parents stayed in Drake Creek?’

  ‘My father was a deluded zealot, and my mother lived in his shadow. Lonny’s sin was a cross that my father could bear, and he forced my mother to share the burden of it. I think he even found a way to blame her for it. He was a God-fearing man, so the fault must have been in her ab ovo, from the egg. He wore her down, but she never complained. Her heart had already been broken by Lonny. I was long gone by then, though, and didn’t care much for going back, although I made a couple of trips for my mother’s sake. Drake Creek wasn’t a big place, and I didn’t like to hear people whispering behind my back as I walked down the street. Even if Lonny hadn’t done what he did, I still wouldn’t have wanted to live there. It had a small-town mentality in the worst possible way.’