21

I enjoy earning my livelihood as a private investigator. The only other thing I’ve got going for me is an updated cabbie license. It’s not like Karolyn Kirby’s itching to call and beg me to try out for the women’s Olympic volleyball team.

Practical matters—food and taxes—kept my hand off the phone.

A new thought plunked me down in my desk chair: If I hadn’t answered the door, if I hadn’t been home, what would Garnet Cameron have done next?

Richard Nixon made it lousy for all politicians. Garnet hadn’t even muttered, “I am not a crook,” and already I suspected him.

I unlocked my desk, removed both copies and the original of Thea’s maybe, maybe-not first chapter plus poem, and separated them. I left one copy in my desk drawer, anchored by my S&W 40, which I was glad to remove from the waistband of my jeans.

The original notebook and poem, I moved to my favorite hiding place. It’s a good one. Take a plastic litter tray, place your valuables—smothered in Saran Wrap, the flatter the better—inside. Cover with a plastic liner, the same color and cut to the exact dimensions of the litter tray, then pour on the Kleen Kitty, and let the cat, in this case, T.C., my black beauty with the prestigious zip code, go about his business. Few are the burglars who sift the kitty litter.

The second copy I placed in a mailing envelope, which I addressed to myself.

I hit the phone, searching for Mooney. He wasn’t in his office, wasn’t on call. Which left his home, a place I try not to invade, because his dragon-lady mother, who cordially hates my guts, might be on the prowl.

I had to try.

Mooney answered after five rings and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I didn’t identify myself, not wanting to risk my license.

I said, “Have I got a treat for you.”

“Really.” His voice was dry with disbelief.

“I ought to keep it for myself,” I said.

“Maybe you should.”

“I mean, I could use the total adoration of an FBI agent. It would be a distinct business advantage.”

Mooney kept silent. He’s good at that.

“If I give you this, I think it should cancel all outstanding debts,” I said. “Plus you’ll owe me one tiny favor.”

“It would have to be absolutely amazing,” Mooney said.

I said, “Don’t you want the FBI eating out of your hand?”

“No, I want to be an astronaut when I grow up.”

“I’m serious, Moon. If there’s any agent whose benevolence would put you in good shape, call him now, and get him over to the Cameron residence. As in Garnet Cameron.”

“Why would I drag my weary body to Dover?”

“Kidnapping.”

His manner altered completely. It was as if his voice stood at attention, saluted. “Who?” he demanded.

“Marissa Cameron. Help the FBI find her and keep our guy in the governor’s race. You can vote for him. I can vote for him.”

“That’ll make two.”

“Moon, I’m serious.”

“So am I. If I call my buddy at the Fibbies, what do I tell him? I read it in my tea leaves?”

“Do not, repeat, do not use my name. If you do; I’m dead. Tell him a civic-minded citizen picked up a reference to a political kidnapping on her cellular phone. She heard the name ‘Marissa.’ Got scared and called you. You pieced it together.”

“Why’d she call me? I’m not the FBI.”

“Mooney, make up your own story, for chrissakes. This is the goods.”

“It’d better be. Special Agents in Charge have lost their sense of humor now that everybody knows J. Edgar wore a dress.”

“Special Agents never had a sense of humor, Mooney.”

“Oh.”

“And I want something.”

“Besides a cancellation of all debts?”

“I need to meet Albert Ellis Albion. Thea’s killer. He’s at Walpole, and I’m betting you can get me in to see him.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Carlotta—”

“Mooney, people are asking about her. Old manuscripts are popping up. Old manuscripts, and possibly new ones, too.”

“Words from the dead?”

“I want to meet the killer.”

“And the Camerons? How do they feel about this?”

“Tessa Cameron wrote me a humongous check.” This was not a lie. She’d voided it, but I saw no reason to share that information with Mooney.

“And I do the work,” Mooney said. “Thanks a heap.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get the glory.”

“Just what I need.”

I decided he was not in the mood for questions about Beryl Cameron. “‘Been on the job too long,’ Moon,” I said, quoting an old blues refrain.

He hung up.

I replaced the receiver in the cradle, idly staring at Paolina’s postcard. One year younger than Thea’d been when she wrote Nightmare’s Dawn. Two years younger than Dorothy Jade Cameron when she died.

Paolina has talent if not genius. No one would call her “my brilliant child,” unless they were talking about the sparkle in her eyes or the deep shine of her hair. She has the gift of rhythm. She’s the percussionist in her junior high band, swaying to the beat, bringing stick or brush to drumhead, triangle, or bells at the precise moment.

To lose a child, as Tessa had. To lose more than one. To lose “my brilliant child …”

The phone rang. I tensed, imagining Garnet at the other end, accusing me of breaking faith, imagining the kidnappers. I’d given them this number!

“Bitch, you’d better stop those calls—”

I recognized Vandenburg from the greeting, halted him with, “Where’s Carlos?”

“I don’t—”

He was going to say “know.” I hung up before he got the chance. I didn’t want the DEA tracing him to my phone.

I tried to sleep, but spent most of the night studying Andrew Manley’s curious bibliography. If I’d known my computer protocols better, I might have been able to download articles about recovered memory syndrome. But I struck out.

The screen-gazing exhausted my eyes. I could still see the commas and semicolons and prompts after I shut down the machine and turned off the lights. They kept on blipping, humming me to dreamless sleep.