The phone rang.
“Would you excuse me,” she said. She left the sofa and went to the kitchen. “Hello?” she answered. “Hi, sweetheart.” She was quiet for a moment. “No, I said Thursday night. The tickets are for the nine o’clock set. Jill and Ed will meet us there.”
Cork didn’t like listening in. He took the photograph of Charlotte Kane and returned it to the shelf from which her mother had taken it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connor.” She stood in the doorway to the kitchen and spoke from a distance.
“That’s all right.”
“This is all very difficult to absorb.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know what’s going on in your town-what’s it called?”
“Aurora. Minnesota.”
She nodded. “But your Charlotte isn’t mine. Of that I’m absolutely certain.”
“You’re not curious?”
She crossed her arms protectively. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had to deal with loss. This kind, this overwhelming uncertainty. At first you live on hope. You pray your heart out. You don’t sleep, don’t eat. Days stretch into weeks, weeks into months. Finally, holding on to hope becomes like holding up the earth, and you just can’t do it anymore. You have to let go. You have to grieve and move on. I haven’t heard from Fletcher in over two years. I moved on. I’d hoped the same for him.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if experiencing physical pain. After a few moments, she went on. “Fletcher didn’t just lose a daughter. I think he lost the best part of himself, and he was desperate to get that back somehow. He became obsessed with finding Charlotte, whom he didn’t believe was dead. He saw her everywhere. In passing cars, on street corners, in the mall. I’ve heard that everybody has a double somewhere. So I suppose it’s entirely possible that he finally found Charlotte’s double, some young woman as desperate for a new life as he was for his old.”
“Or he manufactured her.”
It took a moment, but as she understood what he was suggesting, a look of horror dawned on her face. “Jesus. That’s hard to believe.”
“But not impossible. I understand your husband was a gifted plastic surgeon.”
“You misunderstand. I think Fletcher was probably capable of something that desperate and bizarre. What’s hard to believe is that he found someone willing to let him do it.” She crossed the room and picked up the photograph of her daughter. “If that’s what happened, I feel so sorry for her. Mr. O’Connor, when you find the answer, I’d like to know.”
He left her standing in the middle of her beautiful home, looking deeply troubled.
36
After he talked with the contact officer, Cork had to wait awhile. Finally Sergeant Gilbert Ortega came up front and escorted him back to the homicide division. There was another plainclothes detective in a corner of the office, coat off, shirt-sleeves rolled back, fingers tapping on a computer keyboard. He glanced up when Cork came in with Ortega but went right back to his work. Ortega sat down at his desk and motioned for Cork to take the other chair.
“Minnesota, is it?”
“That’s right.”
Ortega scratched at the small, neat mustache that lay like a pencil line on his upper lip. “Never been there. Pretty, I hear.”
“You heard right.”
“Officer Baker said you’re interested in an investigation we conducted a few years back.”
“Yes. Vic’s name was Charlotte Kane.”
Ortega nodded. “I remember. All the evidence pointed toward homicide but we never found a body. What’s the Minnesota connection?”
“The girl’s father lives there now. His daughter was murdered. As nearly as I can tell, the circumstances were similar to what happened here.”
Cork handed Ortega the Duluth newspaper. The detective glanced at the photograph of Charlotte Kane then scanned the story. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. Emory, take a look at this.”
The other cop stood up. He was tall and had one long eyebrow that stretched over both eyes. He left his computer, came to Ortega’s desk, and read over the detective’s shoulder. He whistled and wrinkled his forehead. His eyebrow split in the middle. He looked at Cork. “They have a suspect?”
“A man’s been charged. I work for his attorney.”
“What is it you want?” Ortega asked.
“Any information you can supply about your investigation four years ago.”
Ortega gave a smile, thin as his mustache. “You’re interested in the father.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“It’s a cold case. I didn’t work it.”
“Buster,” Emory, the tall cop, said.
Ortega sat back and crossed his arms. “Buster Farrell was in charge of homicide back then. It was his investigation.”
Cork said, “Is he still around?”
The two Pomona cops laughed.
“Oh, yeah,” Emory said. “Buster’s around.”
“He’s retired,” Ortega said. “Medical situation. But he stops by. All the time.”
“Think he’d mind talking to me?”
“I’m sure it would be his great pleasure,” Ortega said. “Why don’t I give him a call and square it. Couple things, though. I want to make a copy of that article before you go, and I’d like to have the name of the officer in charge of the investigation in Minnesota.”
Buster Farrell lived in a stucco bungalow, beige with brown trim, across the street from a small park. The walk was lined with flowers, the yard edged with a perfectly clipped hedge. A sprinkler turned lazily on the lawn, spinning out water that fell in jewellike droplets on thick grass. As Cork strolled up the walk, the cop opened the screen door and came outside. He leaned on a metal cane.
“O’Connor?” he said.
Cork stepped onto the porch. “Call me Cork.”
“And everybody calls me Buster.”
He wasn’t old. Late fifties maybe. It looked as if his body had been heavier at one time, but had recently been whittled on. Cork shook his hand and felt an unnatural quiver in the man’s arm.
“Come on in. Can I offer you something to drink? How about a beer?”
Inside, the house was all warm brown tones. It was a place stuffed full of mementos-bowling and softball trophies, photographs on the shelves and walls, painted clay figures and drawings on manila paper that looked crafted by the hands of children-but there was an ordered feel to everything. Buster Farrell shuffled into the kitchen and Cork took a moment to look at a photograph on the end table next to the sofa.
“That’s my wife, Georgia,” Farrell said, coming back with two long-neck beers in his free hand. “She’s a schoolteacher. Playing bridge this afternoon. Plays a lot of bridge these days. It’s not that she likes cards so much. Since I retired, I drive her crazy. Hope you like Coors.” He handed a cold bottle to Cork.
“Coors is just fine.”
“Sit down, sit down.”
Farrell took a big stuffed chair for himself. Cork sat on the love seat.
Farrell twisted the cap off his beer. “I remember when this stuff wasn’t pasteurized and it was hard to get outside Colorado because it didn’t travel well. Helluva brew back then. Gilbert said you’re interested in the Charlotte Kane investigation. Didn’t say why.”
The story in the Duluth News Tribune that Cork handed over told him why.
“I’ll be damned.” He put the paper aside.
Cork said, “I talked with Constance Kane a couple of hours ago. She says the young woman in that news photo isn’t her daughter.”
Farrell shrugged. “She’s the parent. She oughta know. But you could’ve fooled me. If it’s not her, then it’s her twin sister. Which she ain’t got, that much I do know.” He tapped the newspaper photo with his finger. “Age is wrong, but she could’ve lied about that. I’ve seen girls I couldn’t guess if they were sixteen or twenty-six, you know?”
“Can you tell me about your investigation?”
“What’s your interest?”
“The guy who’s accused of her murder, I’m working on his defense.”
“You don’t think he did it?”
“No.”
Farrell sipped his beer and considered Cork. “All right.” He settled back in his chair. “The department got a call from the girl’s parents the first night she disappeared. The chief sent a couple of uniforms out. Folks said she told them she was going to the library. Later on, we turned up some kids who said different. She was going to a party up in the foothills, planned to score some weed before she headed out. Never showed at the party. For a couple of days, our guys come up with nada. Then Long Beach P.D. finds her car abandoned in a vacant lot, blood all over the backseat. That’s when I got involved. We looked at every possibility. Known drug dealers in the Pomona area. Carjackers. Her friends, acquaintances.”
“Her parents?”
“Them, too. Nothing. It was the worst kind of case. A nightmare for everybody. I raised a couple kids of my own. Think I didn’t worry? You say to yourself, God save ’em from all the crazies in this world, because you can’t be there to protect ’em every moment. I felt for her folks, I really did. They weren’t bad parents. Wasn’t their fault. Just one of those things.”
“The blood in her car, could it have been a smokescreen? She just ran away?”
Farrell shook his head. “It was her blood, and there was buckets of it. And near as we could tell, there was nothing for her to run from. She was smart, popular, good parents, good friends. The weed thing? Hell, kids that age, they all seem to do it. I’d say it was just a drug deal or maybe a carjacking, something that went really bad. Kid was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m guessing here.” He picked up the newspaper and looked a long time at the photo. “Like seeing a ghost.” He handed it back to Cork. “Whether it’s her or not, I don’t suppose it matters much. Either way she’s dead for sure this time. Ready for another beer?”
“No, thanks. Anything else worth knowing?”
“You like her old man for it, don’t you? It’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. He’s the constant in the whole equation. But I wouldn’t be too quick to jump to any conclusions.” He pointed at the paper. “That kind of tragedy, it lays folks open. You get a good look inside. I don’t know what Dr. Kane was like out there, but here all I saw was genuine grief. Doesn’t mean absolutely he didn’t do it. No matter how long you’ve been in this business, you can still be fooled. I’d just be reserved in my judgment is all I’m saying.”
“Thanks. Appreciate your perspective.” Cork finished his beer in a couple of long swallows and stood up. “I should be going.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Two Charlottes. If I were you, I’d think about the fact that Kane’s a plastic surgeon. From what I learned in my investigation, one of the best. That ought to suggest something to you.”
“It already has.”
Buster Farrell walked him to the door.
“Miss it?” Farrell asked.
“What?”
“Being a cop.”
“Never said I was.”
“You were. I can tell.” Farrell stared hard into his eyes. “Yeah, you miss it.” He gave Cork a quivering, parting handshake. “Me, too.”