“He has it both ways. We’re gone and won’t be back, and there is no fuss, no need to get a judge involved.” I paused for a second. “Who is he anyway, Sol? He’s not just some old fogey who sits around the Bright Spot all day waiting for famous writers to pop in.”
Sol glanced at the white clapboard building, then he turned back and mentioned that it would be worthwhile to run an R amp; I on the old guy. I told him he sounded like Joe Friday of Dragnet. He gave me a playful tap on the shoulder. I’d have a bruise for a week.
Before climbing into the limo, I fished the waitress’s note out of my pocket. In a tiny female script was written the girl’s name, Jane Simon, and under that was what I assumed to be the name of the local newspaper, the Barstow Sun.
We kicked around a few ideas about why the waitress slipped me the note, and why the girl’s name would be associated with the newspaper. But Sol and I agreed we’d come this far, might as well check it out before leaving town. After prying directions from a different gas station guy than the one I’d talked with before-we wanted to get there sometime today-we drove east on Main Street looking for Sweetwater Road. When we came to it, we turned left and pulled up in front of a well-maintained, painted cinderblock building. An old-fashioned sign hung above the entrance, The Barstow Sun, the words cut into the wood.
Cubby and the Deacon waited in the limo with the motor running in the event it became necessary to make a fast departure. Cubby would tap the horn if he spotted any cop cars approaching.
Inside the paper’s business office, a striking woman who appeared to be about thirty-two, thirty-three, with a figure you’d bow down to, walked to the counter. Her voice was crisp and businesslike, but her eyes were dark and gleaming, suggesting a passion burning inside. Or was it my imagination? Slender women with dark eyes always have passion, I thought. And like the others, I doubted that this gorgeous woman would be an exception.
“Hi, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, and this is my friend Sol Silverman,” I said. “And you have a passion…”
“What?”
“Ah… I mean we have a passion for the truth. And that’s why we came to the Sun.”
“Wise choice,” the beauty said.
“For chrissakes, Jimmy, let’s get to the point,” Sol interrupted. “Sweetheart, we need some information. Is your boss in?”
“Hi, Sol. My name is Cathy Rogers. I own the paper.” The lovely woman reached across the counter and offered her hand to Sol.
I beat Sol to the outstretched hand and shook it. “Hi, Cathy,” I said, “maybe you can help us. We are looking for a girl by the name of Jane Simon-”
Sol jumped in. “Miss Rogers, what my young friend here wants to know is do you have an employee by the name of Jane? Simon could be her last name. She’s a dark-haired teenager who might be working here. We have reason to believe she may be in some trouble.”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t hire teens. My husband, Tom, and I run the paper and…” At the mention of a husband, I deflated a little. “Wait, what did you say her name was?” Cathy paused. “A dark-haired girl? Did you say Jane Simon? My God, fair skin and deep blue eyes?”
My pulse raced. “Yes, yes, that’s her! Do you know the girl? How can we find her?”
“No, it can’t be. No… I’m sorry, gentlemen, I know of no one by that name. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Cathy started to turn away.
Sol leaned on the counter. “Wait a minute, my dear. Couldn’t you help us, please? The young girl is in serious trouble, and we’re here to see what we can do for her, that’s all,” he said with tenderness in his voice, a gentleness he rarely displayed.
Cathy turned away from us. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard a muffled whimper. Was she crying?
“Cathy, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to upset you.”
A man with tousled sandy hair standing next to a clanking printing press in the back of the shop looked our way. He paused for a few seconds before he walked cautiously toward Cathy. His eyes pinned Sol and me as he approached. When he got close, he studied Cathy’s face. “What’s the matter, honey? Are these guys bothering you?” He gave us a puzzled look.
Cathy raised her head. “No, no, Tom. It’s not that. It’s about Jane. Something they said reminded me of her, that’s all.”
Tom wrapped a loving arm around Cathy’s shoulder and his eyes shifted first to Sol and then to me.
“Did you gentlemen know Jane?”
CHAPTER 18
The ten-year-old headline in bold, black type screamed at me: Air Force Man Kills Wife, Daughter, Self. I started to shake. But it wasn’t the headline that shook me. It was the picture below it-a man, a woman, and a little girl posed in the shade of a plain stucco house.
I bolted out of my chair and pointed at the picture. “That’s her. Same dark hair, eyes, and my God, the girl I met has a striking resemblance to the mother in the newspaper photo.”
Sol and I sat with Cathy and Tom in their modest office at the rear of the print shop. Cathy’s antique roll-top dominated the room, but there was a small work table in the center, and we all sat there staring at the ten-year-old edition of The Barstow Sun spread out on top of the table. After we’d told them why we came, explaining about my meeting with the teenage girl who called herself Jane, and after I showed them the scrap of paper from the waitress, Tom had dug out the old edition from their archives, a closet next to the restroom.
He calmly explained that the photo printed below the headline had been taken a few months before the tragic murder-suicide. But I was almost positive that the small girl standing next to her mother and father was the same girl I’d met, the same Jane Simon. The girl in the photograph was a pint-sized version of the teenager.
“Impossible,” Tom said. “She’s been dead for ten years now.”
Cathy’s hands were on the table, folded tight in front of her. “I saw her body and went to her funeral,” she said to no one in particular.
“Are you sure, Jimmy, absolutely sure that’s the girl you met behind the building?” Sol asked. “That’s an old picture. The girl’s just a kid.”
“Sol, I think so. I couldn’t swear in court.” I studied the newspaper photo. “But Jane, the girl from the cafe, told me about her father killing her mother. She was very convincing. I don’t think she was lying.”
“Look, Jimmy, you met someone, a dark-haired girl, sure. But the story about the murder and suicide was in the papers, anyone could’ve-”
“Sol,” I said. “It has to be her. It’s the same girl. Too many things match up. The family resemblance, everything else. Besides, why would a dead girl try to convince someone she was alive?”
Sol shook his head. “Irish logic?”
“You know what I mean.” I pointed at the picture again. “I’m convinced. That’s the girl I met. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s her.”
Tom and Cathy listened to our exchange without saying a word.
Sol and I fell silent for a moment.
Cathy moved her hand and partially covered her mouth. “It can’t be. It just can’t be. I can’t believe she’s alive.”
Tom added in a quiet voice, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Although I was now convinced the teenager I’d seen in the cafe and met later behind the Harvey House was the same girl who was supposedly killed ten years ago, I still had no idea what all of this had to do with Robbie Farris’ escape and his mother’s murder.
The four of us sat looking at one another not knowing exactly what to say. Cathy started talking, telling us about Jane Simon. She explained her involvement with the little girl, and why she’d lost it out in the front office. We sat silently and listened to her story.
“When I was a teenager myself,” Cathy said, “I babysat for the Simons, and naturally Jane and I became close, almost like I was a big sister to her. As she grew older, she had a difficult time adjusting to her parents’ constant bickering and arguing. Her father was an officer in the Air Force. They had a house here in town, but he was assigned to the old military base at Rattlesnake Lake. It’s closed now. They closed the base shortly after the shooting.”