‘Still sinning, I see.’
‘I’m nothing if not faithful to my obsessions,’ I admitted. ‘But I didn’t come to confess. I’m looking for Sister Kassia.’
The priest gestured to a narrow hallway. ‘First door on the left. Her new office.’
Sister Kassia’s new office must have been a broom closet in its prior incarnation. Between the desk, the file cabinets and Sister Kassia, there wasn’t room for a second chair and I was forced to stand.
‘Please don’t lean against the wall with your wet clothes,’ the nun began. ‘It was just painted.’
‘Did you ever teach school, Sister?’
‘Third grade, at Sacred Heart in Bayside. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just trying to imagine what went through a kid’s head when he walked into your classroom for the first time.’ I hesitated, but she continued to stare at me. ‘I didn’t change my clothes before coming over,’ I explained, ‘because I want you to know what you’re up against.’ I peeled the front of my shirt away from my chest. ‘This is what happens when you spend six hours on a stake-out in Riverside Park.’
‘Does that mean you’ve found them?’
‘It means I’ve found one of them. She’s working on the Upper West Side and I intend to approach her tomorrow, assuming she leaves the house. If you want to be there, you’ll have to put up with the elements.’
I’d underestimated Sister Kassia. Her bird-bright eyes softened at the news and the smile on her face was positively beatific.
‘Tonight,’ she announced, ‘I’m going to collect.’
‘Collect what?’
‘Collect on that bet I made with Father Stan. He was certain that we’d never see you again. I told him you’d be back. I told him that underneath your dissembling exterior, there lay a primitive code of honor. Once you gave your word, you’d keep it.’
‘That’s nice, Sister, but when you made the bet, did you tell him the other part? Did you tell him that I’d also be returning to Blessed Virgin because I still needed you?’
The nun’s smile broadened as she arched an already rounded eyebrow, then winked. ‘Nope,’ she declared, ‘I must have forgotten about that one.’
The phone was ringing when I walked into the house. I picked it up a moment too late and the answering machine came on. I listened to the announcement, then heard Adele’s voice.
‘Corbin, where have you been? I’m dying to know what’s going on.’
I picked up the phone and shut off the machine. ‘Adele, I just walked into the house.’
‘Busy day?’
‘Busy two days. But everything’s falling into place.’
I went on to describe the various things and the various places into which they’d fallen. Adele responded with an ‘uh-huh’ from time to time, but saved her questions until I’d finished. Then she asked for the game plan.
‘Tomorrow, Sister Kassia and I will make contact with the maid, assuming she leaves the house.’
‘Toward what end?’
‘What I’m hoping is that she’ll be anxious to improve her circumstances. Say, for instance, by getting as far away from Aslan as possible. If that’s the way it goes down, I’ll pull the women out on Saturday night and hand them over to Sister Kassia.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘Then I’ll take her into custody.’
‘Sister Kassia?’
Though I didn’t laugh at Adele’s joke, I finally paused long enough to take a breath. ‘It’s gettin’ a little crazy,’ I admitted.
Adele took pity on me. ‘I have to give you credit, Corbin. A week into the case, I didn’t think you had a chance. Now you’re almost there.’
I got off the phone a few minutes later, then took a long shower, finally pulling on shorts and a t-shirt. The apartment was relatively cool, the sun having passed behind my building while the clouds were still thick enough to shade the windows. I settled down in my office, flicked on the computer, finally sat back while it booted up.
I began with an Internet search using the single word Portola. That got me 264,000 hits, for the town of Portola (‘Gateway to the Sierras’), for Portola Packaging, for the Portola Railroad Museum, for the Portola School District, for Gaspar de Portola, a Spanish soldier who’d served as Governor of Los Californias from 1768 until 1770.
A more specific search, for Margaret Portola, produced no hits at all, and I struck out on Ronald and David as well. But I wasn’t discouraged. I jumped to the New York Times website and ran a general search for the name Portola through their archives. This time I got a mere eighty-five hits, a manageable number that allowed me to plough through several dozen abstracts before I found the obituary of a man named Guillermo Portola.
The abstract revealed only that Guillermo Portola, born in Portugal, was survived by his wife, Margaret, and his two sons, Ronald and David. For the full text of the article, I had to fork over two dollars ninety-five. But the pay-off more than justified the investment. Guillermo Portola had died in 1998, at age seventy-three, five years after suffering a massive stroke. At the moment of his passing, he’d been lying in his own bed, in his own home, surrounded by his loving family.
The obituary included Guillermo’s photograph. A man just approaching middle-age, he stood on the deck of a sleek, three-masted yacht, wearing shorts and sandals and a fisherman’s cap with a long brim that shaded his face. An Ernest Hemingway beard added a touch of bulk to his weak chin, while a broad smile revealed a set of horsey white teeth. Cradled against his chest, a brass trophy gleamed in the sunlight.
Aside from his support for the usual charities, yachting was Guillermo’s one claim to fame. In 1958, he’d won a race from New York to San Francisco that traced the route of the old clipper ships around Cape Horn. In 1963, he’d finished third in a competition that traced the route of Magellan across the Pacific. In 1974, his yacht had capsized in a squall thirty miles outside of Bermuda. All aboard were rescued after passing several harrowing hours in a life raft, but the vessel was lost.
Oddly, there was no mention of Guillermo’s business activities, leaving me to wonder if he’d inherited his money, if he’d lived the life of an aristocratic playboy. Guillermo had been married four times, the last to his personal assistant, Margaret Applewood of Bar Harbor, Maine, in 1984. He’d been fifty-nine on the day of the wedding, his blushing bride a mere twenty-four. Or maybe she wasn’t blushing; maybe she was just as bold as could be. Certainly there’d been no hiding the fact that she was pregnant. According to the date of birth on his driver’s license, Ronald Portola was born three months to the day after Guillermo put the ring on his mom’s finger.
According to his Times obituary, Guillermo Portola had died at home. Dying at home, especially if there’s no doctor present, raises all kinds of flags for criminal investigators, and so much the worse if the deceased was too feeble to resist an attack. Of course, Guillermo’s obituary hadn’t mentioned an investigation, but that possibility had reared its tantalizing head when the obituary also failed to mention the name of a funeral home, a memorial service, or the date of the funeral. Maybe the Portola family had instructed a crematorium to drop the old man’s ashes into the nearest dumpster, maybe they just wanted to be rid of him. And maybe his burial had been awaiting the outcome of an autopsy.
The New York Times prides itself on avoiding sleaze. If the ME had termed the death a homicide, the paper would have reported the facts, but the rumor mill was beneath its collective dignity. Not so the New York Post, a Murdoch-owned tabloid whose most complex stories begin and end on the same page. The Post runs on sleaze the way locomotives run on diesel fuel.
The New York Post did not disappoint. The paper’s first story, datelined May 17, 1998, six weeks after Guillermo’s passage, ran beneath the headline: ‘UNDETERMINED!’