Buster Brogan blinked.
“Whoever did it took the back-up disc and his appointment calendar. Both are missing.”
“I see.”
She had stood up to him. Her worry, fear, panic vanished. Buster Brogan was a trapped bear, desperate for a way out. She wasn’t about to give it to him. “Did you know it’s possible to recover material erased from the hard disc?”
Clearly he hadn’t known, but he dismissed his new knowledge with a bravura wave. “Why do that? It’s an extra expense, and this is an obvious suicide, after all.”
“Are you sure, sergeant? Someone went to a lot of trouble to eliminate any link between himself and Gould. Have you traced the gun to Gould?”
“Nor to anyone else. These cheap guns make the rounds. As for the erased files, that just about cinches it as a suicide.”
He had figured out his reply. “It does?”
“Sure. The guy’s distraught. He’s a nerd with few friends and no social life. Still lives with his Mama. Moreover, he’s a flop as an attorney, no clients and little hope of any. He decides to end it all.” Brogan made an expansive gesture. “Along with his own life, he wants to take away any evidence of his miserably failed existence, so he pushes the delete button.” Brogan made an exaggerated motion with his forefinger. “Nothing is left except the printout of the suicide note. Make sense to you, Hernandez?”
Unbelievable! The fool would go to any lengths not to be wrong. “Not at all, sergeant. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Won’t be the first time.” Walter Cronkite revisited. “You go back to your pals, them Bye-Byes or whoever, and tell them I appreciate their help. I’ll look into their allegations.”
“Then the case is still open?”
“For the moment, so folks like them Bye-Byes can keep up their peerless detective work in hopes of making monkeys out of real cops.”
He shoveled sarcasm. God! The man inhabited a cave. “I’m sure that’s not what they’re doing.”
He looked at her hard. “Loyalties, Hernandez, loyalties. If you want to get ahead in this line of work, I suggest you decide whether you work for the Santa Barbara Police or them Bye-Byes. In a word, say bye-bye to the Bye-Byes. And ain’t that a howl?” He repeated the phrase.
Now he picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “Meanwhile, I have something useful for you to do. A mother reported her child missing. Here’s his description, three years old, blond, blue-eyed, believed to be in the Santa Barbara area.”
She accepted the paper. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“You’re in juvenile, you should have some connections, you know, an extra kid where he ain’t supposed to be.”
She shook her head. “Sounds impossible, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was he wearing, when was he last seen?” She saw Brogan shake his head. “Who’s the mother, who made this report?”
“I can’t tell you that, Hernandez. Do the best you can. If you find out anything, report back to me.”
After lunch, Byerly sat at his desk and opened his bible, as Doreen called it. The bible started out as an address book to keep track of girls in college. Over the years it expanded to include co-workers, ex-students, friends, acquaintances, anyone who knew or might know something useful or was just plain interesting. He added clippings, business cards, old scribbled-on napkins, notes and mementos until now the loose-leaf book was several inches thick and quite dog-eared. He sometimes thought of willing it to the Smithsonian when he croaked.
He turned pages, looking at names, reading forgotten information. Would you look at that, Danny Mendoza. Hadn’t thought of him in years. Maybe he should give him a call. He reached for the phone, then mentally slapped his hand. Walt, baby, you’re looking for someone qualified as an old pol, a nice ward healer or pork barreler.
There. He read. Yes, definitely an old pol. Sid Rankin was hyper, thoroughly Type A, balding, overweight, adrift in cigar smoke-a candidate for an early grave. Only one way to find out.
To his surprise Sid Rankin answered on the first ring. “Well, if it isn’t the perfesser hisself, long time no see, what’ve you been up to?” He affected a New York accent. Sid was born in Wisconsin.
Byerly hated small talk, always had. “Oh, same-o, same-o, Sid. How about you?” He listened. “As a matter of fact that’s why I called. I need some Washington insider information. As I remember-” Actually he had clippings. “-you used to write speeches for Reagan, then you worked for Clinton in his first campaign. Landslide George has no use for you. That makes you both political and non-partisan.”
“What it makes me is a maverick who has a hard time finding work. What do you want to know, perfesser?”
“Does Justin Wright stand a chance?”
“Scare you, does he? Me, too. ‘Course he does. After Reagan and Clinton I quit writing off candidates as having no chance. Wright has the looks and the lip, which sometimes is all it takes. He was an adequate Congressman and now has a pretty good record as governor of a major state, at least he hasn’t messed up too bad. He’s got the flag, family and Jesus behind him. He might win, the nomination anyway.”
“You’re right, it’s scary. What do you know about Karl Kinkaid?”
“Not much, other than he’s a major backer of Justin Wright.”
“That’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s a measure of how mysterious the guy is. You’d think the press would do a hatchet job on him, but no.”
“Maybe he owns the press.”
“Or there’s nothing to expose. What’s Kinkaid done?”
“I’m not sure anything. Is Joy Fielding his wife?”
“Not many people know that. Hey, now that I think of it, she’s the one hot to trot for Wright. Maybe hubby just indulges his beloved. She’s got the bod, he has the bucks.”
He was disappointed. Rankin had offered nothing he didn’t already know, but he couldn’t think of anything else to ask.
“You’re slipping, perfesser.”
“That’s for sure, but on what particular slide now?”
“You haven’t mentioned the big, unsubstantiated rumor about Wright.”
“I’ll bite. What’s the big, unsubstantiated rumor about Wright?”
Rankin laughed. “You haven’t changed, perfesser, same old dry humor. There’s a nasty rumor that Wright secretly fathered a bastard kid. If so, it-”
“Would destroy his holier-than-thou family values campaign.”
“Not to mention Wright himself.”
“Is it true?”
“A lot of effort is going into trying to prove it. The Moore people-”
Byerly laughed. “Winston Winthrop Moore, otherwise known as Win-Win Moore. He just can’t be for real.”
“The guy has a birth certificate, but it could be phony, I suppose. Anyway, the Moore people reportedly are offering big bucks to anyone who produces the W-R-I-G-H-T stuff.” He guffawed. ”Sorry, couldn’t resist that.”
“And if there is such a child, the Wright people would do almost anything to keep him hidden.” Why did he say him?
“Never thought of that, but I’m sure you’re right.”
“Who’s supposed to be the fallen woman?”
“All anyone knows for sure is that three, maybe four years ago, when Wright was in Congress, he was pals with a fox named Amanda something or other, oh yeah, Sykes, I think. She worked in his DC office for a while, then disappeared. Nobody can find her, and believe me, an effort has been made, still is. If you happen to run into Ms. Sykes, you can do yourself a lot of good by calling the right people.”
“I’ll start knocking on doors immediately.”
“Say, why do you want to know about Kinkaid and Wright?”
“When I know myself, you’ll be the first to find out.“
“Oh no you don’t. I want a little quid pro quo.”
“A quid is old English money and greed is unseemly. Bye, Sid.”
DeeDee looked around the shop again. Everything put away. Time to go home. Maybe she should try that Boston number one more time. All she’d gotten was a machine. She pushed the re-dial button.
An actual person. Imagine. “Is Cyn there?”