A Safe Place for Dying (18 page)
Read A Safe Place for Dying Online
Authors: Jack Fredrickson
“Thank you for the mail.”
I walked around the table and let myself out the back door. I sat on the stoop to put on my shoes. After a glance backward to make sure she wasn't watching out the window, I fished the blank piece of paper and the envelope out of the plastic tub and stuffed them in my pocket.
I drove back south through Clarinda. The V.W. bus and the faded Reliant were gone from the Inn, their people fortified for another day. After a few miles, I pulled off at an observation point, got out my duffel, and wrapped the envelope and the sheet of paper inside a clean shirt. It was a long shot, but all there had been was long shots. Maybe A.T.F. could find a fingerprint on the sheet of paper.
I watched the waves pound the big rocks down below and thought about Lucy Vesuvius. I'd believed her when she told me that Michael Jaynes, service-trained demolitions expert, disillusioned war protester, skilled electrician, and authentic angry man, had taken off for the Midwest long ago. I'd believed her when she said he never wrote, just sent the occasional ten- or twenty-dollar bill wrapped in blank paper. I'd believed her when she said she'd never tell where he was, whether she knew or not.
And I believed she hadn't seen him, at least not recently. From
the way she tore at the envelope I'd brought, she was too hungry for news of him.
the way she tore at the envelope I'd brought, she was too hungry for news of him.
It was that envelope that nagged the most. I couldn't figure the twenty-dollar bill she'd just received. It was such small change, enough only for a few groceries. A ten or a twenty might have been all he'd been able to spare in the years past, but now he had half a million, enough to stuff an envelope full of hundreds. But the envelope I'd brought her, postmarked after the money pickup, had contained only another twenty.
Till's people would have to get on it. I picked up the cell phone to call him. The display still read NO SERVICE. I set it down on the seat, started the Sebring, and drove on.
My phone started chirping with message alerts two miles south of Bodega Bay. I was on the inland stretch then and pulled off on a gravel road next to a horse farm. I punched in my voice mail code. There were seven messages from Leo and four from Stanley.
I got Leo on his cell phone.
“Where the hell have you been, Dek?”
“Surfing, beach parties, hot tubs with implanted California girlsâ”
“Anton Chernek was arrested by the F.B.I. yesterday afternoon.”
I stared at the corral across the road. The horses had stopped moving.
“Dek?”
“I heard you. F.B.I., not A.T.F.?”
“F.B.I., Financial Crimes. One of Chernek's clients accused him of stealing from her account. What's interesting is that the story is on page three of today's
Tribune,
which means the reporters have been tipped there's more than what's in the ink. Embezzlement cases usually are reported in the metro or business sections. So there's more news to come.”
Tribune,
which means the reporters have been tipped there's more than what's in the ink. Embezzlement cases usually are reported in the metro or business sections. So there's more news to come.”
“Any mention of the problem I'm working on?”
“None yet.”
I stared at the horses.
“Maybe you were right, Dek. Needing money bad enough to embezzle from clients might have made the Bohemian desperate enough to extort money from Gateville.”
Stanley had been frantic when I called him from California, insisting I return immediately. “Santa Rosa, Michael Jaynes, give all that to Agent Till,” he'd said, breathing hard into the phone. “I need you here.”
I caught the next flight back to Chicago and landed at nine fifty that night.
Even without his pale blue uniform, Stanley was easy to spot in the crowded terminal. He was pacing back and forth by the entrance to the parking garage, his lips moving silently. He looked like a man trying to talk himself into a heart attack.
“Thank God you're back.” He moved to take my duffel. We tugged; I won, and hung on to it as we moved up the walkway to the garage.
“Boy, was I glad when you called,” he was saying. “I didn't want to keep leaving you messages, but the Board is expecting me to handle it all.” He spoke in a rush, like there were a thousand words in his mouth, each fighting to get out first.
He led me down one of the aisles to the blue full-size Chevy van
with the wheelchair lift that he'd driven to Ann Sather's restaurant. We climbed in, and he started the engine.
with the wheelchair lift that he'd driven to Ann Sather's restaurant. We climbed in, and he started the engine.
“I told Mr. Ballsard we've got to stay on our guard, but he's not listening. He thinks it's over.”
“He thinks it's Chernek?”
Stanley nodded. He threw the van into reverse, took his foot off the brake, and gave it too much gas. The van lurched backward, cutting off an S.U.V. creeping toward us, looking for a space. The driver hit the brakes, honked, and shot his fist out the window, a finger in the air. Stanley, oblivious, jerked the shifter into drive and punched the van forward.
“Slow down, Stanley, and tell me what you know.”
“I don't know squat.” In the halogen lights of the garage, his knuckles were white on the wheel as he steered the big van down the tight curve of the exit ramp. “Just that Mr. Ballsard seems so sure it's over.”
At the bottom, he shot across several lanes without looking, rocking to a stop at an open pay gate. I told him to pull over after he paid, so we could talk. And live. He steered off to the side and put the van in neutral.
“Start with what you heard from the police.”
“Mr. Ballsard got a heads-up from Chief Morris that the Feds were going to arrest Mr. Chernek on a charge of embezzlement.”
“Who made the charge?”
“Miss Terrado. She used to live at Crystal Waters with her parents. She sold the house after they died.” He reached for a folded newspaper on the floor between the front seats and handed it to me. “This morning's
Tribune.
It says Miss Terrado is accusing Mr. Chernek of stealing two hundred thousand dollars from her accounts by putting it into a phony investment.”
Tribune.
It says Miss Terrado is accusing Mr. Chernek of stealing two hundred thousand dollars from her accounts by putting it into a phony investment.”
“Could it be true?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn't know about things like that.”
“Take a guess.”
“We should get going. I need to be home.” He put the van into drive and pulled out of the garage exit. I held my questions, deciding my chances of survival were greater if I didn't interrupt while he drove.
He didn't speak again until after he'd turned onto Fifty-fifth Street. “You can imagine, in my job, I hear stuff.” He sounded reluctant, like he felt he was ratting out his own brother. “Most of it's baloney, just gossip, but did you notice the empty desks at Mr. Chernek's office?”
“Hard to miss. I heard he was losing clients, and that his staff was leaving, but I also heard that's normal when the stock market is rocky.”
“I've been at that office plenty, Mr. Elstrom, and I can tell you, there used to be people crawling all over those offices, crowding the aisles.” He looked over at me. “You notice his reception room?” The van drifted toward the shoulder.
“Watch the road, Stanley. Yes, I noticed.”
“Anybody ever waiting when you went in?”
“I came late in the day, both times.”
“Doesn't matter. That reception room used to be packed with people waiting to see Mr. Chernek or one of the associates. No more. And then there's the mail.”
“The mail?”
“You know we inspect the mail at Crystal Waters? Examine the envelopes, and irradiate anything that looks suspicious?”
“For anthrax?”
“That, and other stuff. We got a service that picks up every day, nukes anything we don't like the look of. I can't help noticing a lot of the Members have started getting envelopes from new investment companies like Paine Webber, Salomon, Merrill Lynch. Places that do what Mr. Chernek does. And people from those places have started coming to Crystal Waters for appointments at night, too, with the Members that used to use Mr. Chernek.”
“People blame their investment advisors when their portfolios tumble. They look for a change.” I shifted on the seat to look at him. “Do you really think losing clients gives Chernek a motive for extortion?” I remembered when I'd asked the same question of Leo.
Stanley kept his eyes straight ahead, his mouth closed. He wasn't ready to take that step. But his silence was loud.
I turned back to look out the windshield at the taillights speeding past Stanley's now-sedate thirty-five miles an hour. We drove in silence for several minutes until he turned north toward Rivertown.
“What am I going to do, Mr. Elstrom? What if Mr. Ballsard is wrong, what if it's not Mr. Chernek, what if there's another bomb?”
“Have you talked to Till?”
“All this just happened yesterday afternoon.”
“Call him. Ask if we can come in for an update.”
“Then what?”
“That depends on Till. Where's Chernek now?”
“I suppose at home.” Stanley pulled up in front of the turret. “I almost forgot. How was California?”
It was only that morning that I'd drunk peppermint tea with Lucy Vesuvius. It seemed like it had been a year ago.
“I found Nadine Reynolds. She goes by the name Lucy Vesuvius now. Michael Jaynes has been sending her bits of money ever since he left California in 1970, but she says she hasn't seen him.”
“Do you believe her?”
“There's more. The lady at the store in Clarinda told me that a man named Michael, or somebody else, calls every few months, inquiring about Nadine Reynolds. Lucy didn't admit that.”
He cut the engine. “What do you mean, âor somebody else'?”
“Something about the Michael Jaynes lead doesn't add up.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know, Stanley.”
“So you think it could be Mr. Chernek, too?”
I opened the van door, grabbed my duffel, and got out. “I think
your bomber could be Michael Jaynes. And yes, it could conceivably be Anton Chernek. But I also think it could be Bob Ballsard, some other Member, or anybody else who's gotten into Crystal Waters in the past few months. So I also like âor somebody else.' Call me when you get us set up with Till.” I gave him a wave as he started the engine and pulled away.
your bomber could be Michael Jaynes. And yes, it could conceivably be Anton Chernek. But I also think it could be Bob Ballsard, some other Member, or anybody else who's gotten into Crystal Waters in the past few months. So I also like âor somebody else.' Call me when you get us set up with Till.” I gave him a wave as he started the engine and pulled away.
I pulled out my mail from the tin box, unlocked the door, and went in. The turret smelled like the inside of a varnish can. I opened a couple of the slit windows, turned on a fan, and ate a peanut butter sandwich standing up while I read through my mail. An unstamped City of Rivertown envelope smelling of coconut was under the electric bill. On city stationery, Elvis had written, “Absolutely no pink roof will be allowed,” and had drawn two quick circles around the rendering of the turret in the upper right-hand corner. I wadded it up and threw it toward the garbage can. I missed.
With the Bohemian a suspect, and Ballsard convinced the matter had ended, I was probably out of a job. Maybe that was a good thing.
I finished the sandwich, washed my hands twice to get rid of most of the smell of coconut, and went up to the third floor. As I opened windows, I noticed a dark sedan parked down on the street, in the shadows past the streetlamp. Lovers, I thought, watching the submarine races on the river.
I needed that kind of youth, that kind of optimism. I sat on the cot, threw my clothes toward the chair, and dropped my crowded head onto the pillow. I'd had too much to think.
Till's office was on the fourth floor of a beige box on South Canal Street in Chicago. Stanley and I were escorted to a beige conference room at the end of a beige hall at ten the next morning. A splash of real color in that place probably would have caused a stampede.
Till was already there, in his brown suit. “Tell me about Nadine Reynolds,” he said, his face its usual scowl.
I'd put the blank sheet of paper and the envelope addressed to
Nadine Reynolds in a plastic bag. I set it on the table.
Nadine Reynolds in a plastic bag. I set it on the table.
“She was Michael Jaynes's girlfriend when he took off for the Midwest late in 1969. Ever since, I think he's been sending her small bits of money in envelopes like that one. Notice the postmark and the computer font.”
He held the bag up and examined the envelope and the blank sheet of paper. “She says these are from Michael Jaynes?”
“She likes that idea.”
“Never a letter?”
“Just a blank piece of paper, like that one, wrapped around the money.”
“You believe her?”
“About that part, yes, but she says she hasn't seen nor spoken to him since he left California.”
“You don't believe her about that?”
“The lady at the general store in Clarinda told me a guy named Michaelâhe doesn't leave a last nameâcalls every once in a while, asking about Nadine Reynolds.”
Till straightened up in his chair. “What did this Lucy say about that?”
“She didn't. She just shook her head.”
“And that was enough to stop you from asking anything more?”
“Nadine changed her name to Lucy Vesuvius years ago. She's been living the hippie dream in the hills north of San Francisco since Michael Jaynes took off, giving card readings, getting by with a small garden, probably growing her own weed. I don't think she's seen him since. If they'd been communicating, he'd know about her name change. He wouldn't be sending cash to her, or calling the local store asking about her, using her old name.”
“Why does he send her money?”
I shook my head. “She doesn't question. She's just grateful.”
“For a ten or a twenty?”
“For the contact.”
“Did she say why he's hiding?”
“I didn't tell her he disappeared. She said they were both on the fringe of a group that set off a bomb that blinded a bystander, but she swears neither she nor Michael was involved, and that Michael didn't go into hiding.”
“What else did you learn from Lucy Vesuvius?”
“She grows her own tea.”
Till smiled a little twitch of a smile. “What kind?”
“Peppermint.”
“Did you get high?”
“Not that I noticed.”
The little smile disappeared. “Then how can you believe Michael Jaynes has had no communication with her other than to send her bits of money, or to call once in a while, asking somebody else about her?”
“I didn't say I believe anything. I said she believes it.”
“Did you stop to think maybe he's sending her some sort of prearranged signal?”
“Send your own guy to interview her, Till. Someone more cunning.”
He shrugged. “She said all the payments have been postmarked from Chicago?”
“Just like that one,” I said, pointing to the envelope in the bag.
“I don't suppose you thought to get that twenty he sent?”
“I thought fingerprints on paper money ⦔
“It would have been a remote chance, but it would have been nice to try. I'd feel a lot better if we could tie Michael Jaynes to these with a fingerprint.” He tapped the plastic bag containing the blank sheet of paper and the envelope.
“What about Chernek?” I asked.
Till leaned back and clasped his hands together behind his neck. “Chernek's not my case. That's F.B.I.”
“Come on, Till.”
He dropped his hands. “I've been briefed, that's all. Over the past year and a half, the value of the funds Chernek manages for his clients has declined substantially. A big chunk of his client base left him to go to other money managers. His business is down, he's lost many of his associates, he's having personal money problems. And he likes to live big. Nice office, nice house, nice things. So when one of his clients contacted the Bureau, accusing Chernek of diverting funds, they looked into it. Funny accounting gets immediate attention these days. And the Bureau saw enough to get a warrant for his arrest.”
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