Goodbye Sister Disco (24 page)

Cordelia allowed herself a grim smile. God. Maybe she was going insane. Thinking these nasty thoughts about her stepmother had actually eased some of her despair. The things you think of when you're terrified.

Music still being piped in. What were they playing now? “Where the Boys Are?” Connie Francis singing it. Hadn't that been a movie? Yes, she had seen it on cable with her mother and Edie. They had laughed at it together, Edie and Adele laughing more than she had. Adele had told them that the main actress went on to become a Catholic nun after leaving Hollywood, and Edie said she wasn't surprised.

But it was a good song, Cordelia thought. Its strains and movements and build still holding up well today. And as it came to its end, she found herself singing along with Connie Francis as tears rolled down her cheeks.

*   *   *

Hastings took the McKnight Road exit off the interstate, drove south to where it intersected with Litzsinger, and turned right. Twenty-minute drive out of downtown into paradise. Twisty black roads, mansions, trees, lawns. He envisioned the kidnappers following Tom Myers's BMW down this road, the kidnappers looking at the grand houses and country club golf courses, thinking, Look at this shit. Smelling the money.

Klosterman had once told Hastings a story about Murph that Murph had never denied or confirmed. Apparently, Murph had been something of a stud when he was a younger man. Girls liked him and he liked them. When he was about twenty-two, he had met a girl at Mississippi Nights. They had been drinking and not asking too much background from each other and before the night was through she gave him her number. When he went to pick her up a couple of nights later for a date, he was driving his primary vehicle, a 1977 Chevy truck with the two-tone paint. Murph was a smart kid, even at twenty-two, and when he pulled up to the house and saw that it was a high-dollar home in Kirkwood, he sensed the onset of a culture clash. Still, he had to hold his temper when the girl, and her mother, told him she would be ready to leave in a few minutes, but would he mind parking his truck around the corner so people wouldn't see it? Murph being Murph said, “Not at all, ma'am.” Walked outside, got in his truck, and drove away, likely back to Mississippi Nights. There was snobbishness and there was pride.

Maybe it was true, Hastings thought. Or maybe it was working-class-hero horseshit. If Murph had made it up, he'd have to be given credit for having a good imagination. Hastings's ex-wife had apparently been raised with money or had gotten used to it. When Hastings fell in love with her and married her, he told himself that it wouldn't matter. But years later, he figured out that Murph was probably smarter than he was about such things. Eileen was openly supportive of class distinctions and, perhaps to her credit, did not hesitate to share this sentiment with Hastings when they were married. Not ironically, Murph, born and raised in the Dogtown section of St. Louis, probably felt the same way. It was perhaps unusual, but Eileen had always said that no one was more in favor of the British class system than the British working class.

Hastings himself was by no means immune. He was a homicide detective, one of the elite, and though the term
glory boy
nettled him at times, he did take a certain pride in it. He had no desire to have his rank reduced, no desire to return to street patrol. He remembered returning to Lincoln to visit his mother and seeing a group of meatpacking workers in a sports bar and thinking, Oh, Jesus. But for an athletic scholarship to Saint Louis University, he could have been one of them. They were laughing and drinking and enjoying themselves, talking about Cornhusker football and that week's lottery number. They
seemed
happy, and who was he to think they shouldn't be? Yet he had dreaded the thought of being one of them.

He was coming up on the Fisher house now, the house where Tom Myers had brought Cordelia Penmark. The street was empty now, no Christmas parties tonight. Hastings slowed the car and pulled it over to the side of the road. In the darkness, he estimated the place where Myers had parked his BMW. On the north side of the road.

Maybe the kidnappers had slowly driven by, marking the place, then turning around to find a place to park themselves. Watching the young couple get out of the car and move toward the house where they would drink and schmooze. They would stay at the party for at least two hours, maybe even three. The kidnappers would wait that long.

There had been footprints of two people, probably men. One on the passenger side of the BMW, grabbing Cordelia Penmark, the other on the driver's side, holding a gun at Tom Myers's side, then pulling the trigger twice, and once more when Myers was on the ground.

And then they were gone.

Probably driving west, Hastings thought.

And then where? Christ, a party with over two hundred guests and no one had seen the abduction. It was dark and late and people had been drinking. It could have happened in front of them and they would have had several different descriptions, but no license tag.

And why her? Why Cordelia Penmark? She had not been a high-profile girl. There was no twisted Paris Hilton vanity in her, no grasp for the spotlight. No flattering pictures in the society pages. She seemed like she was trying to live a normal life, in spite of everything. Not ashamed of her money or her background, but not flaunting it either.

Hastings wondered if he had been following a spoor to no end. He was at the place where the abduction had occurred, trying to think like a predator to catch one, but nothing was coming to the fore. He could go back to the blind and hope for the deer to pass in front of it for an easy shot, but that wasn't going to happen. Or he could give himself busywork to make himself believe that he was doing something to save the girl, but that wouldn't help her if he wasn't making headway.

He flicked on the overhead light and started to go through his notebook. He was searching for a telephone number when the dome light was overpowered and the back of the car was filled with the illumination of headlight beams.

Hastings looked in the rearview mirror. His heart skipped a beat, and then he relaxed.

Christ. It was a police car.

A Ladue patrol car.

A patrolman walked up, holding a flashlight. Hastings was patient, waiting to get it over with. The patrolman was young.

He said, “Is there a problem, sir?”

Hastings said, “Hi. I'm a cop. Let me reach into my jacket here and I'll show you my ID.”

The patrolman flashed the light in the car and saw the police radio and the flashing light that could be set on the dash. But he was cautious and he said, “Okay. Well, uh, let me see your ID anyway.”

Hastings gave it to him. The patrolman looked at it and handed it back.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It's all right,” Hastings said. “It doesn't look like a police car.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I'm investigating a murder. The one that—”

“Oh, yeah. I know about it. Well, I'll let you get back to work.”

“Thanks. Hey,” Hastings said, “Were you on patrol that night?”

“Yeah. I didn't see anything though.” The young cop said, “We don't get much out here. We look for signs of robbery, traffic violations … I remember there were a lot of cars parked along this road that night. A party.”

“Yeah, there was a party.”

The patrol officer said, “It was a good night to do it.”

Hastings stopped and looked up at the man. “How do you mean?” he said.

“I mean, all these cars were parked on the street that night because of Mr. Fisher's party. Any other night, a car on this street would have stood out and me or someone else on patrol would have stopped and questioned them. Like I just did to you. You're not really supposed to park here. But we let it slide once a year for Fisher.”

“Fisher has a Christmas party every year?”

“Oh yeah. At least as long as I've been here, and that's coming up on six years.”

“I see.”

“Well … anything else?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

The cop was walking back to his car. He reported back to dispatch and then pulled past the Jag and was driving away; the sound of his engine dissipating was replaced by the ringing of Hastings's cell phone.

“Yeah?” Hastings said.

“George, it's Murph. We got something on Edie Penmark.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Well, it's not drugs. But you were right: she is mixed up in something. I downloaded some things and you should probably see it.”

THIRTY-TWO

Murph was already at the Penmark house when Hastings got there. He got out of an unmarked Chevy Impala with a brown file holder in his hand. He and Hastings went over them together. A few minutes later, Hastings said, “She's in one of the bungalows in the back. We'll go around.”

The blue water in the swimming pool rippled as a large snakelike tube curled around in it. A heated pool, warm enough for a swim on a December night.

They got to the bungalows and Hastings rapped on the door. Edie Penmark answered it after the third series of knocks.

She looked first at Hastings and then at Murph, whom she'd never seen before. Murph's presence indicating that Hastings had not returned for any improper purpose. She said, “What do you want now?”

Hastings said, “You've been keeping something from us.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Ernie Shavers, to begin with. Do you want to have this conversation here, or in your father's office?”

The alarm appeared on her face when Hastings said the name Ernie Shavers. She backed away from the door and let them in. Then she went straight to the couch and took a seat, waiting for what she was pretty sure she knew was coming.

The detectives followed her, remaining on their feet for the time being.

Hastings gestured to the packet Murph held. He said, “You know what we've got here?”

“What?” Edie said.

“Downloads of porn. From a Web site you own.” Hastings picked a couple of the stills out, young, rough-looking girls with men. “Do you need to see it?”

She shrugged. “Local whores and strippers. Nothing I bet you haven't seen before.”

“You're a co-owner with Ernie Shavers. He's already confirmed that for us.”

“So what?”

“So what?” Hastings said. “For Christ's sake, how can you do this?”

“I'm not in any of those things,” she said. “We hire those girls. It's just a business opportunity.”

“Whether or not you're in it is not the point,” Hastings said. “You're selling it.”

Edie Penmark shrugged again. She was looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

Hastings said, “Do your parents know about this?”

Edie Penmark smirked. “What do you think?”

“I think they'd be sick if they knew.”

“I told you,” she said, “it's just a business investment. People pay for it.”

“A business investment,” Hastings said. “Like you need the money?”

“I put up some of the money. And we had an okay return.”

“But why invest in something like this? What's wrong with you?”

“Oh for Christ's sake,” she said. “You're a cop. You telling me you haven't seen this before? And what does it have to do with anything, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be finding my sister?”

“Unfortunately,” Hastings said, “this may relate to your sister. Are you aware that Ernie Shavers is involved in prostitution?”

Edie Penmark wanted to retain her tough exterior. “It doesn't surprise me,” she said.

Hastings wanted to hit her. Her nonchalance might have been a pose, but it was getting to him. He wanted to reach out and slap the smug expression off her face. He said, “He's a fucking criminal. Did it ever occur to you that it was a bad idea to mix with people like that?”

“He's harmless.”

“He's not harmless. He's done a couple of stretches in prison.” Hastings sighed. “A couple of my men are questioning him now to see if he had any involvement in this matter.”

Edie Penmark said, “Ernie doesn't know Cordelia. Do you think I'd ever introduce him to her?”

“I don't know what to think about you,” Hastings said. “I'll tell you this, though: he probably wouldn't have known who she was if not for you.”

“Check him out then,” she said. “You won't find anything on him.”

“We will,” Hastings said. “And we have to check out all these other people you did business with too. That's the task you've presented us with, young lady.”

“It's none of your business,” she said. “It's nobody's business.”

“It is now,” Hastings said. “And you better—goddammit, why didn't you tell us that you were involved in this?”

“I didn't think it mattered,” she said. Her face no longer smug now, tears coming to her eyes.

“It very well may. You're in a seedy business with seedy people. Criminals. Don't you understand you may have exposed your sister to them?”

Tears were rolling down her cheeks now. “I don't think there's a connection,” she said.

“Did you tell Ernie Shavers where Cordelia was going to be that night?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No. Jesus, I didn't know myself.” She sobbed. “Are you going to tell my father?”

Hastings sighed. “I don't know,” he said. “Right now, that's the least of my concerns.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I would if I could,” he said, still angry.

“Christ,” she said, “you act like
you're
my father.” Her sobs were mixing with her voice now. She said, “You're the one that hasn't found her. You think I don't care about my own sister? I do. More than you'll ever understand. I think you're just trying to find someone to blame for this.”