Moon Music (32 page)

He braked hard, coming within inches of rear-ending the car in front of him.

Back in reality.

Hell with Honey! He reversed the car, and once again he headed toward Rukmani's. But as he neared the building, he became filled with dread. Seeing Mom so frail. As if he felt at the peak of health himself.
He
needed TLC; but Mom needed it more.

He picked up his cellular and punched in numbers. Rukmani answered. "Where are you?"

"Two blocks away from Alison's." A lie. "I haven't hooked up with Jensen yet." The truth. "He called in sick today." The truth as well. Two to one: Poe was on a roll. "I figured I'd just stop by—"

"Jensen doesn't have a pager?"

"It's easier to talk in person."

A long pause. She didn't believe him. Ironic, because this time he was being straight.

"When do you think you'll make it here?" Rukmani was irritated. "She's asking for you, Romulus."

Guilt, guilt
. Poe said, "Give me an hour."

"Do what you have to do." She lowered her voice. "I miss you, Rom. I miss you in my bed."

Poe felt a lump in his heart. "Ruki, I feel exactly the same way."

"Do you?"

If she only knew. "Think we can steal a few minutes alone tonight?"

"I certainly
hope
so." She paused, then spoke pointedly. "And I certainly hope it's for more than a few minutes."

No one was home.

Poe stood on Jensen's doorstep, phone in hand, sweat falling from his face. The sun was dropping and its rays were cooking everything in their path. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, then took out a tube of ointment and bathed his wound. The unguent felt gelatinous and dripped down his cheek. He dabbed up the excess, then popped a few Advils. His head throbbed, and his skin felt as pinpricked as a tough steak. After a half minute of baking, he decided that heatstroke wouldn't do anyone any good.

He went back to his car, turned on the air conditioner full blast, and paged Jensen, waiting for a callback. Fifteen minutes later, he knew it wasn't going to happen. He should have revved up the Honda and proceeded directly to Rukmani's. Instead, he took out his lock picks.

Popping the catch to the front door within a minute, he stepped across the threshold and inside the personless house.

Hot and stuffy.

Someone had shut the windows, had turned off the air-conditioning. Around these parts, people didn't do that if they were only going out to dinner. Because it took more energy to recool the place than it did to maintain a set temperature.

But people
did
turn off the juice if they were planning an overnight. He checked his notepad for Gerald Hennick's number, then gave the old man a call. After fifteen rings, he hung up. Why didn't the old man answer? Was he out? Was he okay? Maybe Poe should stop by. Then he wondered why he was so concerned for Hennick's safety.

He paged Patricia. When she called back, he heard background noise. "Did I interrupt something?"

"I'm at Barry's Place, hanging out before Naked City."

"Sounds like fun."

"If you like your men bald and fat." She laughed. "I should talk. Nate's making up some subs. We stopped by Myra's for some authentic kosher deli takeout. She had lots of meat but no cheeses. So Big Ray added some provolone and Swiss from his personal stash. There's plenty if you're interested."

"I'd love to, but I need to play the dutiful son."

"How's your mother doing?"

"Better, thanks." A beat. "Patty, are you talking in privacy?"

"I'll call you back in five minutes."

More like two minutes. Poe said, "Did you talk to Jensen this morning?"

"No. He called in sick."

"Who spoke to him?"

"I guess Molly or Brenda."

"He's not at home," Poe told her. "No one's home, as a matter of fact. Not even the kids."

Patricia said, "So maybe he's feeling better and took them out to dinner."

"The air conditioner's turned off. Why turn off the juice if you're only going to be gone for a couple of hours?"

"How do you know the air conditioner is off?"

"I'm in the house."

A pause. "I won't ask." Another pause. "Sergeant, maybe Jensen took the kids out to spend the day with Alison. He called in sick because it was too embarrassing to admit where he was going."

A perfectly rational explanation. Which would neatly justify why Hennick wasn't home. Jensen had taken Dad as well. Poe said, "Makes sense."

"Anything else?"

"Who's going with you to Naked City?"

"Marine Martin."

"Patricia—"

"He's very strong, sir."

"I have nothing against the man, but this isn't his type of assignment. He's got cop plastered across his face—"

"He
begged
me. He's itching for some real action."

"No one's going to talk to him. The man doesn't interview. He gives orders. And he salutes everyone."

"I told him to stay in the background and evaluate. Like a spy. He liked that. Besides, with Jensen gone, he's the only one I could get on such short notice. And he does have a good eye for detail."

"He's a fine detective as long as he doesn't work with people."

"I'll keep him under wraps." A beat. "Anything else? They're waiting for me. Sure you don't want to join us?"

"Positive. Thanks anyway. Page me when you're done with Naked City."

"It'll be late."

"I'll be up. Talk to you later."

He pushed the end button, slapping the phone repeatedly against the palm of his hand. He knew he should leave. But as long as he'd gone this far…

He started with the bedroom closet, giving the hanging garments a quick once-over. Lots of clothes, but there were some empty hangers on Alison's side. Maybe a dozen of them. More than he'd expected to find. Perhaps Jensen had packed up some dresses for his wife, so she could feel more at home during her hospital stay.

Poe checked Steve's side—some stray hangers as well.

So what? Steve had taken some shirts to the laundry, and hadn't had time to rehang them. Nothing to suggest that he had done a disappearing act.

On the floor sat ten pairs of shoes for him, around fifteen for her. Stashed in the closet corner was a pile of shoe boxes. Poe grabbed the smallest one—a female size seven shoe box—and brought it into the light. On the side was printed the word RESEARCH in bold black marker letters. He lifted the lid.

A ghost emerged from the closet—a brief history of Linda Paulson Hennick in pictures and newsprint. Poe spread them out on the bed, arranging them in chronological order.

There were several faded black-and-whites of Linda as a young girl. One was as a child of around eight in a long white confirmation dress with a dainty crucifix hanging from her neck. A bigtoothed elder was handing her a Bible. When Poe squinted, he could make out the title—the Book of Mormon. He picked up another set of yellowed newspaper clippings. One was from the
Deseret News, 
showing Linda after winning a statewide spelling bee. A big, goofy smile, but her hair had been perfectly curled. The second clipping was from a smaller paper in Utah—a picture of Linda displaying the red second-place ribbon she had won from a citywide LDS bake-off.

A good little Mormon girl.

The next set of photographs—no longer black-and-white, but rather faded, discolored snapshots—showed a coltish preteen dressed in jeans, wearing a sultry pout on her lips.

Alison's pout.

Another collection centered around Linda showing off a twopiece bathing suit. Most of her torso was covered—the way it was with two-pieces from the fifties—but the look on her face. It was hungry for love. Or more like hungry for lovin', if Poe had to put a spin on it.

Later snapshots included several of a lovely, burgeoning adolescent. A yearbook photo of a ponytailed Linda in an angora sweater with a string of pearls around her neck. A big newspaper article with a picture: Linda holding a wand and wearing a crown. The caption read:

The reigning beauty of St. George.

Linda Joanne Paulson: Hamilton High Homecoming

Queen.

Then there were a couple of later pictures with Gerald Hennick. In one of them, she wore a light, sleeveless blouse and a paisley pair of capris and had a tented scarf over her head. He had donned a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. They were holding hands and scowling, she more than he, reminding Poe of a sanitized version of James Dean with a much hungrier Natalie Wood.

He continued to rifle through snatches of a dead woman's life. A faded newspaper photo from the
St. George Telegraph
. A group picture of twenty teenaged girls—one row of ten standing in the back, a second row of ten kneeling in front. A big black circle had been drawn around Linda Hennick. She was in the front, second from the left.

Poe stared at the picture, at the young adolescent faces. For some reason, it looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. The snapshot captivated him; as the girls' wide smiles seemed so genuine: as if they had been having a really marvelous time. He pocketed the clipping.

His cell phone rang. It was Patricia, and she sounded tense. "I don't know if this means anything. But I thought I'd pass it along."

"Shoot."

"It's about Jensen. You made me curious, so I called up the hospital where Alison was staying—"

"Uh-oh!"

"I used my title and pushed and finally got through to a Dr. Rand, whose official title is senior administrator. I told him I was trying to locate Detective Jensen. I had an emergency." A pause. "Sir, Alison checked out this morning. Actually, Jensen checked her out against doctor's advice."

Poe started bouncing on his feet. "Did the doc know where they went?"

"No. But he said that even if he did know, he wouldn't tell me. Something about patient confidentiality."

"Is this guy an M.D. doctor or just a pencil pusher?"

"Haven't the foggiest notion." A beat. "Why would Steve do that, sir? First check her in. Then take her out against doctor's orders."

Why indeed?

Maybe Alison wasn't as delusional as he thought. Maybe she was telling the partial truth. That Jensen
was
trying to get rid of her. He had planned to transfer her to some faraway podunk loony bin so he could play with his whores. Perhaps he should have taken her words more seriously.

Then there was the flip side. Yes, Alison was delusional, but she was also highly manipulative. Somehow she had talked Jensen into pulling her out. Once free, she planned to escape so she could live in her own crazy world—psychotic and untethered, with a propensity toward suicide.

Both options stank.

Two women brutally murdered, and everyone involved was either untouchable or missing. To Patricia he said, "You just concentrate on Naked City. I'll make a couple of calls."

"Like I said, sir, I don't know if it means anything."

"It means something, Patricia. What it means…well, that's the question of the moment."

THIRTY

W
EINBERG STATED,
"These are the facts. He asked for some time off, and I gave it to him. Given the circumstances, it seemed like a benign request. End of facts."

Mentally, Poe counted to ten. "So you have no idea where they went?"

"I told you no."

As he stopped for a red light, Poe shifted the cellular to his other ear. "He must have given you a hint."

"He said he was taking Alison and the family away for some rest and relaxation."

"He didn't run down a list of possibilities?"

"Come to think of it, he mentioned something about scuba diving in Cabo de San Lucas."

Poe paused. "You're putting me on."

"Yes, I'm putting you on." Weinberg was irritated. "I'm not holding back. He didn't tell me a damn thing, and I didn't pry. Steve has been looking pretty bad. Tell you the truth, I was thinking of eighty-sixing him for a while. He hasn't been much use since she broke down."

Poe tried another tactic to keep the conversation alive. "I'm very concerned for Alison's safety. He took her out against medical advice. She needs medication when she's agitated. Jensen may not know with whom he's dealing."

"Poe, I'm
sure
he knows his wife better than you. As far as taking her out of the loony bin…" Weinberg scoffed. "Medical advice hasn't done a damn thing for that woman. She's been…unstable for years."

"That's why she should be watched by professionals."

"Look, Poe, if we were having a purely intellectual discussion, I'd say you were right. But I'm not Steve, I don't know what's running through his head, and I've never lived with a woman who had mental problems. The man asked for time to recoup, I told him go ahead. Time for you to move on and get a life."

Poe swallowed his superior's sarcasm. "She's an old friend, sir. I'm concerned."

Weinberg softened his tone. "I know that. But Alison is Steve's wife. If you want to keep your nose in one piece, you don't go sticking it where it don't belong."

Words of wisdom from Lieutenant Mick Weinberg. Poe said, "If you do hear anything, could you pass it along to me?"

"Sure." A beat. "How're you holding up?"

"Actually, I'm doing all right."

"Your face's okay?"

"It's ugly. But it doesn't hurt that bad."

Weinberg chuckled. "Get some rest." Then he clicked off.

Poe depressed the end button, folded his phone, and placed it in his pocket. It was close to nine. His erotic plans for the evening were being eroded away by worry and fatigue. And the prospect of dealing with Mom.

Nothing kills romance faster than a mom.

Despite Poe's reservations, Patricia was glad to have Marine Martin along. If not subtle, he was observant and alert. At six feet tall, Martin was lean, with a turkey wattle, but he had big arms, thanks to daily workouts at the gym. He was bald and very fair and was always on the lookout for skin cancer—one of the reasons he didn't mind working at night. For the assignment, he had dressed as casually as he could muster—khakis and a polo shirt—but he wound up looking more like a lost tourist than an underground man. As they approached the area, Patricia played upon his image.