Moonbird Boy (24 page)

"This is Bo Bradley," Bo told a tape recorder in the CPS message center. "Please tell Madge Aldenhoven I'm meeting the grandmother in the Wagman case for an emergency conference this morning. It should take about two hours. I'll be in after that."

In a second call she told the security officer at St. Mary's Hospital her name and CPS ID number, and requested a confidential hold on Bird Wagman. In the event that someone phoned or came to the hospital asking about him, neither the switchboard nor the reception desk would give out his room number or even acknowledge that he was there. It wasn't enough, she worried, but she could scarcely request an armed guard on the basis of one sentence from a woman she hadn't yet interviewed.

Then she dressed in a pair of khaki shorts, sandals, and a baggy white T-shirt. Very professional. When Andrew returned with Molly and the paper, he said, "Aren't you going to work?"

"I'm meeting Mort's mother at Dog Beach in twenty minutes," Bo sighed. "And I have to read this police report before I go."

"I won't ask why you're meeting her there," he said, puzzled.

"I'll tell you when I know why myself. Meanwhile, Andy, I've got to read this report. And thanks for taking Molly down."

"We managed very well," he said airily, carrying his coffee and paper out to the deck.

Hopper Mead, the San Diego Police Department concluded in its report, died by "misadventure" when a shark tore off her right leg as she swam in seventy-five feet of water near her anchored yacht off San Diego's landmark peninsula, Point Loma. Because of the deceased's high profile in the community and the possibility of a wrongful death stemming from attempted financial fraud, an exhaustive investigation was conducted, and was still officially open.

"MEAD was the daughter of MR. and MRS. RANDOLPH MEAD, SR.," the report told Bo in traditional police style, "and heiress to a substantial fortune shared with her brother, RANDOLPH MEAD, JR., 28. Both parents are deceased. MEAD JR. heads a local conservative think tank, Mead Policy Institute. MEAD JR. denies any connection to his sister's death, saying that he was in his offices at the time of the shark attack. An employee of Mead Institute, ANSELM TUCKER, a clerk, confirms this. Further, a review of bank and investment records for HOPPER MEAD and RANDOLPH MEAD, JR. (permission given by MEAD JR.) reveals no financial motive for MEAD JR. to seek profit from his sister's death. Both were bequeathed substantial estates by MEAD SR., and the entirety of HOPPER MEAD's estate went at her death to the corporation founded by MEAD SR., MedNet, with corporate headquarters in Phoenix, Arizona.

"The executive board of MedNet includes the following: ALEXANDER MORLEY, Chairman; ELLIOT KINES, NEAL BROCKMAN, and ROBERT THOMPSON, members. Shortly before MEAD's death MedNet sustained a punitive judgment for medical fraud in the amount of four hundred and fifty million dollars. Nonetheless, a thorough investigation revealed no connection between anyone associated with MedNet and HOPPER MEAD at any time."

Here someone had penciled in, "And we thought we could prove these guys hired the shark."

"Cute," Bo said to the sheaf of paper in her hands, and read on.

The report continued, documenting every interrogation conducted in relation to Hopper Mead's untimely death. Many of these were phoned interviews with the young

woman's friends. And several of her friends mentioned that Mead had been seeing someone, "a serious boyfriend" at the time of her death.

"Hop was pretty secretive about him," a friend named Miko Mulryan told San Diego police, "keeping him under wraps, I guess. I think he's somebody in TV or the movies. Hop was always running up the coast to L.A. on weekends to see him."

Several of Mead's friends expressed concern and puzzlement at the "boyfriend's" failure to appear at her funeral services. Some suggested that Mead might have terminated the relationship, since in the month prior to her death she had been in San Diego every weekend, attending various social functions alone. Police had followed every lead, the report stated, but so far had not located the young man with whom Mead had been involved.

An appendix to the report was a document in Spanish typed on Escuela Ciencias Marinas letterhead with an Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico, address, signed by Jose Mendez. A handprinted explanation in English was provided at the bottom of the last page.

"MENDEZ is a graduate student in marine biology who aspires to become a medical examiner," it said. "He was sent by a professor, DR. HECTOR ORTIZ, to dissect a shark cadaver washed up on a beach north of Ensenada. MENDEZ discovered human bones in the shark's stomach, these later proving to be the femur, tibia, fibula, and os calcis, or heel bone, of the deceased, HOPPER MEAD. MENDEZ noted a gouge in the shaft of the femur which he believes could not have been made by the shark. MENDEZ holds the opinion that this gouge in the bone may indicate that MEAD sustained a deep laceration to the lower groin area prior to the shark attack. Such a laceration, MENDEZ states, would have severed the femoral artery. Examinations of the bone by SDPD forensic specialists have produced conflicting results. One specialist concurs with MENDEZ, while the second believes the gouge could have been made by a shark tooth during the attack. These forensic reports are on file, and the femur has been retained as evidence by the SDPD, with permission of next-of-kin RANDOLPH MEAD, JR., who will see that it is interred with the remains when released."

"My God, they kept her thighbone!" Bo muttered as Andrew came in from the deck, folding the newspaper.

"Take a look at this," he said, handing her the financial pages. "Didn't you tell me MedNet was taking over the Ghost Flower program? Looks like the chair of its board just died."

Bo glanced at a professional photo of an older man in a business suit whose fierce scowl reminded her of her fifth-grade teacher, a nun named Sister Timothy whose habit always smelled like burnt toast. "MedNet Chair Alexander Morley Succumbs to Heart Attack," said the column head.

"He died of natural causes," Bo noted without conviction.

"Apparently he was about to retire. MedNet's PR man, Robert Thompson, says in the article that Morley was going to make the announcement just as soon as MedNet finalized arrangements to franchise 'an innovative new approach to psychiatric care based on Native American traditions.' Thompson then drops the fact that foreign franchises are already being negotiated. MedNet's stock will climb a few points after this; count on it."

"I know a county clerk who'll be thrilled," Bo replied. "Come on, Molly, we've got an appointment at the beach."

Bo would have recognized Ann Lee Keith even if she hadn't been ushering three Jack Russell terriers from a rental car in the Dog Beach parking lot. Her ebony hair, artfully streaked with silver, would have been identical to Mort's when she was younger. And she had the same full lips, carefully outlined in lip pencil and filled in with a slightly lighter shade of lipstick. In a crisp red linen blazer over tan slacks and a blouse, she looked like the social director on a cruise ship. But there were deep lines in her face, Bo noticed. And even dark glasses couldn't hide the purplish circles under her eyes. Ann Lee Keith, Bo acknowledged, was grieving the death of her son.

"I'm Bo Bradley, and I want you to know how sorry I am about your loss," Bo said, extending one hand as the other held Molly's straining leash as the dogs performed their investigatory sniffing ritual. "I know this is a terrible time for you."

The hand that clasped Bo's was cool and firm. "Thank you," Ann Keith answered. "The only thing that has kept me going since Adam's attorney called to tell me that my son was dead is that Charles is still alive. I still have a grandson. You can't imagine how important that is to me, and how frightened I am. Please, shall we sit down somewhere and talk?"

Bo looked at the postcard expanse of Dog Beach under a cloudless blue sky, waves breaking against the stone jetty extending toward a bobbing white buoy, a young couple watching two golden retrievers chase sandpipers, and wondered how Mort Wagman could be dead and his mother standing here holding three terriers on matching red leashes. The two realities were mutually exclusive, she thought. A clean, morning beach. A frightened, grieving woman. With dogs.

"Let's go over there." She pointed to the beach boundary where the San Diego River emptied into the sea. "We can sit in the sand and the dogs can run free."

Molly, attempting to keep up with the Jack Russells, fell squarely on her nose twice before Bo picked her up and carried her across the expanse of sand. "My dog, my fox terrier, died just over a month ago," Bo said as they struggled through the soft sand. "And somebody's been using that fact to harass me, playing tapes of a barking terrier on my answering machine among other things. Are you that person?"

Ann Keith's face paled visibly. "How clever of you to disarm me with polite offers of sympathy before leveling accusations of demented cruelty. I have no idea what you're talking about, nor any idea why you'd assume I would do such a thing. Please tell me where my grandson is and we can terminate this interview right now!"

She had stopped cold in the sand and removed her dark glasses to glare at Bo from Mort Wagman's deep blue eyes. The effect was unnerving, but Bo ignored it to search the woman's face for telltale signs of subterfuge, evasion, malice. The signs were absent.

"I apologize," Bo said. "Last week I followed Zachary Crooked Owl and another man to your home in St. Louis and saw the dogs. That's when it occurred to me that you might have something to do with these things somebody's doing to me. I'm sure they're connected in some way to Ghost Flower's problems and Mort's death, but I don't know how. There may be a connection to MedNet, and to the shark attack on Hopper Mead. But right now I don't know anything, and confronting you with that was a way to eliminate one variable, quickly."

Ann Lee Keith's head was tilted to one side in, Bo thought, a terrierlike attitude of puzzlement. "You followed someone named Crooked Owl to my home?" she repeated. "A shark attack? And who is Mort? Nothing you have said to me since we left the parking lot has made any sense whatever. And I still know nothing about my grandson."

"Let's just sit down," Bo said, throwing a piece of driftwood for the Jack Russells. "Some of what I have to say may be upsetting. But first let me tell you that Charles, whom I know as Bird, is fine. I may be able to arrange for you to see him after we talk. But first I need to know why Mort deliberately severed his ties with you."

"Who is Mort?" Ann Keith asked again, sitting cross-legged in the sand and shaking her head. "You keep saying that name."

Bo sat Molly between herself and the other woman and found a stick for the puppy to chew on. "I knew your son, Adam, as Mort Wagman," she began. "We were in a psych rehab facility together, Ghost Flower Lodge. Mort's lawyer may not have explained all of this to you when he called to tell you what had happened. It's run by the Neji Band of Kumeyaay Indians in the desert about an hour from here. Mort, er, Adam and I became friends, Dr. Keith. He was kind to me even while he was sick. I thought of him as a brother, sort of. I'm doing my best to look out for his son."

"Oh, God, Mort Wagman, of course." Ann Keith bit her lip and tried to control the tears spilling from beneath her sunglasses. "That's exactly what he'd call himself. I just can't believe he's gone, Bo. Mort Wagman. God, of course."

"He was kind," Bo said quietly, taking the other woman's hand. "He was smart and funny and successful, too. But what I'll never forget is that he was kind to me."

"Thank you, Bo. And please call me Ann. I want to hear everything you can tell me about my son."

"He had schizophrenia," Bo began.

"I know that. What I don't know is everything that's happened to him in the last two and a half years. I hired detectives, everything. They couldn't locate him. I was afraid he was dead and Charles lost somewhere with strangers."

Bo explained Mort's career as she watched the Jack Russells running toward a seagull. They looked like white birds in formation, their movements perfectly synchronized against the background of water. Molly scampered to join them and they slowed to play with her briefly before she turned and ran back to Bo.

"He went off his meds to do a commercial?" Ann Keith said in disbelief.

"Yeah, for a lot of money. And your detectives couldn't have tried very hard to find him, Ann. He did stand-up comedy in clubs; he was on TV, for crying out loud. How could they miss him?"

Sighing, Ann Keith took off her shoes and poured sand through her fingers onto her feet. "Because I told them to look in the wrong places," she said. "I told them to look in flophouses and SROs, state mental hospitals, filthy board-and-cares, even jails. I have a description of every unidentified young white male corpse buried in every potter's field in this country in the last two years," she went on, arching her head backward, eyes tightly shut. "There are hundreds, Bo. And so many of them are just labeled 'John Doe, known to be mentally ill, no address.' With every report I'd rejoice that it wasn't Adam, and then I'd remember that it was somebody, and that there was another mother somewhere, or father, brother, or sister..."

"It must have been hell for you," Bo acknowledged. "I don't understand why Mort, why Adam put you through that."

"When he left with Charles he wrote me a long letter explaining that he had to be on his own, free of my control. He told me not to worry, that he'd be in touch again when he'd made a life for himself, when he felt like a man. I got one postcard over a year ago, from New York City. He said he and Charles were fine and he was 'almost there.' Then nothing until about three months ago."

"And?"

"It was a letter, with a Las Vegas postmark. He said he was working, that he had plenty of money. He said he was ready to come home again, for a visit. He said," she paused to inhale deeply, "that he would be bringing a young woman to meet me, that they were talking about marriage. Then I heard nothing until a stranger phoned in the middle of the night saying that Adam was dead and if I didn't withdraw my support for... he said 'this Indian deal'... I'd never see Charles again. Later Adam's attorney in Los Angeles called about... about the burial. I arranged to have Adam's body flown to St. Louis and buried next to his father. Then somebody left a note in my mailbox..."