The Bottle Ghosts (14 page)

Down, boy! Down
.

About fifteen minutes later, as Bob and I were watching the others dance, we felt a hand on our shoulders and turned to see T/T—definitely back in his Teddy persona, grinning at us.

“Why don't we go up front and get us a drink?” he managed to shout above the music. “I'm more than a tad parched!”

While he and Bob tried to exchange hugs, I signaled to Jonathan who gathered the rest of our troupe, and we all moved through the crowd to the front, with Teddy making frequent stops to exchange a few words with his fans. Both sets of double doors to the front bar were closed, in an apparent attempt to keep the front section a little quieter. However, with a steady stream of people coming and going through them, the effort was largely futile. We found, when we got there, that the separating wall must have been pretty well insulated, since despite the constant in-and-out flow, the sound level was diminished sufficiently to allow for actual near-normal-level conversation. We refreshed our drinks—Teddy tossing back a double scotch straight at the bar and ordering another to carry with us to a relatively clear spot at the far front corner of the room.

We had a great time catching up, hearing of Teddy's adventures and obvious successes. He seemed truly pleased that Bob, Chris, and I had all done well for ourselves as far as partners are concerned, and he was surprised to hear that I'd become a P.I. It was rather odd for me to remember that I hadn't
always
been one and had in fact been working for a now blessedly defunct public relations firm when we first met.

“Well, chile! That sounds downright exciting! I can just see you chasin' after the bad guys, pointin' a big old gun at 'em, makin' 'em drop to their knees and
beg
for mercy…” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and fluttered his hand under his chin as if fanning himself. “Mercy! I think I just might faint!”

I grinned. “Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but for one thing, I don't carry a gun. And I wish being a P.I. was half as exciting as everybody thinks it is.”

“So what are you workin' on now, darlin'?”

Jonathan, who had been playing Siamese-Twin-joined-at-the-hip with me since we arrived in the corner, his arm around my waist and his hand partly in my front pocket, said: “Dick's got a big missing persons case he's working on.”

Teddy's eyebrows raised. “Is that the truth, now? That must be truly fascinatin'. I lost a sister once. Vanished right off the face of the earth.”

Why did I suddenly not hear the music from the other room? And why was it suddenly very chilly?

“Really?” I heard myself say. “When and where did this happen?”

Teddy drained about half his scotch. “Three years last March,” he said. “Right here in town. Name was Charlene. Well, her real name was Charles…Charles Whitaker. We grew up together. She was always a bit of a drinker, and I used to try to tell her not to drink and drive. ‘You're gonna kill yourself, girl,' I told her a thousand times. Well, when I moved to New Orleans, we talked just about every single day, but I wasn't around to look after her. Then one night she called me so hysterical I could hardly understand a word she said. She'd just gotten out of jail. Wouldn't you know she was comin' back from a party and she hit another car and killed three people. Charlene didn't have a scratch. Can you imagine how that child felt? She didn't do anything but cry practically twenty-four hours a day.

“There wasn't really all that much I could do for her long distance, but she was stayin' with her sister, Mona, and Mona and I finally talked her into seeing a shrink to work it out, and she did—for one whole session. Then a week later I got a call from Mona sayin' Charlene had just up and disappeared. She thought Charlene had come down to be with me, but she hadn't. Nobody ever saw or heard from her again.”

He was silent for a moment and, for a brief instant, I saw a look of sadness on his face like I'd never seen on him before. Then, suddenly aware that he might be disappointing his fans, the old T/T was back.

“You ask me, I think she felt so bad about what she'd done, she jumped in the river and killed herself. They never found a trace of her. Not a trace.”

He shook his head. “Ain't life strange, though?”

Indeed,
my gut said.

Chapter 6

While I can't—or rather, I won't—say that T/T's little revelation about the disappearance of his friend Charles Whitaker cast a shadow on the remainder of Chris' and Max' visit, I will say that I spent a heck of a lot more time thinking about it than I had any intention of doing.

Come on, Hardesty!
You haven't just invented the wheel, here: people disappear. Charles Whitaker is hardly the first person in the history of the world to do it: why do you insist on leaping to conclusions?

It was a nice try, but it didn't really work.

Still I was a little pissed at myself for not being able to let it drop at least until Monday when I could check with Marty to see if there was a Charles Whitaker on his list. But Whitaker had disappeared before Qualicare even opened, and it's quite possible he did exactly what T/T suspected he did: jumped in the river.

Sure,
my mind said.
Maybe they all did.

See what I mean?

Nonetheless, Sunday was really great. Bob and Mario invited us all over to their new house for brunch, and called Tim and Phil to join us so that Chris and Max could meet them after having heard so much about them via our phone and letter correspondence. Bob and Mario were very generous in going out of their way to point out how much Jonathan had helped them get the house ready before they moved in. Jonathan was mildly embarrassed, but very pleased, as was I for him.

We had to leave around four o'clock to take Chris and Max to the airport (they'd checked out of the Montero when Jonathan and I went over to get them to take them to Bob and Mario's).

As had happened the first time I had taken Chris to the airport for his move to New York, we hit a traffic jam and got to the airport just in time. And again we didn't have time to park the car and go in with them to say goodbye. It was a really odd sense of
deja vu
as we stood on the curb at the Passenger Unloading area (having had to get out of the car to open the trunk) and exchanged handshakes and hugs, and I stood there, with Jonathan, and watched Chris, with Max, walk once more into the terminal and disappear. And I wondered yet again why I had to be such a sentimental, romantic slob.

Jonathan instinctively sensed my mood, I think, for when we got back into the car and drove off, he moved as close to me as he could get and laid his hand on my leg. He didn't say anything, just smiled.

A few minutes later, though, he looked at me.

“Can we?”

I realized I'd been lost in my own thoughts—a couple of them about Whitaker—and had to pull myself back to reality.

“Can we what?”

Jonathan grinned. “Can we go to New York to visit, like Chris and Max asked us to? I think that would really be great!”

I returned the smile. “Sure. As soon as you get your first vacation at work. But you won't be able to take Tim and Phil,” I added in mock seriousness and referring to his goldfish.

“That's okay. We could ask Mario and Bob to watch them while we're gone. Or maybe we can send them off to a fish summer camp. They'd like that.”

“I'm sure they would.” I had a mental image of them waiting eagerly at the bus station with two very tiny suitcases.

*

Monday morning, as soon as I'd gotten to the office and put on a pot of coffee, I dialed City Annex and asked for Missing Persons. I didn't recognize the voice of the guy who answered, and when I asked to speak to Officer Gresham, I was told he wasn't available at the moment. I left my number and asked if Officer Gresham could call me when he had the chance. I'd no sooner hung up the phone and turned toward the coffee maker when the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Mr. Hardesty, this is John Bradshaw. I've just gotten back into town. I assume you've heard nothing at all? There was no sign of him when I returned home, no message, no indication that he'd been home at all. Do you think it would help if I were to contact the police again to see if perhaps…”

I stepped in before he could finish his sentence.

“I'm afraid not. I've been in close touch with the police, and have been working with the Missing Persons Department. They've been as helpful as they can be under the circumstances, but they've really done about everything they could.”

“And your investigation…?” I could literally feel his disappointment.

“I've prepared a report of what I've done to date, and I'd be happy to go over it with you in person. I do have what I think might be a lead, and I'm pursuing it, but there is no guarantee it will go anywhere. Right now, I just don't know.”

“You have no idea on a time-frame, then?”

“Well, that's another problem, especially if this lead pans out, as I suspect it might…”

And here I was again, neatly scotch-taped between a rock and a hard place. If he were to decide to terminate my services—and I really couldn't blame him under the circumstances (or, rather, the
lack
of circumstances)—I'd be without a client, without a paycheck, but still with what I was sure were at least four murders which I wouldn't be able to let go of even if I wanted to. How do I get myself into these things?

I didn't want to try to explain everything over the phone.

“Would it be possible for you to come by my office after you get off work today? I'll tell you what I have in mind and you can decide where we should go from there.”

Again I could sense his disappointment as he said, “Sure, I can do that. I'd just hoped…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “So did I. But I feel there's still a pretty good chance of…” I started to say “of finding out what happened to him” but that would probably let him know I thought Jerry Shea was dead: “…of finding some answers.”

“I'll see you at four-thirty, then.”

The receiver had no more than touched the cradle when the phone rang yet again, startling me.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, it's Marty. I got your message. How's it going?”

Good question.

“I'm not sure, but I did come across something. Could you check your files and see if you have anything at all on a Charles Whitaker? It would have been just about three years ago—March, I think. You may not even have had him as a Category Twelve, since he was living with his sister and I'd imagine it was her who reported him missing—if he was reported at all.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“The name doesn't register, but I'll look it up and get back to you.”

“Great. I owe you.”

I could almost hear a grin in his voice. “No problem! This is a great opportunity for me to spread my wings a little, and it can't hurt my job evaluation.”

I was glad he saw it that way, and he was very probably right. “Well, thanks again. Talk to you later.”

*

As I sat idly scribbling down the names of the missing men, their partners, and everyone involved…nineteen in all (I was including Charles Whitaker, just on a hunch), I wondered about the feasibility of asking Marty if he might be able to run criminal background checks on everyone. But I'd really been stretching my luck with the police. While I wouldn't have minded crawling into bed with a couple members of the force (Richman and possibly Gresham?) in my single days…

Yeah, yeah…

…getting into bed with the entire department was not such a good idea. I really had to learn not to rely too heavily on them for help.

Fortunately there is some small part of my brain which kicks in whenever I seem to need a reminder that I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, and Mollie Marino suddenly popped into my mind. It took me a second of wondering where in hell that had come from until I was able to interpret my mental shorthand. Mollie Marino worked at the County Clerk's office, which keeps records of filed criminal charges, trials, court cases, etc. Maybe
she
could check on them for me. I'd imposed on Mollie frequently in the past to do background checks on people involved in past cases, but I'd seldom approached her with more than one name at a time—and sure as hell never with nineteen. Could I dare to spring nineteen names on her? Still, if she could at least filter the names through the system, it might give me an idea who to zero in on. And maybe then I could contact Gresham for a more extensive check.

Well, there was only one way to find out. I dialed the City Building and asked for the Clerk of Courts' office. I was put on hold for about thirty seconds, and then:

“Mollie Marino.”

“Mollie, hi! It's Dick Hardesty. Do you have any plans for lunch?”

There was a slight pause, then a laugh. “Oh, my! This must be a big one!”

I hoped she couldn't sense my embarrassment when I said: “Well, yeah, sort of. But…”