The Bottle Ghosts (21 page)

John saw us and nodded a greeting, which we returned and waited until he came over.

“Want to go downstairs for coffee?”

“Sure,” we echoed and joined a large segment of the congregation headed down the steps to the basement, where coffee waited. As usual, there was also a huge assortment of cake and cookies and rolls donated by members. I'd told Jonathan that we'd go to brunch as soon as I'd talked to John, but the minute we had our coffee, Jonathan made a beeline for the donuts.

We exchanged greetings with various people we knew as we made our way to an empty table. John and I waited until Jonathan returned with not one but three donuts. He offered one to John, who said “no thanks” and to me, which I also refused.

“Gee, I guess I'll just have to eat them all myself.” His tone told me that was exactly what he'd intended to do all along.

After a few sips of coffee and some small talk about the service, John said: “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

I told him as much as I thought he needed to know at the moment: that I was a private investigator and that Andy had not been the first member of the group to disappear. He paled visibly and set his coffee down quickly. I could sense that up to that moment he'd convinced himself that Andy's being gone was just a fluke; that he'd turn up, he'd be okay. That worked for one missing person, but to know Andy wasn't the only one opened obvious possibilities I'm sure he was not ready to consider—and if he were aware of just how many were missing…I was relieved that he didn't ask.

“When, exactly, did Andy disappear? And was there anything unusual that happened just before, that you can remember?”

“It was the seventeenth. A Sunday. Andy usually goes to A.A. on Sunday night, and there was no clue that anything was wrong. He left around six-thirty, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I don't know if he even made it to the meeting. When he didn't come home, I got that sick feeling I always get when I know he's out drinking. But when he wasn't home when I got home Monday night, I knew something was really wrong. When we first got together, he went off for three days, once. I called his work on Tuesday, but he hadn't been in and hadn't called. He very seldom misses work. But by Thursday…”

I waited until he picked up his coffee for another sip before I continued. “Tell me about Andy and you, and Andy in the group. Did you ever get a sense that something wasn't quite right? Something someone might have said?”

He just shook his head. “No, nothing from the group.” He paused. “Carl really went off on him one time, but that was before you and Jonathan joined, and Brian didn't let it go too far.”

“What happened?”

John took a long, deep breath. “Well, Andy loves me. I know he does. We joined the group because I insisted that we had to get some sort of counseling or the drinking would destroy us. He didn't have to, but he said okay because he knew it was important to me.” He was silent a moment, staring into his Styrofoam cup.

“Andy turned forty-five last September, and it scared him. He was starting to lose his hair and put on a little weight. He compensated by cruising pretty blatantly, just to reassure himself that he was still attractive to other guys. I understood. Really, I did. And I don't think he ever actually did anything about it, but like I said…. And Carl thought that Andy was coming on to Jay and he blew up. Poor Jay, I really don't know how he can put up with Carl. Carl really,
really
hates alcoholics. I can't imagine that he really realizes that every time he goes off on how alcoholics just don't have the guts to straighten themselves out—one of his favorite themes, as you probably noticed—he's hurting every alcoholic in the group, and especially Jay. But I think maybe it's just that he is so frustrated because Jay is still drinking.”

He paused again and looked at Jonathan. “So are you really an alcoholic, Jonathan, or were you just lying to get into the group?”

Jonathan waited until he'd fully chewed and swallowed the last bit of donut.

“No, I've been sober for a long time, but I'm still an alcoholic, and I can never forget that.”

“I envy you. Maybe someday Andy will be able to…” He let the sentence trail off as he, I'm sure, heard the whispers of his soul that Andy would not be drinking again.

I could read his thoughts in his face, and hastened to divert them, somehow.

“So how about anyone else in the group? Any specific feelings about any one of them? Any sense of something not being right”

He gave a weak grin. “Half the group are alcoholics: the other half have to live with them. I'd say definitely something was not being right somewhere in there.”

We left John shortly thereafter, after getting his promise to think carefully about his entire association with the group and writing down anything he could think of that might help. I was again very glad he had not asked me who else was missing, but I suspect he didn't really want to know.

*

Monday morning was devoted to preparing a list of questions I wanted to ask each member of the group when I had a chance to talk with them. I didn't want to just wing it, since I inevitably forgot to ask something important whenever I tried. I'd be contacting John Ellison again, anyway, so I used our meeting the day before as sort of a guide. I knew full well that one of these guys was responsible for the disappearance of five—and quite probably six—men. Just how T/T's friend Charles Whitaker fit into all this I wasn't sure, but I was pretty positive he
did
fit in, somehow.

And since one of the men I'd be talking to was the guy I was looking for, I had to watch my step. I wanted to spook him enough so that he'd think twice before being the cause of another disappearance, but not so much so that he'd panic and have a chance to possibly get rid of evidence he might know of that I didn't.

I'd start calling them when I got home and schedule appointments to see them. Individually would be preferable, but I didn't know if that would really be either feasible or possible.

But the first one I wanted to contact was one Brian Oaks.

*

At 11:30, Marty Gresham called.

“Dick, hi. Lieutenant Richman's in a meeting but said he wanted me to call and tell you.”

He sounded excited by having some sort of news and pleased that Lieutenant Richman had asked
him
to convey it to me.

“I appreciate that, Marty. And that news is…”

“They started work converting the old Brauer landfill into a park today…”

Landfill?
my mind said.
Let me guess!

“…and we have two bodies.”

Bingo!

Chapter 9

If the bodies were indeed two of the group's missing, that would, of course, effectively bring the full weight of the police department into the case and my involvement in it to a close. And to be perfectly honest, by this point I didn't really care. I
did
care, of course, about knowing who had committed the murders and why. The why was fairly obvious: because they were alcoholics. Perfectly good reason to kill someone. Ample justification. I suppose comfort could be taken in the fact that it was alcoholics the killer was after, as opposed, say, to people with brown eyes.

Okay, Hardesty, you're rattled. Just cool it
.

The fact that bodies were starting to turn up was a major—okay, let's face it, the
only
—break in the case. And the prospect that it would now be taken out of my hands wasn't a happy one. I'd never started a case I didn't finish, and I hated the thought that this might be the first. Ego's a pretty odd and powerful force.

The bodies—or whatever might be left of them—had been sent to the police forensics lab for possible identification. Richman had kept Captain Offermann posted on what I had been working on, and indicated to Officer Gresham that if either or both of the dead might be on Gresham's Category Twelve list, Captain Offermann would undoubtedly request an extensive search of the landfill. Offermann had, upon the discovery of the bodies, immediately asked for the list of missing men so dental records could be obtained.

I then thought of Tim and his new interest in forensics. Since the police forensics lab shared facilities with the coroner's office, knowing Tim, he'd probably try to talk his superiors into letting him work on the bodies—or at least observing—as a learning experience. I had no idea how long these things take, but I determined to call him when I got home to find out what I could.

And as for starting to call the Qualicare group members, well, the wind had been taken out of my sails for the moment. No point in doing anything further until I found out if I was still on the case or not.

Still, rather than just sit there and stare at the walls, I got out a pencil and pad and started to jot down my impressions of the remaining guys in the group.

1. Carl Sweeney: a loose cannon with vibes of potential violence;

2. Jay Tabert: a nice guy totally under Carl's thumb; maybe just shy, or maybe afraid of something. (Carl?)

3. Keith Hooper: gaunt, likes military surplus shirts. Hard to read. Quiet—maybe too quiet. Bible and 12 Steps? Probably a lot more going on inside than he lets on.

4. Victor LaVallee: Mutt to Keith's Jeff. Typical jovial heavy guy. Always joking. Maybe too much joking? Assumed at first he was the alcoholic. Wrong.

5. Paul Carter. Nice guy. Friendly. Manipulator.

6. Frank Reese. Butch exterior. Plays Mother Hen to Paul.

Well, that little exercise led absolutely nowhere.

*

I'd just walked into the apartment and hadn't said a word yet when Jonathan came out of the kitchen with my Manhattan, took one look at me, and said: “Bad day?”

I wasn't aware it showed, but he was getting pretty good at picking up vibes I wasn't aware I was sending out. “Mixed bag,” I said as I took my drink from him and gave him a hug.

“Well, let me go get my Coke, and you can tell me about it.” We released from the hug and he turned back toward the kitchen.

When we were seated on the couch, I told him everything that had happened—or, more accurately,
hadn't
happened—during the day.

“When do you think they'll know? About the bodies, I mean?”

I shrugged and glanced at my watch. “I'll call Tim in a few minutes. Phil had said something about a photo shoot today, so he probably isn't home yet, and Tim always runs late.”

I suddenly realized that my ego was still in total control over everything else, and I felt a twinge of embarrassment. “So how was
your
day?” I asked.

He grinned. “Fine. We started delivering the trees to Qualicare today, and guess who I saw?”

“Brian Oaks?”

He shook his head. “No: Nowell. They're pouring sidewalks near one of the new buildings, and he was there, working.”

Interesting,
I thought, though I guess not too surprising with a body like that. And while I didn't know what his relationship to Brian Oaks was, it was fairly logical that he wasn't making a living just being Oaks' part-time receptionist.

Jonathan looked at me and gave me a sexy grin. “He had his shirt off. He's got a fantastic body,” I was aware he was watching me, but trying to be casual about it. “Great arms. Nice pecs.” Still watching. “Hairy chest. He was sweating, and…” I didn't think I was reacting, but Jonathan laughed and said: “See? I
knew
you thought he was hot!”

“And you don't?” I asked, returning the grin, but suppressing a totally-out-of-left-field flush of jealousy. Scorpios have a lot of great traits, but they're too often offset by two less admirable ones: jealousy and possessiveness.

He blushed. “Well, yeah, but…”

“Case closed.”

*

While Jonathan was fixing dinner…hey, I did my part—I set the table…I called Tim and Phil's and was surprised to hear Tim say “Hi, Dick,” before I even had a chance to say anything.

“Uh, hi, Tim. How did you know it was me?”

I could almost hear the grin in his voice. “Well, let's see: two bodies show up, you working on a multiple missing persons case, me just walking in the door…gosh, maybe I'm just psychic.”

“Well, congratulations, Sherlock. So what have you found out? I assume you did manage to wrangle your way into the Chief Forensic Pathologist's good graces?”

“Yeah, he let me sort of watch over his shoulder. Not much so far: Caucasian male adults, probably in the landfill at least two years—hard to pin it down until more tests are done. At least we won't have to worry too much about the cause of death.”

“Why's that?” I asked.

“One bullet hole dead-center in the back of each skull. Obviously execution style. Homicide said they'd be sending over some dental records they've requested…from your missing guys, I'd imagine.”

“I'd imagine,” I repeated, “although five of the six disappeared within the last year, year and a half, and I just realized I'm not sure whether Charles Whitaker, T/T's friend, was black or white. Well, we'll just have to wait and see.”