Voices Carry (31 page)

“Excuse me, Mrs. Wright,” Genna said, trying to ignore the weight that pressed so heavily against her chest, “but I need to make a phone call. . .”

“Mancini,” John said as he picked up.

“Bingo.” Genna said softly.

“Shit.” John replied.

“Excuse me?”

“I was hoping we were wrong about that.”

“Why? This could very well be the thread that we’ve been looking for.” Genna walked to the far end of the living room so that Mrs. Wright would not hear the conversation.

“I just don’t like what I see at the end of the thread, Gen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got off the phone with Brian. I asked him to check to see when Brother Michael comes up for parole.”

Genna’s mouth went dry.

“It seems his parole date came and went. He’s been out since April, Gen.” John paused, then repeated, “Brother Michael has been out of prison since April.”

When the shock had rippled through her, she cleared her throat.

“Why didn’t we know? He’s a convicted sex offender—shouldn’t someone have been notified?”

“Yes. Someone should have been. Something obviously fell through the cracks.”

“What’s he been doing all this time? The first of the women disappeared weeks ago.”

“He’s been watching. Watching and learning.”

“Sweet Jesus. . .”

“Exactly. Brian is faxing a list of the thirteen girls who testified against Michael at his trial, into the office. How much do you want to bet that we have a file on every one of them?”

“But there have been twelve victims. . .”

“And thirteen girls who testified.” He paused before adding tersely, “Counting you, there were thirteen. . .”

The unspoken hung between them.

“John, his brother used to live outside of Pittsburgh,” she said, her mind racing. “We lived there for a time. He—Mr. Homer—was the one who hired my father to come and preach in their church. He owned the campgrounds. Maybe he knows where Michael is.”

“Do you remember the name of the town?”

“Of course. We lived there for several years. It was Lindenwood. It’s right above the West Virginia state line.”

“What’s the closest airport?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Call the airport and book yourself on the first available flight. I’ll do the same, and I’ll meet you there,” John told her, adding, “I think it’s time someone paid a visit to Mr. Homer.”

At seven-ten that evening, Genna and John were standing on the front stoop of the large, aging Tudor-style house and waited for someone to respond to their ringing of the doorbell.

“This house always intimidated me,” Genna said in a low voice. “It was the biggest house I’d ever been in, and I thought it was a castle.”

“What’s it like inside?” John rang the bell again.

“Back then, it was dark, lots of dark wood and dark furniture.” She stepped back on the sidewalk and glancing at the heavy drapes that could be seen covering the front windows, noted, “Things don’t seem to have changed all that much.”

John reached toward the bell to ring it one more time, just as they heard the sound of the lock being unlatched from the inside. The ornate brass doorknob turned, and the door opened only far enough for the person behind it to see out.

“Help you?” A middle-aged woman wearing what appeared to be an old-fashioned housedress peered through the narrow opening.

“We’re looking for Mr. Homer.” Genna smiled her friendliest smile, in spite of the fact that she had
begun to tremble inside as a tide of memories threatened to wash over her. She pushed them back into their place and added unnecessarily, “Mr. Clarence Homer.”

The woman looked warily from Genna to John, then back again.

“He isn’t feeling well,” she announced as she began to close the door. “Not having visitors.”

Genna stepped forward and offered her identification. “We’re with the FBI. We need to speak with him about his brother.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“He’s not here.”

“I thought you just said that he wasn’t feeling well.” John stood behind Genna on the step.

“Mr. Homer isn’t feeling well.” The woman spoke with exaggerated patience. “His brother isn’t here.”

“Was he here?” Genna exchanged a quick look with John.

“A few months back. Didn’t stay very long. Got what he came for, then left. Upset poor Mr. Homer something terrible. Poor soul hasn’t slept a night since. . .”

“What was it that he came for?” John asked.

“You’d have to discuss that with Mr. Homer,” the woman sniffed her distaste, “but I’m sure it had something to do with his share of his mother’s estate. He took off after less than a week and hasn’t bothered to call his brother even once since. And it’s not as if he isn’t aware of how sick the Mister is.”

“Are you a relative, Miss. . . ?” Genna asked.

“Miss Evans. I’m the Mister’s housekeeper.”

“And you’ve been here with Mr. Homer for how long now?” John asked.

“Oh, since before the Missus passed on. Why, that must be—”

“Lilly? Lilly!” A voice from the back of the house bellowed.

“I’m sorry, I have to. . .” The housekeeper glanced behind her warily.

“Well, it sounds as if Mr. Homer is feeling better,” John said, sticking his foot in the door before she could close it in his face. “How fortunate for us. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell Mr. Homer that the FBI is here to see him.”

Reluctantly, Lilly Evans stepped back and permitted the pair to follow her into the foyer.

“If you’d wait here, I’ll just see if he’s agreeable.”

“Well, we have one question answered without even having to ask it,” Genna whispered as the woman disappeared through a doorway.

“What’s that?” John leaned close to hear.

“We know where Michael got sufficient money to permit him to travel around as much as he did. He wouldn’t have had anything to speak of when he got out of prison, and chances are he wouldn’t have had too many opportunities for employment, but collecting on an inheritance would have fit his plans nicely.”

“I wonder how Mr. Homer will react when he realizes he financed his brother’s activities,” John said.

“Maybe it wasn’t the first time.” Genna’s jaw tightened.

“What do you mean?”

Before she could answer, Miss Evans returned and closed the door solidly behind them.

“This way,” she gestured, “but you must
understand that Mr. Homer is a sick man. He’s not supposed to have visitors.”

She opened the double doors that led into what had once been an elegant room, one with plaster cherubs in the corners of the ceiling and ornate stained glass in the large side window. Now, the cherubs had begun to crumble and the glass was cracked.

Clarence Homer, elderly and obviously infirm, sat in a wheelchair in front of the fireplace. On his left was a table that held a nearly-empty carafe and a glass of water that was filled almost to the top. He wore a sweater that had probably been white when it was new, over blue and white cotton pajamas, blue slippers, and a distant expression.

“Mr. Homer, I’m John Mancini,” John entered the room behind the housekeeper, then stepped aside to introduce Genna, saying, “and this is Agent Snow.”

If the old man recognized the name, he gave no indication. He did not offer his hand to either visitor, nor did he invite them to sit. He merely turned his head slightly to face them and asked, “What do you want?”

“We’re looking for your brother, Michael. We’re hoping that you can help us locate him.”

Without hesitation, without a blink, the old man asked, “What’s he done now?”

“We don’t know that he’s done anything, Mr. Homer,” Genna replied, wanting him to look at her. It was suddenly very important to her that he remember her.

“Then why would you come here asking where he is?” He glanced past Genna to John, as if dismissing her altogether.

“We know he was released from prison in April, but we don’t know where he went from there or where he is now. We were hoping. . .” Genna stepped forward, refusing to be relegated to a minor role.

“I have no idea of where he is now.” Clarence Homer’s voice was strong and clear. “He certainly isn’t here.”

“But he was here,” Genna said, trying to get, and hold, his attention.

“Yes. He was here. After his release. He really didn’t have anyplace else to go.” The man directed his response to John.

“How long did he stay?” John lowered himself casually to the arm of the sofa that sat opposite the wheelchair.

“I don’t remember. Couple of days, is all.”

“What did he do while he was here?”

“What?” Mr. Homer appeared surprised by the question. “Well, I’m not sure. He spent most of his time upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?” Genna asked.

“The family bedrooms,” Homer responded as if to an impertinent remark.

“Does Michael still have a room upstairs?” Genna and John exchanged a hopeful look.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been upstairs in six years, since my stroke. You’ll have to ask Miss Evans.”

“We’ll do that, thank you.” John nodded. “Mr. Homer, did Michael have any specific purpose in coming here?”

“I already told you. He had no place else to go.” Homer sat back in his chair and appeared indignant. “But where else would one go, but home, to his family?”

“Did you give him money, Mr. Homer?” Genna decided the blunt approach was called for.

“Yes, of course I gave him money. The man hadn’t worked in eighteen years. Didn’t have a dime to his name.”

“May I ask how much money you gave him?”

“I gave him what was due him.”

“And what was that?” John leaned forward slightly.

“Half of Mother’s estate. It belonged to him. I couldn’t rightly keep it. When he showed up after all those years and asked for it, I had to give it to him,” Homer said somewhat defensively.

“When did your mother pass away, Mr. Homer?”

“Sixteen years ago.” Weary all of a sudden, the old man appeared to deflate somewhat. “She never did get over Michael’s going away for all that time.”

“How much was half of your mother’s estate worth?” John asked.

“By the time the lawyers and the bankers and the tax man got finished, we each got roughly seven hundred thousand dollars.”

Genna’s eyes widened. Michael had more than enough to keep him moving around for years to come.

“Do you know if he opened an account at a local bank, or invested—” Genna was thinking out loud, wondering if there might be a paper trail to lead them to Michael.

“Far as I know, he just kept it.” Mr. Homer interrupted her. “I don’t think he bothered to deposit it anywhere but in his suitcase.”

“Are we talking about cash here?” John’s eyes narrowed.

“Of course we’re talking about cash. What did you think we were talking about?”

“You gave your brother seven hundred thousand dollars in cash?” Genna’s jaw dropped considerably.

“Yes. It was his money, and that’s how he wanted it.”

Good-bye, paper trail.

“Did he mention where he was going when he left? Maybe mention visiting a friend?”

Clarence Homer snorted. “Michael had no friends. He never did. The only person he ever put much stock in was Mother.”

John stood and pulled one of his business cards from his pocket, offering it to their host.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Homer. We appreciate it. Please give me a call at this number if you hear from your brother, or if you think of something you think we should know.”

“Or if he stops back here,” Genna added.

“Why would he do that? He got everything he wanted the first time around.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” John snapped his fingers, as if just remembering. “You were going to let us see Michael’s room.”

“You’re welcome to poke around all you want, but I doubt there’s anything to see. Anything of value, he’d have taken it.” He wheeled himself over to the doorway but did not pass through it. “Lilly! Lilly!”

When Lilly Evans appeared, Clarence Homer pointed to Genna and John and said, “They want to take a look upstairs.”

“This way.” The housekeeper led them into the foyer and up the wide mahogany stairwell.

“Which room is Michael’s?” John asked when they reached the second-floor landing.

“Right down here.” She walked briskly to the third door on the right and opened it. “Not much to see.”

Not much to see
was an understatement.

The shades on the windows were pulled down, so John switched on the overhead light, which clicked on loudly but provided little illumination. The furniture was old, though good quality maple. The bed was stripped to the mattress and had no pillow. The top of the dresser was totally bare, as were the drawers, and a peek into the closet revealed only empty hangers. No books sat next to the old lamp that stood on the bedside table, and no paintings hung on the walls.

“Are you sure this was Michael’s room?” Genna asked the housekeeper.

“This was his, all right.” She nodded in reply.

“Where are all his personal effects?” Genna thought aloud, then looked at Miss Evans and asked, “What happened to all his things?”

“Michael never kept much in the way of things.”

“Books?”

The housekeeper shrugged. “Didn’t read much.”

“Did you strip the bed after he left?” John asked.

“No. There was nothing to strip.” She shrugged.

“You mean he slept on the bare mattress?”

“Oh, no. He didn’t sleep in here.” The woman shook her head. “He slept over there. Across the hall.”

Puzzled, Genna and John stepped toward the door.

“In his mother’s room,” Lilly Evans explained, then crossed the hall and pushed open the door.

Following the housekeeper into the room, Genna gasped softly. If Michael’s room had been spartan, the bedroom of the senior Mrs. Homer was a nightmare of Victorian excess. Gold damask draped the windows, the canopy bed, the slipper chair that sat next to the hearth. Paintings in jewel colors lined the walls, and lamps with fringed shades stood like sentinels on the dresser. The scents of gardenia and stale air overwhelmed.

“It’s all just as she left it. Except of course for the mess over there.” The housekeeper frowned and walked to the window seat, which was heaped with clothes. She began to sort through them, separating them into piles. “You’d have thought he’d have outgrown it, wouldn’t you?”