Bloodlines

48

F ORTY MINUTES AFTER THEY HAD DISCOVERED THE ROOM WITH THE bloodstains, Lefebvre and the rest of the LPPD were making every effort to find Max and Irene. O’Connor tried-and failed-to comfort himself with that thought.

The “be on the lookout” order for what Lefebvre had since admitted to him was Eric Yeager’s black BMW had been expanded to all local jurisdictions-an all-points bulletin saying that Eric and Ian Yeager were wanted for questioning in connection with an assault and kidnapping.

The crime lab team was at work on the shoe print, bloodstains, latent prints, and other forms of evidence from the scene.

Matt Arden was on his way, with another detective, to talk to Mitch Yeager. When O’Connor asked Lefebvre if Arden would have the balls to pressure Yeager, Lefebvre laughed. “Matt? He’s wanted to have a go at Yeager for a long time now.”

“Why?”

“You think you’re the only one who believes Mr. Yeager isn’t as respectable as he’d like everyone to believe? Besides, Eric and Ian have been thumbing their noses at the department for years. Skating just so close, just managing to keep clear of an arrest.”

“Paid-off witnesses and the like. No need to tell me.”

“You can trust Matt. He’s good at interrogation, you know.”

“I hear you’re better.”

“I learned from him, that’s all.” One of the uniformed officers came up to him just then and said that Haycroft from the lab wanted to show them something in the basement. “Do you know Paul Haycroft?” Lefebvre asked O’Connor. “He does excellent work with blood spatter patterns.”

Haycroft theorized that one of the victims had received a blow from behind in the room upstairs and had fallen forward and injured his face. “A guess based on the cast-off blood on the walls and on the ceiling by the door, and from some of the staining on the floor. At least one of your attackers will have flecks of the victim’s blood on his clothing. I’ll want to study it more carefully, but I can’t immediately see signs of more than one person being attacked in that way.”

“Probably Max,” O’Connor said. “He was here before Irene arrived.”

“Yes,” Haycroft said. “It’s possible she found him after he was injured and used the jacket to stop the bleeding-the pattern of staining on the jacket indicates it was bunched up and held to a wound. The stains are on the outside, not on the lining. If she was wearing it and had been, say, stabbed or shot, the wound would bleed from the lining to the outside. And the staining is not consistent with, say, a wound to the head bleeding down onto the collar and back.”

Seeing O’Connor’s relief, he added, “I’ll know more when we do more tests, but Ms. Kelly’s father told us that her blood type is A, and all we have found so far is type O. According to Lillian Linworth, that’s Mr. Ducane’s blood type. The bleeding had nearly stopped by the time the victim was carried down the hallway and stairs. But what I want to show you, Detective, are small spots on the stairs leading to the basement.”

In the basement, the spots of blood ended at the bottom of the stairs. O’Connor began to explore, looking carefully at the walls, which were covered with cheap paneling.

“What are you looking for?” Lefebvre asked.

“This is the bootlegger’s house, remember? Somewhere along here, we might find an entrance to a passageway.”

“Why would it be hidden? I thought the locals claimed to have legitimate uses for those tunnels to the sea.”

“Most of the owners sealed them off years ago-in the early 1960s, a gang of thieves figured out that the passageways allowed easy access to and from some of the wealthiest households in Las Piernas. That and the possibility of homeless people camping in them put an end to most of the tunnels.”

“But if the entrance was used this evening, we should see signs of it, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Or maybe they took the time to seal it up again.”

Together they knocked on the walls, listening for some sign of a hollow space behind them.

A uniformed officer came down the basement stairs and drew Lefebvre aside. Lefebvre spoke briefly with him, then the officer hurried back upstairs.

“What was that all about?” O’Connor asked.

“They’ve taken the Yeager brothers into custody.”

“Have they said anything about Max and Irene?”

“So far, no. They were apprehended at LAX. They’re being brought back here, with their car. Let’s keep looking.”

They looked beyond the finished area of the basement. O’Connor searched through the storage room, but the walls in it and the laundry room were unfinished. Lefebvre had just followed O’Connor to the laundry room- which held an old washer and dryer, a large water heater cabinet, and a fold- down ironing board-when something occurred to him.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Why would one old man need two laundry rooms?”

Lefebvre frowned. “Yes-you’re right-there’s a newer washer and dryer upstairs.” He walked over to the water heater cabinet. “And why would he need two water heaters?”

He opened the cabinet. It was empty. The back wall of the cabinet was a narrow metal door, sealed by a thick steel bar, which was held in place by three heavy padlocks. New padlocks.

Lefebvre banged the end of his flashlight on the door. “Irene! Max!” They listened, but heard no response. Lefebvre called to one of the uniformed officers and instructed him to keep tapping at the door.

“Let’s try to find the other end of it,” he said to O’Connor.

They met Haycroft on the way out. Two uniformed officers would wait for him to look for fingerprints, then work with bolt cutters to remove the locks. “I’ll have my radio with me-call me the moment you’re through that door. Oh-see if we can get someone from the beach patrol to meet us down at the bluffs.”

On the way out, he asked another uniformed officer to cross the street and walk to the railing at the top of the bluffs. “Stand directly across from the house. Use your flashlight to signal me toward your location when we’re on the beach.”

The beach patrol received the message and met them with a Jeep at the bottom of the public stairway that led from a nearby parking lot down to the beach. They drove until they saw the signal made by the officer at the top of the bluffs.

“Now what, sir?” the driver asked Lefebvre.

“Let us out. Keep your headlights on the section of the bluffs just below where that officer stands.”

O’Connor and Lefebvre hurried toward the vine-covered section of the bluffs.

“All this bougainvillea,” O’Connor said. “We’ll never see an opening through it.”

“Irene!” Lefebvre called. “Max!”

They listened. The tide was coming in, but over the pounding of the surf, O’Connor swore he heard a voice.

Lefebvre had heard it, too. “Keep calling to us!”

It was a faint sound, nearly lost in the wind. Try as he might, he could not find its source.

Suddenly, O’Connor saw a flash of white. “There!” he cried, pointing a few yards away. “Near the ground. She’s signaling us.”

“What in God’s name is that?” Lefebvre asked.

“If I’m not mistaken,” O’Connor said, “it’s her blouse.”