Midnight Baby

CHAPTER 16

Somewhere between Highland Park and South Pasadena, Mike’s pager went off. He unclipped it from his belt and handed it to me.

“Can you read it?” he asked. If he put his reading glasses on, he wouldn’t be able to see beyond the hood of the car.

I had to wipe double-cheese Bingo Burger slime from my hands before I could take it. I punched the read-out button. “Your office,” I said.

He pulled off the freeway at the next exit and found a public telephone. I waited in the car.

Clouds had moved in off the ocean until the moon was only a glow above the dense canopy. The air was appreciably colder and damper than the bright day promised. I pulled my blazer close and snuggled down into the corner of my seat. “The Ride of the Valkyries” blasted from the radio.

I watched Mike’s straight back under the blue light from the telephone booth. He shifted from one leg to the other, agitated as he spoke. I felt uneasy. The dark, I guess, and Mike so exposed in the one well-lighted spot on the block of industrial warehouses surrounded by razor wire. He made a good target for anyone so inclined. For no reason perhaps other than habit, his free hand covered the semiautomatic pistol at his belt, fiddled with the release snaps on the holster. Maybe it was just something to hold on to.

I worry about Casey all the time. A sort of free-floating maternal anxiety based on nothing more concrete than a wild imagination and too much experience with the range of possibilities the big world offers.

I don’t know when it happened, but I realized I had started worrying about Mike, too. He’s bigger than I am, and a whole lot tougher. That had nothing to do with how I felt. I wanted him to duck out of the light, make himself less vulnerable. Standing there with his silver hair shining, he reminded me of Pisces under the moonlight. The night before she died.

Mike made a second call, argued with whoever answered at the other end. I unwound my arms and had just stepped out into the chill night air to be with him when he turned and motioned for me to come.

“What is it?” I asked, shivering.

“Some card calling himself John Smith says he needs to talk to you. Says you gave him my number. You want me to shine him on?”

“No.” I jogged over. “Honest to God, that’s his name. He’s the PI I told you Hillary hired.”

Dubious, Mike handed me the receiver.

“Mr. Smith?” I said.

“Is that the cop who’ll use me for target practice?” he asked.

“If you get out of line,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I earned a little of my retainer this evening, did some checking on the fortunes of George Metrano.”

“And?”

“And there is no fortune. He’s one step away from filing Chapter Eleven, bankruptcy.”

“The Bingo Burgers I saw looked like a booming concern,” I said.

“It is. Problem is, he blows it away faster than he rakes it in.”

“Blows as in blows it up his nose?”

“No, worse. His addiction is the craps tables in Vegas. He lost a bundle about four years ago and went into court-ordered reorganization that time, too. There were a couple of check-kiting charges in the mess. The judge gave him probation if he’d hitch his star to Gamblers Anonymous. Seems he’s been AWOL from meetings, though. He’s signed notes on everything he owns again to pay off the casinos. The family home is being foreclosed on.”

“Did you talk to him?” I asked.

“No. The little woman says he’s out. I don’t know if that means he’s out to creditors or he’s gone away.”

“Interesting. Very interesting. Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” I said. “You’re a gem.”

I closed the connection and pulled out my notebook.

“What did he say?” Mike asked as I punched in my credit card numbers and dialed the Metranos.

“George gambles big-time. He’s losing everything he owns,” I said.

“Ah,” he breathed. Mike is a quick study.

Leslie Metrano’s soft voice came on the line, quavering. “Hello?”

“Hi, Leslie. It’s Maggie MacGowen. Did you have a chance to show my pictures to George? I’ve been anxious to get his reaction.”

“He isn’t home, Maggie. He’s away on a fishing trip.”

“He’s fishing now? With all that’s going on?”

“He had to get away.”

Away from what? I wanted to know. But she seemed rather fragile. I settled for: “When do you expect him?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice broke.

“Are you all right?” I felt like a heel, as if I were lying to her. She was a sweet woman. I was thinking she deserved a break.

“It’s just…” She seemed to haul herself together sufficiently to speak. “I expected him back by now. Maybe he had trouble with the boat. I wish he would call me.”

“Where did he go?”

“Off Baja, he said.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t know.” She started to cry.

“When?”

“Saturday night.”

“Is anyone there with you?”

“My daughter and her baby,” she sobbed, so forlorn she sounded like a lost child herself.

“I’m sorry, Leslie,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”

“I have to go now. I have to go collect the night receipts.”

“No.” I reacted hard, nearly shouted. “Don’t go. Get someone else to do it. Or call the police and get an escort.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I hope so. Is it a lot of money?”

“Yes.”

“Does George need money?”

“George always needs money. What are you saying, that he would steal from me?”

“He’s already stolen your house out from under you. What’s left?”

“He wouldn’t hurt me. I have to go, or I start paying my night manager overtime.”

Mike had been listening to my end of the conversation. I handed him the receiver. “Make her understand.”

“Understand what?”

“George took his boat and went fishing off Baja. She hasn’t heard from him since Saturday. Now she’s on her way to pick up the night receipts from her burger places. It’s a lot of money.”

Mike was persuasive. I hoped Leslie was as bright as she seemed. I heard him do his tough-cop windup to get her attention, then he gentled his pitch. By the time he hung up, he sounded like someone’s dear old dad. Then he immediately dialed the Long Beach police. He should go on the stage. Without more than a breath between roles, he switched from Dad to one of the big guys, using police boy-talk to get a promise of an escort dispatched to the Metrano house, pronto.

When he hung up the second time, he turned and grabbed me by the arm. “John Smith, huh? Met a guy by that name in a motel once.”

“Should we go down to Long Beach?”

“And do what?” He walked me to the car and opened the door for me. “The locals will take good care of her.”

“Elizabeth is in Cabo San Lucas. Cabo is at the southern tip of Baja.”

“Yeah. And that’s a long way from Long Beach.”

“It begins to come together,” I said.

“Let’s go talk to Grandma.”

The address Mike had for Hanna Ramsdale’s mother was almost San Marino, in the rocky foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. We found the house on a narrow, winding street of gracious old mansions set in vast grounds. Mike turned into the drive with Sinclair on the mailbox in shiny brass letters.

The house was old enough to be classic, 1920s I guessed. It had been built to conform to the rugged slope behind it, a spill of white Mission Revival cubes and turrets topped with red tile that rose out of a broad hollow, like a Moorish castle in a pop-up book. Up the bank behind the house, cacti and spidery sage were artfully planted among huge granite boulders, picked out by spotlights; gray-green sentinels in the night.

Mike pulled into the circular drive and stopped beside a massive saguaro.

Mrs. Sinclair – Virginia Sinclair, Mike told me – answered the door herself. I don’t guess ages very well, but I figured she was at least as old as the house. Her body had outlived its hide: the thin, patchy skin was stretched so tight across the strong bones that a big smile would surely break it. But we seemed to be in no danger of that occurring. She reminded me of some of my mother’s friends, stiff academic wives who shudder at slang and dance an even-sided box step at faculty teas without swaying their hips. I know from experience they make good targets for spit wads shot from under refreshment tables. They never react when they get hit.

Mrs. Sinclair did not know we were coming. It was ten o’clock and she wore a high-buttoned white blouse, a pleated skirt, and a cardigan with brass buttons. Her shoes were good leather, low heels. Not new but well-kept. Everything about her seemed old but well-kept. She was tall and imperious, leaning lightly on a dog-headed cane.

Mike showed her his ID. “We want to talk to you about your granddaughter,” he said.

“My granddaughter?” Her voice was deep, almost masculine. She stood as if guarding the door against us. “You mean Hanna, my daughter. Hanna is deceased.”

“Not Hanna,” Mike said. “Hanna’s daughter.”

Virginia Sinclair seemed confused. “Hanna had no children,” she said.

“Hillary Ramsdale,” I said.

“Hillary,” she said, a light coming on. “Of course. But Hillary wasn’t Hanna’s daughter. She was my son-in-law’s cousin, I believe.”

I looked over at Mike, feeling prickly all over.

“May we come in?” Mike said.

“Of course.”

Mrs. Sinclair moved aside for us to enter. She led us through the turreted foyer and into a high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with dark Mediterranean antiques. The room was beautiful the way a museum room is beautiful. And, like a museum, it was oppressive, a monument to long-dead craftsmen. And perhaps occupants as well.

Over the mantel hung an almost life-size oil portrait of a younger Mrs. Sinclair, seated in the same ornately carved chair she now sat down on, sitting with the same straight posture, her hands resting on the head of the same cane, re-creating the pose. It was eerie, because Hanna was in the portrait with her, standing beside the chair with her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Looking at Mrs. Sinclair, an older echo of the woman in oils, I had the sense that her daughter stood there beside her. Mike saw it, too, and squeezed my hand.

Hanna was beautiful. She resembled her mother, though the features in the second generation had been refined, the bones cast more delicately, the contours rounded. Perhaps the genes had been overrefined, and the softness about her was symptomatic of her precarious health.

I sat down opposite Mrs. Sinclair, on a high bench with a carved back and an unforgiving cushion. My feet did not quite reach the floor.

Mike stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder, mocking the scene she had set, perhaps to wrest control from her. “Tell us about Hillary,” he said.

“Where is the child?” she asked.

I felt sour acid rise in my throat. “Hillary is deceased.”

“I see.” Her high, smooth brow drew into a frown. “She seemed a healthy girl. A bit strong-willed, perhaps. But then that is a Ramsdale family trait.”

“Hillary lived with Hanna and Randy,” I said, drawing her back to the topic.

“Yes. I don’t recall the exact circumstance of how that arrangement came to pass. Something about a boating accident involving her parents. The Ramsdales were boat builders, you know. Clipper ships originally, I believe. More recently, yachts.”

“We didn’t know,” I said. “We had no idea what Randy did for a living.”

She smiled behind her veined hand. “Randy played for a living. The family paid him handsomely to stay away from the business. Very wisely, in my opinion.”

Mike sat down then beside me. “You didn’t approve?”

“I did approve. Most fully. My Hanna had a heart problem, you see. We didn’t expect her to live as long as she did. I give all credit to Randy. He was a man with uncommon determination. He would have done anything humanly possible to make her happy, to give her a life.”

“Did Hanna want a child?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” She raised her sharp chin. “A child of her own was of course impossible. That’s why Randy took on a little ward. Hanna doted on Hillary. And such a pet she was.”

I looked at Mike. “A pet?”

“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Very sweet. I’m sorry to hear she died.”

“How old was Hillary when Randy brought her home?”

“Just school age. Otherwise it would have been impossible for Hanna to manage. An hour or two in the afternoon, stories after dinner. Anything more would have destroyed her.”

I had finally reached the bottom of the roller-coaster ride, though my insides were still catching up. Virginia Sinclair was a spoiled woman, with the innate coldness that comes from getting one’s way too often. She was the sort who bought their children live bunnies for Easter because they were charming. Then set them out for the coyotes when they crapped on the carpet.

“Your daughter was beautiful,” I said.

She smiled with her eyes, very pleased by the compliment. “Yes, she was. Her beauty was far deeper than mere appearance. Hanna had a lovely spirit.”

“After she died, what happened to Hillary?” Mike asked. She frowned. “The girl was Randy’s ward. She stayed on with him.”

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Mike said, “are you acquainted with a family by the name of Metrano? George and Leslie and their daughter Amy Elizabeth?”

“Metrano?” She thought hard for a moment. Then she shook her head slowly, serious, still thinking. “I can’t say.”

“Amy Elizabeth Metrano,” Mike said again.

Again she shook her head.

My bottom had had enough of the hard cushion. And the hardness of Mrs. Sinclair. The old bench creaked when I stood up. The sound seemed to bother Mrs. Sinclair. She gave me a librarian glare. The air in the room was stale, musty. I felt claustrophobic and started to pace to shake it off. She watched me as I moved around the room, looking at the precious ornaments, the pictures on the walls.

Hanna’s house in Long Beach was open and full of light and air, alive. I wondered whether this room had ever had life. I was reminded again of the museum feel. The Hanna museum.

Mike was questioning Mrs. Sinclair. “You told us that Hillary’s parents died in a boating accident. What do you know about it? Where did it happen? When did it happen? Maybe you remember their names. Anything you can tell us.”

“Their names? Ramsdale, I assume. I never met Randy’s family. They all live in the East. As to where, I believe it was in Mexico. I remember Randy went down there and brought the girl home. She was quite ill for a while. Very upset, until she had to be sedated. Of course, it must have been a frightful ordeal for her to lose both her parents. Hanna and Randy sat at her side for weeks, reassuring her, until she recovered.

“The doctors had long told Hanna that living by the sea would be more healthful for her than living up here. Cooler, you see. And much less smog. When the girl was strong enough, Randy moved them all into a lovely home down at the beach. Had his boat right in front.”

“When was the last time you heard from Randy?” Mike asked.

“Christmas Eve. He took me to dinner – our little tradition.”

“The two of you?” Mike asked. “Or wife and kid, too?”

“The two of us. It would have been awkward for his wife. You see, Randy is still mourning Hanna’s passing.”

I had stopped pacing to look up at the portrait. “Did he tell you he planned to divorce his wife?”

“He did. She was unfaithful.”

“Divorce can be expensive,” I said, turning to her. “Especially for a rich man.”

She smiled slyly. “I said Randy likes to play. I did not mean to imply he is mindless. In fact, Randy is deceptively clever. He had prenuptial agreements with both of the wives who followed Hanna. They were entitled to very small settlements should they divorce. And no death benefits if he predeceased them. From a financial standpoint, it was to their advantage to stay married and keep Randy healthy for as long as possible.”

“He told you this?” Mike asked.

“Indeed. I would say he even boasted about it. But why ask me? Speak with Randy.”

Ah, I thought, tensing, time to pay the piper. Mike and I exchanged glances – whose turn this time? I turned back to the portrait, but Hanna told me nothing.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Mike said, the professionally bereaved mortician this time, “I am sad to inform you that Randy Ramsdale has passed away.”

She was wordless for so long that I turned around to see if she was still upright. She was. Stiffly upright. So brittle I thought a quick jerk would snap her in half.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Her face was dangerously pale. “Was there an accident?”

“No,” Mike again. “It happened at the hand of another.”

She grasped her throat. “Murder?”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“Hillary and Randy, yes.”

I stepped toward her. “Can I get you something? Some water?”

She shook me off and kept her eyes on Mike. “Is there a will?”

“I don’t know.” He was taken aback. People in shock do and say odd things. I thought it was a telling first reaction.

Mrs. Sinclair began to bend finally. She looked around her room with a longing that was ripe with goodbye.

“You see,” she said, “this all belongs to Randy. This was their house. I am here at his sufferance.”

“He supported you?” Mike asked.

She nodded.

“Are there friends you can call?” I asked. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

I saw her glance flick toward the portrait. Toward Hanna. “I am not alone,” she said.

I was spooked. She never got around to asking how and why either Randy or Hillary died. I guess to her those facts weren’t the essentials. Mike got up from the creaky bench and edged toward the door.

“When you feel up to it, you can call me,” he said. “I’ll try to answer any questions.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Will you be all right?” I tried again.

“Yes. Please excuse me. I need to lie down.” She rose majestically, the starch returned to her spine, and walked slowly toward the door. As we followed her, I noticed she did not lean on the cane.

She didn’t open the front door for us, but stood in the center of the round foyer, her narrow feet planted in the hub of the ornate circular pattern in the parquet floor. Rootless like an ornamental tree.

“Good night,” I said, reaching for Mike’s sleeve as he held the door.

Virginia Sinclair was staring off into the dark beyond the front steps. When we turned to walk out, I heard her gasp. I thought maybe she was waiting for us to leave before she wept. She cleared her throat.

“Just a moment,” she said. “What was that name again?”

“Metrano,” Mike said, going back.

She shook her head. “No, the first name.”

“George? Leslie? Amy Elizabeth?”

“George. I know that was his name. It was some time ago, but I remember him. He worked for Randy, refurbishing a boat. Temporary work. He was quite handy. Randy had him do some repairs around here as well. A nice fellow. A family man down on his luck.”

“When?” Mike asked.

“Years ago. I wouldn’t have thought of him except that we were speaking of Hillary and how she came into the family. When Hillary was so sick, the only soul who could comfort her was George.”