Vanishing Point

Saturday

Hours later when I got back to the Oaks Lodge, I had two messages on my room’s voice mail. The first was from Hy: “Why don’t you ever turn your cellular on? I give up. Call me in the morning.”

The second, from Patrick, said, “I think I’m closing in on Laurel Greenwood, but I need your help.”

The number he’d left was again in the 707 area code. I punched it in, and after several rings a voice said, “Econo Lodge, Crescent City.”

The northernmost coastal town in the state, on the Oregon border. Now, that was interesting. I asked for Patrick.

“Neilan,” his sleepy voice said.

“What the hell’re you doing in Crescent City?” I demanded. “You’re supposed to be coordinating this investigation in the office.”

“Shar… What time is it?”

“After three in the morning. What’re you doing there? And what were you doing in Santa Rosa?”

“Uhhh.” A short silence as he fully woke up. “The other day, after Rae told me that Laurel Greenwood was Josie Smith’s heir and executor, I got this idea about how Greenwood might’ve pulled her disappearing act, and I talked to a friend of mine who’s a nurse. She dug up some information that led me to Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital, where she had a contact, and that contact pointed me toward Sutter Coast Hospital up here. But I’m running into difficulties.”

“You figured out that Greenwood assumed her cousin Josie Smith’s identity and used her nursing credentials to start a new life.”

Long silence this time. When Patrick spoke, he sounded crestfallen. “You figured it out, too?”

“Yes-but I had quite a bit more help than you did.”

“Well, I could sure use your help now. Can you come up here?”

“Of course. I’ve been awake forever, though, and I need a few hours’ sleep-”

Oh, God, Hy! He’s down there in El Centro, waiting to hear from me. I can’t just take off for Crescent City.

“Shar?” Patrick said.

“I’ll need to rearrange my schedule.”

Nice way to think of your new husband-as a scheduling conflict.

“Okay, but how soon can you be here?”

I considered the flying time, the possible delays if the fog moved inland. “Tomorrow afternoon, earliest. I’ll call you with my ETA, and you can meet me at the airport.”

“Thanks, Shar. I think we’re really close to locating her. This idea I had-”

“We’ll talk about it when I get there.”

I was almost asleep when there was a knock on the door. Dammit, it had better not be Jim Whitmore or any of the other people from the SLO County Sheriff’s Department. I’d more than done my duty for local law enforcement.

I crawled out of bed, felt my way across the room, looked through the peephole. The amber-shaded bulb outside showed shining eyes, a hawk nose, and an extravagant mustache. Quickly I opened the door and stepped into Hy’s arms. God, it felt good to hold him!

“How did you get here?” I asked into his well-worn leather flight jacket, breathing in its rich, familiar odor.

“Dan Kessel flew out to El Centro in one of the company’s jets. I borrowed it.”

“Oh, that’s great!” I raised my face to his, tasted his lips, his tongue, felt his hands cupping my face.

“Missed me, did you?” he asked.

“Missed you-most definitely. But the jet, that’s wonderful.”

“Why?”

“Because later this morning you and I are going to fly up to Crescent City.”

After our wake-up call came at eight, Hy looked up Jack McNamara Field at Crescent City on AirNav.com while I showered, dressed, and packed. “Runways’re in good condition,” he said, “and they can handle the Citation. I’ll check on the weather while you pay the bill.”

“I’ve got to make a call first.” Since he had his laptop hooked into the room phone-even though it was a relatively new hotel, they offered only dial-up service-I took out my cellular, saw it had lost its charge.

Damn, I was definitely going to have to spring for a new model; they held their charge longer, were smaller and lighter. This unit that a short time ago I had thought so sleek and high-tech now seemed clunky and primitive. And if I let that thought lead me to contemplate the built-in obsolescence and disposability of the products we Americans snap up so eagerly, I’d fall into a daylong funk. So I simply asked Hy, “Use your phone?” and when he nodded, took it from the bedside table and dialed Sally Timmerman’s number.

“A question for you,” I said after we exchanged greetings. “Terry Wyatt told me about finding a gift tucked in bed with her on her first birthday after Laurel disappeared-a stuffed toy called the Littlest Lamb. She said she could smell Laurel’s perfume, the Passionelle that both of you used, and thought the lamb had been left during the night by her mother. But it was you who put it there, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Those little girls were hurting so much, and I wanted to do something to brighten Terry’s day, but Roy had made it plain he didn’t want me near them. I still had the key to the house that Laurel had given me years before, so I sneaked in at around five in the morning.”

“You gave her that particular toy because Laurel had been reading her the Littlest Lamb series just before she disappeared?”

“Right. The night after Laurel vanished, Terry begged me to read the next installment to her, and I did. I also read The Wind in the Willows to Jennifer.”

“But you didn’t give Jennifer a Wind in the Willows toy when her birthday came around.”

“No, I couldn’t. Roy figured out I was the one who had left the lamb. He called me and told me if I ever entered his house again without his permission he’d have me arrested-and to ensure I didn’t, he had the locks changed. I suppose he wanted to distance himself from me because I knew about his infidelity with Josie.”

“He might also have thought you were raising false hopes in Terry’s and Jennifer’s minds.”

Silence. Then: “You know, I never thought of that. All I wanted was for a little girl to wake up with a nice surprise on her birthday. But the perfume-of course Terry would think her mother had been there. I should’ve realized that! How could I have done that to her? And then for Jennifer not to receive a gift… She probably assumed her mother didn’t love her as much as Terry.”

Sally sounded so sad and self-reproachful that I was sorry I’d raised the possibility.

I said, “I think the lamb was a lovely gesture, and it probably comforted Terry.”

“But what about Jennifer?”

“She unloaded a lot of stuff on me about that time, but she didn’t mention the lamb or the lack of a birthday gift of her own. Maybe she didn’t believe it was from Laurel any more than Roy did, or maybe it didn’t make much of an impression on her.” I paused. “Here’s what you might do-call Terry and tell her the lamb was from you. It would mean a lot to her to know her Aunt Sally still cared and didn’t just drop out of her life like her mom did. And when you call, you can also talk with Jennifer; she went to stay with Terry yesterday.”

Another silence. “You know, during all the years Roy wouldn’t let me near those children, I hurt for them. But then they went away to college, and after a time I put my memories of them aside. Now I’d like to renew our friendship.”

“I think they’d welcome it. I’ll give you Terry’s number.”

Hy and I arrived in Crescent City around one that afternoon. The low-lying beach town, which once thrived on lumber and fishing, was years ago plunged into depression with the decline of those industries, but is now becoming a destination for outdoor recreationists visiting the Six Rivers National Forest. It also has the dubious distinction of being the site of a 1964 tsunami that claimed the lives of eleven people-the only killer wave that has ever struck the continental United States. Last June, the Crescent City tsunami siren-which the citizens are used to hearing tested at ten a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month-was activated one evening when the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration issued a warning after a 7.2 offshore earthquake. Four thousand people rushed to higher ground, while their more foolish brethren headed to the seaside to await the show. Fortunately, the alarm was false, and Crescent City and the idiot thrill-seekers remained unscathed.

An hour after our arrival, Patrick, Hy, and I sat in a booth in a coffee shop not far from the Crescent City Econo Lodge. Hy was consuming a huge cheeseburger with all the trimmings; piloting the Cessna Citation-a fast, easily maneuverable aircraft-had given him a natural rush that apparently needed to be fed. Patrick was excited, but in a different way: his bowl of chili sat barely touched. I was grimly plowing my way through a Cobb salad; after days of eating hit-or-miss and mostly fast food, something quasi-healthy had sounded good. Trouble was, I’d ordered it at the wrong restaurant: the lettuce was suspiciously brown around the edges, as was the avocado; the bacon was limp and greasy; the chicken was underdone; and for all I knew, there was something wrong with the blue cheese. A note on the menu had said, “Health Advisory: This dish contains bacon.” In my opinion, the warning should have read: “This dish may offend your taste buds.”

I reached out for one of Hy’s French fries, and he grinned at me.

“Okay,” Patrick said, “here’s where I’m at so far. When Rae told me that Greenwood was Smith’s heir and executor, I thought back to when I was executor of an elderly aunt’s estate. One of the things I had to do was notify Social Security of her death, so her monthly payments could be discontinued, but with a younger person who wasn’t receiving benefits, that wouldn’t be necessary. So that would leave Greenwood in possession of a legitimate social security card, a birth certificate, a driver’s license, any credit cards and bank accounts, maybe a passport, Smith’s nursing credentials-and a substantial inheritance.”

I nodded. “Prescription for a new life.”

“Right. But there’s one snag. As you told me before, Laurel got the driver’s license picture replaced with her own, but when it came time to renew it, wouldn’t the DMV have noticed something was wrong?”

“Renewing it might’ve been tricky.” I thought back to the eighties, trying to remember the DMV requirements at that time. “In those days, I think the DMV made you come in to have a new picture taken every time your license was up for renewal, rather than extend it by mail, as they do now for good drivers. But they’ve always been understaffed and overworked; when Laurel had to renew Josie’s license the clerk probably wouldn’t have questioned its authenticity. The pictures never look like you, anyway, and there was no reason for anyone to cross-check DMV records.”

“But what about the discrepancy in fingerprints? Or did fingerprinting drivers start after that?”

“Don’t know.”

I glanced at Hy; he seemed more interested in his burger than our conversation. “When was the first time you had to be fingerprinted for a driver’s license?” I asked.

He frowned. “I’m not sure.”

I looked back at Patrick. “Well, let’s forget that issue for now. Even if they had both sets of fingerprints on file, there’s a good chance they wouldn’t cross-check unless Laurel was picked up on a moving violation. Maybe not even then, unless it was a DUI, manslaughter, something like that.”

“Right.”

“So,” I went on, “you thought about the fact that Greenwood and Smith had both been nurses, and talked to your friend.”

“Yeah. She’s also a nurse, and a member of California Nurses Association. She told me the union doesn’t require any sort of photo identification, and dues are paid either by the individual or deducted from their payroll checks. I asked if there was any way I could find out if Smith’s dues were current. She said yes, provided I was smart enough and a good liar. I was smart enough to ask her what questions I should ask the union, and I guess I’m a good liar, because I got the person I talked with to tell me that Smith was a member until nineteen ninety-three-over ten years after her death. They wouldn’t tell me how she made the payments or where she was working, though.”

“Okay, how did that bring you to Santa Rosa and Crescent City?”

“I picked my friend’s brains again, and she told me about the Board of Registered Nursing. State agency. License renewal is every two years. You have to renew whether you’re working in the profession or not-so long as you’re alive and ever plan to work again. You can track a person through the relicensing, if you have the right contact at CNA-and my friend does. Smith’s license was last renewed in nineteen ninety-one, and her address at that time was in Santa Rosa.”

Patrick’s saga fascinated me, because it mirrored so many strange, twisting investigative journeys I’d taken over the years. “So you went to Santa Rosa-a town of over a hundred and fifty thousand people and God knows how many hospitals and clinics and private practices-in the hope of getting lucky?”

“Nope.” He smiled. “You know that mantra you’ve been drumming into my head-‘Work your contacts, and your contacts’ contacts, and their contacts, too?’ That’s what I did. Happens my friend has another friend whose fiancée is a doctor on the staff of Santa Rosa Memorial. It seemed as good a starting point as any. I drove up there, exercised some of my Irish charm, and she agreed to check about Smith with Human Resources. Their records show that she was in Pediatrics and left in ninety-two. That was when I got lucky. The doctor is also in Pediatrics, so she asked around, and one of the older RNs remembered Smith. Said she’d left to take a job as an emergency-room nurse at Sutter Coast Hospital here in Crescent City. It was brand-new at the time.”

“So what’s your problem?” I asked. “Why do you need my help? You can just call them up and ask about Smith. For that matter, why did you have to go through your friend’s friend’s fiancée, rather than just calling around to Santa Rosa area hospitals?”

Patrick’s broad grin spelled out his delight in knowing something the boss didn’t. “Because large health-care facilities are very protective of their employees’ information. My friend said that any inquiry that didn’t come from someone with a legitimate need to know would be handed off to Human Resources, which then would tell me the information was confidential and turn me away.”

“Sounds like trying to find out something from Social Security.”

“Right.”

Beside me, Hy said to the waitress, “The blackberry pie with vanilla ice cream, please.”

I turned to stare at him. “You never eat pie.”

“Today it sounds good.”

“It’s lucky that Citation belongs to RKI, and not to you. If you flew it all the time, you’d get fat.”

He smiled benignly at me.

“Okay,” I said to Patrick, “you came up here…?”

“Hoping to exercise more Irish charm. Didn’t work. As predicted, I was quickly turned away at Sutter Coast. So I called my friend, and she told me that the most gossipy and informative place in a hospital is the cafeteria. If you’re there at breaks or the lunch hour dressed like an employee, and can walk the walk and talk the talk, you can find out pretty much anything.”

“So why aren’t you at the cafeteria today?”

“I don’t think I can walk the walk and talk the talk.”

“What happened to that Irish charm?”

“It’s challenged by this assignment. For one thing, the majority of nurses are female, so a male stands out. I tried to place myself in the role of a doctor, orderly, EMT, or lab technician. None of it felt right, and I’m really afraid I’ll blow it. But you can do it, Shar.”

“Me? A medical professional? I don’t know anything about those jobs.”

“People on their lunch breaks don’t necessarily talk about their work. Some of them stuff their faces”-he looked over at Hy, who was digging into his pie and ice cream-“but mostly they gossip. Besides, you can act. I’ve seen you do it. My friend gave me a perfect scenario for you, and she’s willing to go over it on the phone. But first we have to pay a visit to the uniform shop I found earlier.”

From the bathroom of Patrick’s room at the Econo Lodge I called, “Are you sure this is the kind of outfit nurses wear? Why don’t I have a starched white uniform and a little hat?”

“When was the last time you saw a nurse dressed like that?”

I thought. “In an old film on late-night TV.”

“Right; their dress code varies from place to place. Sutter Coast uses hospital scrubs and white shoes or sneakers for nursing personnel. Let’s see how you look.”

I stepped through the door, and he surveyed my light blue V-neck tunic top, loose elastic-waist slacks, and athletic shoes. The top and slacks were courtesy of the uniform shop, the shoes my own.

“Perfect.” He gestured at the plastic nametag holder that hung around my neck. “I’ll borrow the typewriter I saw in the manager’s office and put your alias on that, just in case. But remember to keep the tag twisted, so they can’t see the front. My friend says the ID tags can be a joke, because they’re always hanging the wrong way.”

“Dress rehearsal’s over?”

“Yeah. You look great.”

“Then I’ll get back into my own clothes, and we’ll grab Hy and hit that country-and-western bar he discovered.”

Patrick frowned. “You’re not gonna drink too much, are you?”

“What?”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to be hungover for your performance tomorrow.”

First I’ve got Ted worrying about my owning a gun and flying a plane. Now Patrick’s concerned about my drinking habits.

I said, “I’m only going along to watch over you. We can’t have you exercising that Irish charm on the wrong women.”

Two hours later, Patrick was definitely exercising his charm on a woman. She was tall, extremely thin, clad in tight jeans and a tank top, and she was beating him at straight pool.

“Must be true love,” I said to Hy. “He doesn’t seem to mind she’s making him look like a klutz in front of all these strangers.”

He glanced over from where we sat at the bar. “If his tongue was hanging out any farther, it’d interfere with his bank shot.”

The bar, Tex’s, was crowded and noisy. A band that was never going to make it to Nashville or even Bakersfield played-largely ignored-at the rear of the cavernous room. As they segued into a cover of one of Ricky’s songs, “The Midnight Train to Nowhere,” I grimaced. He would have, too, could he hear them.

Hy said, “So tomorrow you assume the persona of Nurse Betty.” The reference was to a movie we hadn’t much cared for.

“Nurse Patsy Newhouse, in case anyone asks.” I often assumed my sisters’ names when undercover; they were familiar enough that if someone called me by one of them I’d be likely to notice, if not immediately react.

Hy asked, “Is Sunday a good day to go to the hospital? Won’t they be short on staff on the weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s a drawback. Patrick’s friend says a Friday would be perfect because people are always more relaxed and gossipy before the weekend. But I certainly can’t wait around till Friday, so I might as well try my luck tomorrow. I can always go back on Monday.”

“How d’you explain that none of the staff have ever seen you before?”

“There’s a thing called the nurses’ registry; it’s like a temp agency, and it gives me a license to ask questions. I say I’ve just come from registry, don’t know where anything is, that kind of thing. Deflect any of their questions by asking a lot of my own.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“It isn’t going to be easy. I talked on the phone with Patrick’s friend for a long time this afternoon. She says the nurses know everything about everyone, but it’s a close-mouthed community when it comes to outsiders. They’re smart and, if they’re old enough to have known Laurel… Josie, whatever, they’ve been around long enough to know better than to talk freely to a stranger. But the friend prepped me well, and I’m a good actor. I’ll haunt that cafeteria until I get the information I’m looking for.”

“How long d’you think it’ll take?”

“I don’t know, but if you need to get the plane back to El Centro, Patrick and I can drive down to the city in his car. Later on I’ll hitch a ride with somebody from North Field who’s flying south, and pick up Two-Seven-Tango in Paso Robles.”

“Kessell wants the Citation back on Monday so we can both go back to headquarters, but I tell you what: I’ll ask him to detour to PRB, and then I’ll fly Tango back to San Diego and up to Oakland midweek when my business down south is done. You get a lead here, there’s no telling where it may take you.”

I grasped his hand, twined my fingers through his. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary. We’re partners, remember?”

“That’s not something I’m ever likely to forget.”

We were silent for a moment, listening to the band mangle another of Ricky’s songs.

“You know, McCone,” Hy said when they’d finished and-mercifully-left the bandstand, “I’ve been thinking about your house, and I just may have come up with a solution to our living-space problems.”

A tickle of apprehension ran along my spine. “And that is?”

“I don’t want to go into it until I check some things out.”

Such as the price it would bring on the open market? Call a real estate firm, ask for comps? It’s my house, dammit! I bought it, put my own hard-earned cash and physical labor into it. I don’t interfere with what you do with your ranch, so why should you-

Stop it! You’re reacting as if he said he wanted to burn it down for the insurance money.

“What things?” I asked, keeping my voice level, the tone casual.

“Well, I’ll need to look it over carefully, but-”

Shouting erupted from the area where the pool tables were. Alarmed, I swiveled around. A crowd blocked my view.

Both of us stood. I still couldn’t see what was going on. I grasped Hy’s arm. “What’s happened?”

More commotion, and then one of the bartenders shouldered his way through the crowd. Hy moved forward in his wake. After a moment he came back and said, “I suspect Patrick and I will be making a visit to the Sutter Coast Hospital emergency room. I don’t know what he said or did to her, but his pool-shark friend just decked him with her cue.”