Trace (Trace 1) Read online

  He listened for a few moments but heard no sound, and then he walked from the porch into the garage. The door leading into the house was unlocked.

  He walked in quietly and paused. Down the long hall, he heard the faint hum of a voice talking softly.

  The voice was coming from the study down the hall and it was low, hypnotically one-noted. He walked on the heavy sound-swallowing carpet and stopped outside the doorway. The door was partially open and he leaned to the side to look inside.

  The room was illuminated only by a pair of black candles atop a small game table. Amanda Carey sat at one side of the table and Muffy on the other, their hands joined on the tabletop. Incense curled smokily from a saucer on the cabinet below the bookshelves.

  The crystal ball was in the middle of the table, between the woman’s hands.

  It was Muffy’s voice Trace had heard. Both women’s eyes were closed and Muffy’s head was thrown back so her neck muscles and tendons were stretched taut.

  Trace saw her hands clench tightly around Mrs. Carey’s.

  “She’s here,” Muffy whispered. “I can feel it now. She’s here.”

  “Oh,” slipped from Mrs. Carey’s lips.

  “Buffy, we’re here,” Muffy said. “Your mother and me. Talk to us.”

  But there was only silence in the room and Muffy said again, “Talk to us. Please. We want to talk to you.”

  There was only silence again. Trace saw that the blinds were drawn on the big windows in the front of the house, but they were open on a side window, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see the clumps of dark bushes on the sprawling lawn beyond the window.

  He heard Muffy whisper, “Ask her, Nana. Talk to her. She might answer you.”

  Haltingly, hesitant, Mrs. Carey said, “Buffy, are you here?”

  Only silence answered and Mrs. Carey said again, “Buffy? Please?”

  And then there was a sound. It was faint, but it seemed to come from all over the room as if it had no central source. It was the voice of a young woman, saying, “Nana, Nana I’m here, Nana.”

  Involuntarily, Mrs. Carey clamped a hand to her mouth.

  Muffy reached across the table and took Mrs. Carey’s hand again and replaced it on the table. Mrs. Carey’s eyes had opened, but now she closed them again and said, “Buffy, I’m so happy you’re here. Are you all right, darling?”

  “Oh, Nana, I’m so cold. And scared.”

  Mrs. Carey was silent, and Muffy said quickly, “Why are you scared, Buffy?”

  “Nana, I’m afraid for my father. He’s so sick,” the voice came back.

  Trace looked around the room but could see no one else.

  “What should we do?” Mrs. Carey said.

  Trace saw the old woman screw her eyes tightly closed as if willing an answer, and Muffy tossed her head back with a snappy little jerk and the voice again responded. “Oh, it’s so lonely in the house without him. So lonely.” The voice was a mournful, pitiful wail.

  There was silence again and Muffy said, “What should we do, Buffy?” Then she jerked her head back as if awaiting an answer and the voice came again.

  “Nana, don’t let them hurt Pop-pop. Bring him home, bring him home. Listen to Muffy and bring him home.”

  There was a flickering on the heavy dark drapes at the front of the room. Muffy’s eyes were still closed, her head back. Mrs. Carey’s head was slumped forward on the table and Trace could hear her weeping. Suddenly, Muffy opened her eyes and she hissed, “See. Nana, look.”

  The old woman lifted her head and Muffy released her hands to point toward the drapes. On them appeared the lighted image of a young woman. It was vague and amorphous because of the folds of the drapes, but it was a young woman with long hair, and her arms were extended outward.

  “It’s her,” Mrs. Carey said. “It’s Buffy

  “She’s calling you,” Muffy said.

  “I love you, Nana. I love you, Muffy. Bring him home,” the voice said.

  Mrs. Carey jumped to her feet and stepped toward the drapes. The image vanished. One moment it was there and then it was just gone.

  She looked about in confusion, then turned back to Muffy, who got up from her seat and walked to the old woman and put an arm around her.

  “It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “It’s all right. She’s here in the house. She’ll always be here with us.”

  Trace quietly ran back through the house. In the kitchen was a door leading outside, and he let himself out onto the paved patio and ran around the back of the house.

  He moved silently toward the windows of the study, but there was no one there. He knelt down to feel with his fingers. The soft earth was mashed with footprints, but he could not tell if they were ten minutes or ten days old.

  He looked in through the window and saw Muffy still comforting Mrs. Carey. The window was streaked and dusty, but in the lower right-hand corner, there was a precise three-inch circle where the glass shone clear, as if it had been washed recently.

  He looked around on the ground to see if anything had been dropped, but saw nothing.

  When he returned to his car, he noticed that the brown Volkswagen that had been parked in front of his was gone also.

  Trace looked up and saw Police Officer Lauren Wilcox entering the country club’s cocktail lounge.

  She looked around the almost-empty lounge, saw Trace, smiled, and started toward him.

  Trace noticed Hughie watching the woman as she came near. Even in her uniform blues, she was very trim and moved smoothly, and Trace said, “Hi, officer. How’s the law’s most beautiful minion?”

  “Hello, Trace,” she said. She looked around to make sure no one was able to hear them, then said softly, “You’ve got to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “My husband wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, Christ, I knew it was going to happen. I fool around just once in my life and now a husband is after me.”

  “Not about that, you idiot. That’s our secret. Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Okay.” Trace followed her outside.

  “We’ll take my car,” she said, and Trace got into the front seat of the squad car.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as she drove away.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” he said.

  “Last night, at that apartment, you were visiting a friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was Jeannie Callahan, wasn’t it?”

  “Okay. If you know anyway, yes.”

  “Did you see her tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Trace snapped. “Dammit, what are you talking about?”

  “Somebody beat her up.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sakes. Is she all right?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Frank just asked me to bring you in. Were you there?”

  “Where?”

  “At her office.”

  “No,” Trace said. “Where is she now?”

  “At the sanatorium. It’s the closest emergency room.”

  “Take me there, will you?”

  “After you talk to Frank,” she said.

  “Why me?”

  “Damned if I know,” she said. “He didn’t tell me.” She paused a moment, then reached out and touched his leg. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t think you’re the lady-beating type either. You know, if I knew I was going to be bringing you in, well, last night…”

  “Don’t worry,” Trace said. “My lips are sealed.”

  “I didn’t fill out a report about the vandalism or anything,” she said.

  “I won’t mention it,” Trace said.

  The door to Jeannie Callahan’s office was open, and Lt. Wilcox, his back to them, was looking at the file cabinet when Trace and the policewoman walked inside.

  “I’ve got him, Frank,” the woman said.

  Wilcox turn
ed around, looked at Trace in disgust, and said, “Okay, Tracy. Sit over there.”

  His wife lingered in the doorway and the lieutenant said, “You can go back now, Lauren. I’ll call you when we’re through.”

  “All right.”

  Trace noticed that the second drawer of the four-drawer file cabinet was open, and the metal rim of the drawer was twisted, as if it had been bent.

  Wilcox leaned on the file cabinet and said, “My wife tell you what happened?”

  “Yes. How bad was it?”

  “Not too serious. Where were you tonight?”

  “I was at the country club just now and earlier. I stopped at the sanatorium and at Mitchell Carey’s house. Lieutenant, what’s going on?”

  “Where were you about nine-thirty or so?”

  “At the Carey house.”

  “They vouch for you?”

  “I didn’t see them. The house was dark, so I went back to the country club. Why are you questioning me?”

  “All right, why were you angry with Miss Callahan?”

  “Who said I was?”

  “You said you were,” Wilcox snapped. “Dammit, Tracy, I want some answers out of you.” In the harsh light of the desk lamp, his pitted face looked like a lunar landscape.

  “Listen, Lieutenant—”

  “No, you listen. I think you were ticked off at Miss Callahan and you busted in here to steal something. When she surprised you, you clocked her and then you beat it. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it, and you, are both full of shit,” Trace said evenly. “Are you going to charge me?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You better make up your mind real fast. Charge me now or I go out that goddamn door. Charge me now and do it wrong, and I’ll have your ass for lunch.” He stood up.

  Trace had to admire Wilcox. The bluff didn’t work and the policeman didn’t blanch. Instead, he said, “Then I guess I’m going to have to charge you.”

  “Fine,” Trace said. He sat back down. “Ask away. I’ll wait a couple of minutes to make my phone call.”

  “Why did you threaten Miss Callahan?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Wilcox walked behind the lawyer’s desk and fiddled with an oblong gray box. Then he pressed a button and Trace’s voice filled the room.

  “This is Trace and I’m still staying at the Golden Age Golf Club. I think it’s rotten of you, cheating on me in public, but I’ve decided not to give you the beating you deserve and I’m going to forgive you instead. This offer’s only good for an hour. Call me…”

  “What’s that all about?” Wilcox said. “What the hell are you laughing about?”

  “Hoist by my own petard,” Trace said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Do you think that’s a threat on that tape? Tell me, Lieutenant, do you get many muggings where the muggers call first and leave their ID so you can be sure to pick them up later? Dammit, the call I made was a joke. She was having lunch with some other guy today and I was joking.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “What other guy?”

  “She was having lunch with Dr. Matteson at the golf club.”

  “Matteson, huh?”

  “He’s a client of hers,” Trace said.

  “Well, if you didn’t bop her, who did?” Wilcox said.

  “What happened?” Trace asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Miss Callahan came to the office at half-past nine. She was specific about the time. She let herself in and then she realized someone was here. She headed for the door, but whoever it was grabbed her, spun her around, and punched her. It knocked her out. When she woke up a couple of minutes later, she called us. She said that whoever it was must have been rifling her files, but she couldn’t see anything missing. So now, help. You add anything to that?”

  “No,” Trace said.

  “You’re a big help. What are you in town for anyway?”

  “I told you the other day, I’m checking on that Plesser insurance thing.”

  “The Careys have anything to do with that?”

  “Mr. Carey’s a friend of my boss. He asked me to check in with the family.” Trace hesitated and Wilcox said, “And nothing but the truth.”

  “And my boss wanted me to make sure that nothing happened to Mr. Carey like it happened to Plesser.”

  “Why should your boss be worried about a thing like that?”

  “Because that girl who’s living with the Careys filled his head with shit.”

  “Oh. What’s Miss Callahan’s connection with all this?”

  “I ran into her because she’s the Careys’ lawyer. And she’s Dr. Matteson’s lawyer. The Plessers are suing him.”

  “That wouldn’t give Matteson any reason to come here and hit her, I guess. Are they going out together?”

  “Matteson told me no,” Trace said.

  Wilcox sighed. “Okay. I don’t have anything to book you on. You know that. We can go, I guess. My photographer’s already been here.”

  “Will he get prints?”

  “It’s always a guess. He pulled up some with tape, but the way he works, the asshole, they’ll probably be his own.”

  Trace waited in the hallway for Wilcox to close up the office. At the head of the stairs was a large ashtray, and Trace saw in it an apple with only one bite taken from it.

  He thought for a moment, then picked up the apple, shook the sand from it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Wilcox was fumbling with the office lock.

  “Just a minute, Lieutenant,” Trace said, “I left my cigarettes inside.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, hurry up.”

  Trace went into the office, pretended to take his cigarettes off the desk, and before leaving, glanced inside the small refrigerator near the office door.

  “What are you doing in there?” Wilcox said.

  “I was thirsty. I thought Jeannie might have a bottle of beer around.”

  “Does she?”

  “No.”

  “Some days nothing goes right. I should have booked you.”

  “It wouldn’t have held up,” Trace said.

  “Why not?”

  “You forgot to read me my rights.”

  “In Harmon Hills, you don’t have any rights.”

  Wilcox dropped Trace off at the country club and the insurance investigator went into the cocktail lounge, where he found Hughie getting ready to close the empty bar.

  “You have a small plastic bag or a piece of Saran wrap?” Trace asked.

  “Let me look.” Hughie came back out of the storeroom with a piece of wrap that looked as if it had held a tuna-fish sandwich. Meanwhile, Trace looked at the apple in his pocket. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he had read somewhere that toothmarks were as almost as individual as fingerprints, and where the bite had been taken from the apple was a clear set of toothmarks. Trace wondered why he hadn’t just given the apple to Lt. Wilcox and decided it was because Wilcox would probably have eaten it. He wrapped the apple in the piece of plastic wrap and handed it back to the bartender.

  “Hughie, I want you to put this in the freezer.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to save it.”

  “If you want, you can throw this one away and I’ll bring you a new apple tomorrow. No charge. It’s apple season.”

  “I need this apple, Hughie. It’s evidence.”

  “George Washington’s dead.”

  “That was a cherry tree, not an apple tree. Please, just put this in the back of the freezer. It’s important. And don’t let anybody throw it out.”

  “I’ll put a sign on it that says it’s a disguised Nazi hand grenade. That should do it,” Hughie said.

  “Wonderful.”

  “How long do you think I’ll have to keep it?”

  “Just till tomorrow,” Trace said.

  “Good. Just don’t tell anybody I’m doing this. It might start a fad and I’ve only g
ot a small freezer.”

  There was a young nurse on duty in the emergency room in the East Building at Meadow Vista and Trace said, “I’m Dr. Wasserman. Is Miss Callahan ready to go yet? I’ve come to pick her up.”

  The woman looked at a sheet in front of her. “Miss Callahan’s been admitted to Room Two-twenty-two. She won’t be leaving right away. Dr. Matteson’s taking care of her.”

  “She just called. Is Doctor still with her?”

  “I think so.”

  “Thank you. I’ll confer with him. It’s okay, I know my way.”

  When Trace walked into the room, Jeannie was sitting up in bed and Matteson was leaning against the small nightstand next to her bed. He was wearing a raincoat over his pajamas.

  “If I were the jealous type,” Trace said, “this’d bust it.”

  “Trace,” she cried out happily. “Tell this idiot to let me out of here.”

  “Not a chance,” Matteson said.

  Trace looked at the young lawyer. She had a bruise on one cheek and the flesh was turning an ugly eggplant color. Trace knew, from his own experience, that in another twelve hours or so she would have a rip-roaring shiner.

  He stood at the side of the bed, looking at her, before he leaned over, kissed her, and said to Matteson, “She is one ugly-looking thing, isn’t she, Doc?”

  “That’s why I won’t let her out. She might frighten people on the street.”

  “Will I be able to play piano, Doctor? That’s all that’s important,” Jeannie said.

  “Sure,” Matteson said.

  “That’s funny. I couldn’t play before.”

  “Jokes. Jokes she makes already. I’ve brought her back from death’s door and she makes jokes,” Matteson said.

  “Who did it, Jeannie? Any ideas?”

  Matteson said, “I’ll leave you two alone. As long as I’m here, I’ll look at some patients. They don’t wake me up and make jokes.”

  “Just a minute, Jeannie,” Trace said, and walked into the hall with the doctor. “What’s the story?”

  “She’s just got a bad bruise. Nothing fractured and no danger that I can see. But I’m keeping her overnight just to be sure. Sometimes head injuries are sneaky.”