The Ever Page 20

  “I see. When you got to LA, did you turn him over to an adoption agency?”

  “No, the couple was there to meet him. He was stiff with them, but they appeared to be caring people who would be able to forge a good relationship in time.”

  “Do you recall their names?”

  “Yes. Merkel. Donald and Elizabeth Merkel.”

  “Where did they live?”

  “I never knew. But it must’ve been in an affluent area not far from Los Angeles International. When they put Chad into their Jaguar sedan, I heard Elizabeth tell him that it wouldn’t be long before they were home.”

  After I concluded my call to Heidi Schmidt, I hurried down the catwalk to Mick and Derek’s office. Mick was alone. As I stepped inside, he swiveled away from his computer and spread his hands in frustration.

  “I’m getting nowhere on this, Shar.”

  “Quit that angle. Try Donald and Elizabeth Merkel, in an affluent area not far from LAX.”

  He swiveled back, fingers poised on the keyboard. As he typed, he asked, “Who are these people?”

  “Adoptive parents of Dan Kessell’s kid.” I explained about the mother and the bad drugs Renshaw had given her.

  “Have a seat. This shouldn’t take long. Compared to what you gave me before, it’s—as Hy would say—a piece of cake.”

  I sat down in Derek’s chair, chafing at even a minute’s delay.

  As he searched, Mick said, “You’re thinking that this kid knew about Renshaw giving his mother the fatal overdose, and was pissed at him. Then his father shipped him off to an adoptive home in LA, and he got pissed at him, too. And as an adult he set out to get even.”

  “I think ‘pissed’ is too mild a word.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Pissed is what I was when I ran away at Christmastime because Mom and Dad wouldn’t buy me a moped.”

  “And it cost me all of Christmas Eve trying to find you.”

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  “You ever going to forgive me for that?” he asked.

  “I did the next day, when you helped me fix Christmas dinner. Your idea of adding cranberries to my turkey stuffing was a huge success with my guests, and I’ve done it every year since.”

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  I sighed.

  “You need to learn to be patient, Shar.”

  “I know.”

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  “Got something. Donald Merkel, financial consultant with offices in Beverly Hills, and homes in Bel-Air and Tahoe, died four years ago. Survived by his wife, Elizabeth, and son, Chad.”

  “Damn!”

  “I’m checking now on Elizabeth and Chad.”

  I waited, trying to be patient. But I had little patience under these kinds of circumstances. I tapped my fingers on Derek’s desk, rocked back and forth in his chair, which squeaked.

  “Stop that!” Mick exclaimed.

  I pressed my hands to my knees, sat still.

  After a moment Mick said, “Elizabeth lives in Santa Barbara now.”

  “And Chad?”

  “Give me a minute, will you?”

  “Sorry.”

  Tap, double tap, tap . . .

  “He graduated with an MBA from USC eight years ago. Was with a Merrill Lynch brokerage branch in LA for two years, then at their Santa Barbara branch until two years ago. No current address. ”

  “You have an address for Elizabeth?”

  “Address, but no phone number. You going down there?”

  “Yes. Will you print me out a map from the airport to her house?”

  “You taking your plane?”

  “If the weather forecast’s good—and it should be.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “What about your work here?”

  “Caseload’s light; Derek can handle it. And I can’t handle being around the office right now.”

  We arrived in Santa Barbara after dark. I rented a car and we drove to the twisty, narrow street high in the hills where Elizabeth Merkel lived. The house was large, Spanish-style, and no lights showed in any of the windows.

  “Not home,” Mick said.

  “Or sleeping. If she is, we don’t want to disturb her. Nothing makes people more resistant to talking with you than being woken up.”

  “What now?”

  “First food, then a motel. Tomorrow we’ll pay a visit to Mrs. Merkel.”

  Friday

  MARCH 10

  I woke up the next morning on one of the hardest beds I’d ever encountered, my muscles aching. Normally when working for RKI I’d have splurged on one of Santa Barbara’s luxury hotels, but given the trouble that Hy’s company was in, I’d decided to keep expenses down and opted for a chain motel near the freeway. Besides, I didn’t want Mick to get ideas about what the old expense account would bear. He and I had had a mediocre dinner in the attached restaurant, but neither of us was very hungry: Mick because of his emotional upset, me because I sensed my investigation was coming together.

  I did a few stretching exercises, showered, and dressed. Then I went next door to Mick’s room and knocked. He was wearing only sweatpants; I’d awakened him. His reddened eyes and the puffy circles under them told me he’d had another bad night. I said to take his time, I’d meet him in the coffee shop.

  He looked better when he slid into the booth opposite me. I was pleased to hear him order the country special—fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. I asked for the same.

  After the server had departed, Mick asked, “So what’s the plan?”

  “I pay a visit to Mrs. Merkel. You can come along, but only to observe. I’ll introduce you as my assistant. If there’s anything you notice or think I should ask, write it down and hand it to me.”

  “This sounds like the field training you gave Patrick. Maybe we could do more of it, and I could get out of the office and away from Charlotte.”

  I considered that; it might be a viable solution to the problem between Keim and him. Then I dismissed it. “You’re much too valuable to the agency heading up computer forensics—which, I remind you, was your idea.”

  He nodded. “And it’s what I really like to do.”

  “We’ll come up with another solution to your problem, Mick. I promise.”

  I promise, but I don’t have a clue as to what.

  Sprinklers were throwing spray onto the lawn fronting Elizabeth Merkel’s house. The lawn was impossibly green—was there dye in that water?—and each blade of grass looked to be the same height as the others. We went up the brick walkway to the front door, avoiding stray droplets; the bell chimed softly when I pressed it.

  After a moment, the door opened and an attractive dark-haired woman who could have been in her early fifties looked out at us. “Oh,” she said, “I thought you were the postman with a package.”

  “Are you Elizabeth Merkel?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sharon McCone, and this is my assistant, Mick Savage.” I handed her one of my cards.

  She studied it. “Private investigator? From San Francisco? Is it about Chad?”

  This was going to be too easy. “Yes, it is. May we come in?”

  “Certainly.”

  She led us into a tiled entryway with a wrought-iron chandelier and sconces and a wide staircase rising at its rear. Paintings of old western scenes that looked like original Charles Russells hung on the walls. Several archways opened off the entry, and Mrs. Merkel took us through one, into a living room furnished in southwest style. She indicated we should sit on a sofa upholstered in a peach-colored fabric, and took a cushioned chair made of rustic wood.

  “Are you working in cooperation with the Andreeson Agency?” she asked. “Do you know where Chad is?”

  I ignored the first question. “I don’t know his exact whereabouts, but I have a lead on some of his recent activities.”

  Her fingers, which were clasped around the knees of
her beautifully tailored gabardine slacks, tightened. “What has he been doing?”

  “Before I answer that, I’d like you to fill me in on his disappearance. My reports aren’t all that detailed.”

  “Of course.” She glanced around, distracted, as if she was trying to shape the facts in some logical manner. “Would either of you care for coffee? Or tea?”

  “No, we’re fine.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Why not from the date you adopted Chad. I understand a woman named Heidi Schmidt delivered him to you at LAX on a K Air flight from Bangkok.”

  She smiled at the memory. “He was ten years old, and frightened, but trying so hard to be brave. Ms. Schmidt led him up to us, and he actually shook our hands.”

  “Was the adoption through an agency?”

  “No, it was private, through an attorney friend of my husband’s in Bangkok. Although I was relatively young at the time, I couldn’t have children—the reason isn’t important. The waiting lists with the agencies here were long, and my husband and I had a commitment to helping out children in difficult circumstances. When the attorney contacted us about Chad, we jumped at the chance.”

  “What did he tell you about Chad’s background?”

  “The father was an American vacationing in Thailand. He took no responsibility for Chad. The mother had died of a drug overdose.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That was all we needed to know. From the time he came to us Chad’s past was erased.”

  Maybe for you, but not for him.

  Beside me, Mick moved restlessly, as if he shared my thought.

  “What kind of a child was Chad?”

  She considered. “Quiet. Sometimes too quiet. Reserved. He didn’t like to be hugged or kissed, but he expressed his affection for us verbally and in other ways, such as small gifts on no special occasion. He was studious, made all A’s in school and straight through college. If anything, I’d describe him as determined. Sometimes too determined.”

  “Did he ever seem angry?”

  “All children get angry.”

  “But what specifically would set him off?”

  “He had a certain mechanical aptitude, but when things didn’t go his way—working on his model trains, for instance—he became enraged, rather than normally frustrated. Then he’d smash them. One time he built a beautiful model airplane, then took it out on our second-floor balcony and crashed it on the flagstones around the pool. He hated anything to do with planes—probably a result of the trauma of flying away from his native country.”

  “I wonder why he bothered to build the model plane, then?”

  “I’ve always suspected it was so he could destroy it.”

  “Did Chad ever use drugs?”

  “Never. When he was in college, he would rail about people who did. Sometimes I wondered if that was normal. Most college students experiment with one substance or another. His father and I did.”

  Mick wrote something down, but didn’t pass it to me. I knew what it was: Chad’s attitude toward drugs was normal, because his mother had died of an overdose.

  “Does Chad limp? I believe someone mentioned that to me.”

  “Yes, but only when he runs or he’s tired or stressed. He had a bad football injury in his senior year of high school. I was opposed to him playing at all, but my husband said to let the boy be a boy. Well, that idea cost Chad.”

  “Let’s fast-forward to Chad’s college days. He went to USC . . .”

  “And received an MBA with honors.”

  “And then?”

  “My husband became ill—a rare form of cancer—Chad helped me care for him for a year before he died. After that, he took a job with a brokerage firm in LA, and when I decided to move up here, he transferred to their Santa Barbara office.”

  “Did he live at home the whole time?”

  “In Bel-Air, yes. But when we came here, I bought him a condominium. But he came to see me frequently, until he vanished two years ago.”

  Vanished.

  Mick made a surprised sound, and I frowned at him.

  “And what was that date?”

  Elizabeth Merkel frowned. “The Andreeson Agency certainly hasn’t provided you with much information.”

  “Sometimes in the investigative process, we ask questions we already know the answers to, in order to verify the facts.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, no one knows for certain, but the police assumed it was New Year’s Day. He’d spent the night before at a party—and I assume in bed—with his fiancée, Veronica Wylie. She was the last person to see him, at around eight the next morning.”

  “Did he take any of his possessions with him?”

  “None, except for some clothing, his shaving kit, and his computer.”

  “Did his fiancée have any ideas about why Chad disappeared?”

  “None at all. Or at least, none that she would share with anyone. She was adamant that there had been no trouble between them, and no trouble for Chad at the brokerage. His supervisor confirmed that.”

  “Are you still in touch with Ms. Wylie?”

  “She calls every week or so to see if the detectives have found out anything. I expect that will stop soon; over two years is a long time for a young, attractive woman to wait.”

  “May I have a current phone number and address for her?” I asked.

  “Certainly.” She took a pad from the table beside her and wrote them down. “Now, what can you tell me about Chad’s current activities?”

  “One of my operatives may have sighted him in San Francisco. I have him working on it, and this background material you’ve given me will help. I’ll talk with Ms. Wylie, and be in touch with any results.”

  Elizabeth Merkel’s brow creased. “Your operative may have seen Chad? That’s all? God, you private investigators are useless! The Andreeson Agency has been on this case nearly a year and a half, and they haven’t found out anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Merkel, but missing-person situations are the most difficult we encounter, particularly when it’s a voluntary disappearance and the individual doesn’t want to be found.”

  She scowled, as if she didn’t want to acknowledge that her son had deliberately vanished, then showed us to the door.

  As we got into the rental car, Mick said, “You were kind of rough with her there at the end—and you lied about somebody spotting Chad in the city.”

  “I know.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Means to an end. And this is exactly why you don’t belong in the field.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Then: “What now?”

  “We try to talk to Veronica Wylie before Elizabeth Merkel warns her we’re on our way.”

  Veronica Wylie lived in an old-fashioned bungalow court two blocks from the beach. Little stucco units arranged in a U around a grassy courtyard. Well kept up, with tall palms and colorful plantings. The effect was simple, even humble, but the rents would be astronomical. Californians will pay big bucks for nostalgia.

  Wylie wasn’t home, but a talkative male neighbor told us she worked at an insurance company downtown on Anacapa Street. “An executive, she is. Young woman, doing well. Of course, she’d be doing better if that boyfriend of hers hadn’t disappeared.”

  I wanted to ask him more, but I was also in a hurry to contact Veronica Wylie before Mrs. Merkel did. As a compromise, I left Mick to chat the man up and headed for Wylie’s office. The interview would go better without Mick’s distracting presence.

  Santa Barbara is an attractive town, the Spanish influence everywhere. Stucco buildings, tiled roofs, mosaics, and brilliant flowers abound. Veronica Wylie’s insurance company occupied the lower level of a two-story structure on Anacapa Street. I entered by way of a courtyard where a fountain splashed softly.

  The interior of the office didn’t fit with the bu
ilding; it was starkly modern, deeply carpeted, with African masks and other artifacts on the walls of the reception room. While I waited for Wylie—the receptionist said she would be in a meeting for another fifteen minutes—I paged through a coffee table book on African art. Most of it was beautiful but disturbing; I wouldn’t have wanted to live with it on a daily basis.

  Finally Veronica Wylie came up to me. She was petite and very slender, with shoulder-length dark hair styled similarly to mine. I’d expected a tailored business suit, but her bright pink sweater and flowing flowered skirt spoke more of a vintage clothing store than the designer department at Nordstrom. Her handshake was firm, her gaze forthcoming.

  “Ms. McCone,” she said, “Elizabeth Merkel called to say you wanted to talk with me. She was upset that she hadn’t given you my office number.”

  No, she called to warn you about me; she was upset because I’d pumped her for information and then given her no satisfaction.

  I said, “Can we talk someplace other than your office?” Once Mrs. Merkel starting rethinking our conversation, she’d call the Andreeson Agency and find out they’d had no dealings with me. And then she’d call Wylie back.

  “There’s a coffee shop a couple of doors down,” she said. “I could do with a latte.”

  Soon we were seated at an outdoor table, coffees in hand. I commented on the good weather and Wylie shrugged. “I guess I take it for granted. This is God’s country.”

  “What can you tell me about Chad’s disappearance?”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “As part of my investigative process, I like to familiarize myself with the subject. Get inside his head, so to speak. Chad is something of an enigma to most people, including his mother.”

  Veronica Wylie sipped her latte, gaze focused on something over my shoulder. She set the coffee down and said, “Enigma. That’s a good term for him. I was with him three years. We were planning to be married last July. And I guess I didn’t really know him, because I never thought he was a man who would just walk away without an explanation.”

  “He disappeared on New Year’s Day.”

  “Yes. We’d gone to a party and spent the night together at his condo. We’d had a good time, everything was perfect. I had to get up early to visit my family in Ojai for the day. While I was driving back, I tried to call Chad on both his home and cell phones, but he didn’t answer. When I got home, it was too late to bother him, and then I couldn’t reach him the next day. After work I went over to his condo. His cell was on the coffee table and Chad was gone.”