Agnes Hahn Page 5

  Yes. Yes.

  Gert wouldn’t lie. Neither would Ella. There was no way. Was there?

  “Agnes? Do you want me to go on?”

  She looked up. “I don’t know.” He had a kind face, his eyes filled with concern. His eyes. There was something in them. Was he one of the good ones? “I guess so.”

  “Edward Hahn was your grandfather, but I can’t seem to locate him. There’s no record of his death, so I presume he’s still alive. If he is, he’s not going by Edward Hahn anymore. I need to talk to him. As far as I can tell, he took custody of you and your sister after your mother died. Do you remember anything about that?”

  Gert let me sit on her lap. Her lap was always a safe place. The only safe place. Agnes’s eyes blurred.

  “I know this is upsetting, but I need you to think back. Do you remember anything from before you went to live with your aunts? Why you ended up with them? Why your sister didn’t?”

  You know.

  No. I don’t remember. Tears tracked down her cheeks.

  “Agnes?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. This is really important. I can’t find a trace of your sister or your grandfather. I need to find them. I think it’s your sister who’s doing all these terrible things.”

  Agnes waited, but the voice was silent. “Can I go home now?”

  CHAPTER 9

  JASON ROLLED UP THE WINDOWS OF THE VOLVO, punched a code for a stored number into his cell phone, and hit the speaker button before setting the phone on the passenger seat. A click followed the second ring—a world record.

  “Hey, give me a second. Okay?” Tapping filled the silence.

  Jason gripped the steering wheel, pretending it was his brother’s throat. “Donnie? What’s going on? You’re not bent, are you?”

  “Oh. It’s you. What do you want, little brother? I’m kind of busy right now. And I’m expecting a call.”

  “I have a job for you. I need some information on—”

  “Yes! I think I got it. Hold on.” More tapping.

  “Donnie? This is costing me.”

  Tapping.

  “Donnie.”

  “Okay. Okay. What’s so important?”

  “I have a job. You want it?”

  “What’re you paying?”

  “I’m already giving you two hundred a month. That comes with chores.”

  “Yeah, but I need more. You know. That doesn’t even cover rent.”

  “What the hell are you on? You sound like you’re half lit.”

  “Nothing, little brother. I swear. I’m just jazzed. I’m about to hack a hacker. Give him an eye-for-an-eye. Microsoft should give me a medal.”

  “Microsoft would probably give you a job. If you’d apply.”

  “You know I don’t do the eight-to-five. Besides, they probably do urine tests.”

  “Why don’t you turn the hacker over to the authorities?”

  “They wouldn’t do shit. Besides, he’s just a soldier. He’d get probation. I’ve got a jail sentence I’m about to insert onto his hard drive. It’ll tear his electronics a new one.”

  “So, how about the job?”

  “Yeah. No problem. But I need you to get off the phone. Call back in about an hour and leave the information on the machine.”

  “You’re not going to smoke any salad, are you?”

  “Don’t need to. I got a beep in to a young lady. She should call any minute. Don’t want to waste this natural high.”

  “Donnie, wear a rubber.”

  Dial tone.

  CHAPTER 10

  UNPLEASANT MEMORIES SURGED BACK WITH JASON’S first steps into the care home—bright; busy; the forced, homey feel of a Holiday Inn. Flowers everywhere reflected the unnatural colors of faded silk and plastic. He hated the sensations. A few years back, he had done a story on nursing home abuses, only to find that nineteen out of twenty were wholesome, healthy places with reasonable care and happy residents.

  But he’d come away from the investigation with a strange feeling about the institutions. In the better homes, including this one, all of the residents moved as if their lives were carefully choreographed and monitored. Even at the busiest times, they slid through the hallways with calm efficiency. Like zombies.

  He took a deep breath and entered the dining room. His timing was perfect. The cattle-like residents herded in for their evening meal, but once through the double door entry, they changed. One after another called out greetings across the room in a ritual that bordered on spontaneous. Jason chuckled. Maybe their outbursts signaled relief when their mental head counts confirmed their ranks hadn’t thinned in the last twenty-four hours.

  Supper seemed to be the highlight of the day, and the clamor and gaiety reminded him of a junior high lunchroom, minus the airborne food. He pulled back a chair and nodded at the white-haired woman seated in a wheelchair. Ella Hahn returned his smile.

  He hesitated, unsure why. He had expected erratic behavior or, at the least, a slight separation from reality. But the brightness in Ella’s eyes seemed to draw energy from the room. He sat, momentarily mesmerized.

  “Are you visiting today, dear?”

  “I came to see you,” he said.

  “That’s nice, dear. I’m going to have the chicken.”

  “The chicken sounds good.” He pretended to read the menu. “Actually, I came to talk about Agnes.”

  “Oh, is she visiting, too?”

  “No. She couldn’t make it today.”

  “That’s nice, dear. I think I’m going to have the chicken.”

  “You remember Agnes, your niece.”

  “Is she visiting today? It’s a nice day for a visit.”

  “Ella, Agnes needs your help. Can you remember anything about her?”

  “Who’s that, dear?”

  “Agnes. Your niece.”

  “Maybe she’d like the chicken. Is she visiting today?”

  “No, she couldn’t make it.” Jason knew about Alzheimer’s. Knew the symptoms and the prognosis. But this was his first conversation with an actual patient. Ella didn’t even recognize a woman she had raised from a little girl. It was a good thing Agnes wasn’t here.

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  Jason met the gaze of a gentleman across the table. He was decked in a gray pinstripe suit and bright red tie.

  “You won’t get much out of her, I’m afraid,” the man said. “We call her Re-run. I think you see why.” The gentleman reached his hand across the table. “Name’s Earl. Been here for almost a year.”

  “Do you know much about Ella or her family?”

  “No. She lives in the assisted-living wing. They let her eat supper with us. It really perks her up. My wife was the same way before she passed. I guess that’s why I sit with Ella, to keep her company.”

  “Is she ever lucid?”

  “I’m not the one to ask. You see that young lady over there in the purple tunic?” The man pointed with a crooked finger. “She’s the one who looks after Ella during supper, and takes her back to her room.”

  Jason rested his elbows on the table to get a better view. The woman looked young, maybe late twenties. Slim. She faced away, chatting and giggling with two of the dining room attendants.

  From the back, she looked good, but more. A name came to mind. Eugenia. The woman had the same hair, the same figure. And her left hand was propped on her hip, inverted, the tip of her ring finger slipped into her back pocket. Just like Eugenia used to do.

  He squinted, expecting to see a plain white-gold band and a three-quarter-carat teardrop diamond reflecting every bit of light in the room. But there was no ring.

  He turned to the natty gentleman. “Do you know her name?”

  “Who’s that, dear?” Ella’s voice was soothing, like the tranquilizing tones of a grandmother.

  “The woman in the purple top over there. Do you know her name?”

  “No. Is she
visiting?”

  Jason looked across the table and shrugged. He suppressed a chuckle, and covered his smile with his napkin. He pinched his own thigh as a punishment for the inappropriate response. “Yes. I think she came to see me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go talk to her.”

  “It was nice to see you, dear.”

  Jason patted Ella’s forearm as he stood. He nodded at the gentleman, who returned an exaggerated wink.

  “To be young,” the gentleman said to the tablecloth.

  Jason stopped short of the young lady’s shoulder. He felt the stir of past emotions, but his body refused to move. It wasn’t Eugenia, but the draw was just as strong. He wanted to see the woman’s face—needed to see it. But how would he react? Especially if she looked like her from the front. Conflicting feelings contributed to his paralysis. He wanted to know what happened to the ring. Not really. He already knew.

  He stood back as if she radiated white heat. To him, she represented an incendiary mixture of anonymous mystery and passionate familiarity. And he’d only seen her back side.

  Without moving closer, he reached out and tapped her shoulder with his finger. “Excuse me. I understand you take care of Ella Hahn.”

  She turned and grinned.

  She wasn’t Eugenia in a physical sense, but something in her smile, the way she tilted her head, reminded him of the good days. His smile was automatic.

  “Who wants to know?” Her tone seemed more flirtatious than inquisitive.

  He inched closer. “I work for the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. I’m covering the Agnes Hahn case.”

  Her eyebrows arched high. “I heard they caught her. I’d like to shake her hand. My old boyfriend did a number on me and I’d like to do to him what she’s been doing.”

  A little closer. “The woman in jail is Ella’s niece, and she may not be the murderer. I need to talk to you about Ella.”

  The woman scanned downward to his shoes, then back up to his face. She put her hand on his elbow. “I have to go get her now. I get off at ten. Meet me out front?” She brushed against him as she passed, slowly sliding her hand off of his arm.

  He turned and watched her exaggerated hip-sway. “Your name?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Ten o’clock. Out front.”

  Two evening hours were tough to kill in Mendocino, so Jason headed for his motel. He drove five miles under the speed limit, signaling for every lane change, veer, and twist. A yellow light meant stop here, and it gave him time to dial his cell phone—the number Mulvaney had given him.

  “Officer Wilson here.” The voice sounded distant. A cell phone?

  “Hi. Jason Powers. Do you know if Agnes Hahn is going to be released anytime soon?”

  “Detective Bransome is looking for you. Where are you?”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll try to stay out of his way for the next couple of days. Is she going to be released?”

  “Yeah. It’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow, around one, I think.”

  “Why not tomorrow? You can’t hold her that long, can you?”

  “Bransome said the paperwork couldn’t be processed until then.”

  Jason checked his speed. “And her lawyer bought that?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Never mind. You think she’ll be released around one in the afternoon, or you know it will be at one?”

  He heard papers shuffling. “It’ll be at one.”

  “Good. I’d like to pick her up and drive her home. Do you think that’d be all right?”

  Laughter. “You think Bransome would agree to that?”

  “Can’t you keep him busy with something around there? I’m working with you guys on this one, not against you.”

  More laughter. “Yeah. Right. The best I can do for you is pretend this conversation never happened. You’re on your own with Bransome.”

  Jason mouthed a curse. “I really appreciate that. Don’t tell him I’m coming. Okay?”

  More laughter.

  He folded the phone and threw it on the seat. His foot hit the accelerator hard, but he pulled it back, checking his mirrors. Bransome really knew how to hold a grudge. Maybe what had happened two years ago wasn’t for the better, but it had been the right thing to do. Jason pounded the steering wheel with his fist. No matter how many times he repeated his justification, it didn’t give him peace. Two years ago wasn’t personal. But he knew Bransome wouldn’t see it any other way.

  Jason shook his head. To him, Bransome was an enigma. A previous background check had revealed that the detective hadn’t served in Vietnam. He’d somehow managed a 2-S student deferment for six consecutive years of higher education, first at Santa Rosa Community College, then at Chico State, where he graduated with a degree in sociology.

  Jason had found a picture of Bransome when he was in the debate club at Chico. It still bothered him. Bransome’s hair was curly, kinky—the kind that yanked teeth from a comb in a single pass. In its current state the gray fringe that encircled his naked crown looked like steel wool. But that kind of hair was a source of envy in the late sixties when the Afro was in style. The bigger, the better. Yet, in the photograph, Bransome’s full head of hair was trimmed short, nearly military, and his sideburns barely dipped below the bottoms of his ears. All other males in the photo had full beards or triangular muttonchop sideburns that teased the corners of their mouths. And Bransome was the only person, male or female, whose pant legs ran straight to the cuffs. The others had pants that ballooned below the knee into floppy bell-bottoms.

  Jason grinned. Bransome had been a walking anachronism. A chuckle. Still was.

  The August night carried a chill as tendrils of fog oozed around the corners and tops of the care home buildings, giving the yellow sodium vapor lights an eerie glow. It was ten minutes past ten and there was no sign of her. Jason leaned against his driver’s-side door and pushed the lumi-glow button on his watch. He’d give her two more minutes. He crossed his arms against the cool mist.

  A security guard appeared inside one of the side doors of the entryway and the loud click of a dead bolt echoed in the night. The main, automatic motion-sensor doors must have been locked sometime before ten. The guard pushed the door open, and the familiar purple tunic bounced through the door and onto the covered entryway.

  The woman stopped and scanned the parking lot. She turned in Jason’s direction, motioned for him to follow, and bounced away into the adjacent parking area. Jason stood next to his car and waited.

  She slid a key into the door of a Saturn four-door sedan, then turned in his direction and motioned to him again.

  He nodded and climbed behind the wheel of the Volvo.

  Jason felt the tickle of perspiration along his hairline. She drove nearly fifteen miles over the speed limit, zigzagging through what little traffic was out at the hour. He squinted through the fog, trying his best to follow her darting taillights.

  At a poorly marked intersection, she veered off the main road onto a street that seemed to disappear into the darkness and fog. Her red taillights barely defined the limits of the asphalt—streetlights and sidewalks didn’t exist. His gut sent a loud signal. This might not be a good idea.

  His foot twitched on the gas pedal and the slight lurch of the car seemed to second his indecision. A dim light appeared ahead. Her brake lights blared, then sputtered, and the red streaks shot to the right, toward a bank of overhead lights. A pair of long, two-story buildings appeared through the glowing fog, and her car slid to a stop between them. Before he could complete his turn into the lot, she was out of her car, heading to the building on the left.

  His wheels barely stopped before she turned a key in the door of the second-in, ground-floor apartment. She paused and faced him, then disappeared into the building. Bright light flooded the open doorway.

  Hesitation. Something seemed wrong. But the apartment was dark before she entered. At this hour, that meant she probably lived alone. His feet hit the parkin
g lot before the next wave of caution hit. He shuffled toward the light as he tried to calm his internal objection. Ella. This was about Ella.

  A tap on the door brought no response so he leaned in. “Hello?”

  Movement to the left caught his attention, along with the sound of a refrigerator door closing. He stepped into the apartment in time to see her approach, a can of beer pushed in his direction with a stiff arm. He kicked the door closed and accepted the beer.

  He preferred to drink from glass, not aluminum. A bottle was fine with him, but never a can. He scanned the apartment. The kitchen counter was littered with dirty glasses and dishes. A pile of rumpled clothing covered a chair and part of the couch in the living room. In his quick scan, he noticed three large stains on the beige carpet. Better to make an exception in this case.

  She placed a hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth and thumbed a lighter. The scent of the first few puffs told him it wasn’t tobacco. She took a deep draw and held her breath at the same time she took the joint from her mouth and held it out to him. “'Ere,” she grunted.

  He raised his hand in a stop motion and shook his head. “I want to talk to you about Ella Hahn.”

  The woman blew out the lungful of smoke and raised her beer can to her lips. Three noisy swallows and she pulled the can away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She took another long drag on the joint and stepped toward him, smiling.

  She exhaled and motioned to the hall, but he didn’t move.

  “Do you know if Ella ever comes out of her trance? Does she ever make sense?”

  “Information will cost you.” She wriggled into his comfort space.

  She reeked of weed. “I think you’ve been watching too many movies.”

  Her laugh echoed in the sparsely furnished apartment. “I have some of those. You can be the pizza man and I’ll be the woman who doesn’t have any money.” She pulled him into her arms and leaned forward for a kiss.

  He hesitated, then folded his arms around her, lightly. He leaned away from her mouth. “What about Ella?”