Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (27 page)

“It’s Connie. They were in love. Ahern couldn’t
take Hagerty humiliating her.”

“I don’t think so. I believe Connie all the way.
The way she took off her shirt in front of us. She wasn’t screwing Ahern.”

“Well, we’ll see. This is exciting, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “Until we figure out why
he did it. Then it’ll probably just be real depressing.”

We tried to think of something to do, but neither
of us could face starting the pile of forms we would have to fill out just for
the trip to Milwaukee.

An hour later, an aide rushed up and handed me two
envelopes. I tossed one to Ryan.

“It’s a blank for Atlanta,” Ryan said after a
minute. “There’s nobody from there with credit cards that match our guy.”

“Here he is,” I said. Jonathan Ahern, with the
right Social Security. Okay, buddy, where’d you go?” I said, scanning the
printout. “He flew to San Diego yesterday. He rented a car. No listing for a
hotel yet. You know what I want to do, Ryan? You stay here, track him for me.
I’m gonna go down to San Diego and pick him up.”

Chapter 10

I made the flight
reservations, drove home and packed a small bag, and made it to the airport. I
got the full workup in security: the belt, the shoes, the wand, and the frisk.
I figured it was because my black eye was now a ghoulish neon green, and my left
wrist was still in a brace. The first leg, to Denver, looked like it was going
to be only half full. That was a relief. I wasn’t looking forward to having to
sit next to anyone, and I didn’t need a screaming baby nearby.

I sat down at the gate next to the one where my
plane would board. I was close enough to see and hear what was going on but far
enough away to be alone. A mom, her little girl, and a uniformed woman from
Southwest walked up to the gate for the Denver flight. The little girl had a
pink plastic suitcase on wheels. I couldn’t hear them, but I could follow the
narrative.

The mom knelt down in front of the little girl,
talking to her. The mom’s hands were busy, straightening and rearranging the
girl’s blouse, making sure she had a tissue in her jeans pocket, checking that
the shoelaces were knotted securely. The mom would be telling the little girl
everything would be all right, mostly to reassure herself.

Then the airline woman leaned down to get closer
to the girl’s height, and the mom reached out and took the airline woman’s
hands. This would be the mom handing over physical custody of her daughter to
the airline woman. Mom would be showing the little girl that this was her
temporary mom, you can trust her, honey. I could tell the mom hated this part
and was getting really scared, wondering if the airline woman was indeed
trustworthy, whether her daughter would survive the flight, whether she would
ever see her again.

The mom hugged the daughter once, twice, kissed
her several times on the cheek, on the top of her head, and, with her hand to
her mouth, stood up. The airline woman took the little girl’s hand and reached
out to the mom. This would be where the airline woman became the adult,
reassuring the mom, who was starting to come undone.

Taking the little girl by the hand, the airline
woman walked over to the counter and began talking with the attendant. The mom
stood still in her tracks, her hands fidgeting, then waving to the little girl,
who was talking to the attendant, not even looking in the mom’s direction. The
airline woman escorted the little girl through the door and into the unknown.
The mom didn’t leave. It was too soon. She stood there.

I wondered why the girl was going on the flight
alone. It was probably just a shared custody visit. But maybe it had been
something worse, somebody sick or dead. How many times does a mother have to
worry about her child? Is it measured in hundreds or thousands? How often must
a mother picture her child afraid, crying, hurt, dead? Even if the child has
been fine every time, will a mother ever believe, really believe, that the
child will be okay this time?

Even if the mom has strapped the child into the
car seat a thousand times to run some errands in the car, will the mother ever
stop worrying that something—a length of drainage pipe fastened to the bed of
the semi, a boulder dropped from the overpass by a teenage moron, a drunk who’s
run out of liquor—will break through the glass and steel that protects her baby
and stop time?

I was relieved when the fuzzy metallic voice of
the woman at the counter announced boarding. Running around, working the case
was the only thing kept me from thinking myself into a deeper and deeper pit. I
got on the line to go though the gate, down the stairs, out onto the tarmac,
and over to the plane. I grabbed a seat in an empty row, closed my eyes, and
tried to tune out the flight attendant’s always-helpful refresher on how to operate
a seatbelt.

Would it be so bad if, just once in a while, they
let her explain something slightly more interesting, such as why the oxygen bag
doesn’t inflate even though oxygen is flowing?

Landing in San Diego, I flipped open my phone and
called Ryan as I walked to the car rental booths. “Hey, what’ve you got?”

“Not much,” he said. “Endriss went to Budget when
he landed. He rented a Ford Focus, dark grey. I got the plate number to the San
Diego PD; they’ve put it out already.”

“Okay, good. You got a hotel or anything?”

“Nothing. Either he’s using cash or he’s staying
someplace. I got in touch with Allen Pfeiffer. When our guy was Warren Endriss,
he was married to Patricia. I don’t have a maiden name.”

“Okay, why don’t you head home? I’m gonna get a
room at a Sheraton here at the airport. I’ll check in with you tomorrow
morning.”

“All right, Karen. Later.”

I got a rental car and a local map and made my way
to the Sheraton. Checking in, I was glad to see that the bar in the lobby was
still open. I got my room, threw my bag on the bed, and went downstairs. At
1:15, the bartender told me he needed to close up. He offered to make me
another JD to take up to my room, but I had already had three, which was enough
since I was cutting back.

*  *  *

I phoned Ryan first thing
the next morning.

“Bad news, Karen. He cleaned out his account.”

“How much?”

“He took out thirty-four hundred. There’s twelve
bucks in the account.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t plan on leaving us any
more of a trail.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “but why didn’t he clean out
the account while he was here in Rawlings. That’d make it harder for us to
figure out where he went.”

“True, but maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, or he
figured we could track his flight and his rental car easily enough.”

“Okay, so he’s in San Diego and he has to figure
we’ll catch up with him sooner or later.”

“Way I read it,” I said, “whatever he’s gonna do,
he thinks he can do it before we catch him. And after that, he doesn’t care.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Let’s start with trying to
figure out where he’s staying. I’m gonna go to SDPD headquarters, see if they
can help.”

“Okay, stay in touch,” Ryan said.

I took a quick shower, made a pot of coffee in the
room, and headed out. I walked over to my car. It was forty eight degrees at
8:30. I was carrying my winter coat. I hadn’t even realized it would be like
May in Rawlings. I tossed the winter coat in the back seat of the rental and
headed out to I5, which was, as I had read, always slow. It took forty minutes
to drive the seven miles downtown to 1401 Broadway.

Police headquarters was a six-story mass of glass
and concrete, a good ten times the size of the building occupied by Rawlings
Police Department. Inside the large atrium, I explained my situation to the
receptionist and was told to see a Lieutenant Davenport on the third floor. On
three, I asked an aide and was directed to Davenport’s office.

Davenport was a large black man wearing a
three-piece suit and a placid expression. He listened to my problem.

“If I understand where you are, Detective, your
trail is about eight years old. There was a man named Warren Endriss, wife
Patricia, lived on 7922 Southgate. That right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he grabbed the identity of
Jonathan Ahern while he was still in San Diego, or whether he left and went to
Atlanta and started using that name. So I’m hoping you can get me an address on
Patricia, if she’s still in town.”

Davenport said, “Let me see if I’ve got anything
on Warren Endriss or Patricia Endriss in our system.” He typed, hit Enter, and
waited while his system churned. “Warren got a speeding ticket in 1994. That’s
it. There’s nothing on Patricia. All I’ve got is that address on Southgate. You
want to go over there and take a look? If Patricia isn’t there, maybe the new
people know where she headed.”

“Yeah, let me try that. Do you have a driving
map?”

“Sure,” Davenport said, taking out a map,
unfolding it, and directing me to Southgate.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, getting up and
heading out of the big building. The sun was breaking free of the downtown
buildings, and I guessed the temperature was in the mid fifties. The streets
were full of traffic now, delivery trucks fighting it out with private cars and
bike messengers snaking their way through the melee. I headed south, getting
farther and farther from the noise, dirt, and crowding of the city. I was now
in the residential section, with lush green lawns, stucco houses with two and
three-car garages, and orange tile roofs. Some kind of palm trees, like in the
movies.

I pulled into Southgate, a tidy, orderly street,
with pastel houses centered neatly on their quarter-acre parcels. There was no
on-street parking allowed. A little island near the end of the cul-de-sac had a
tall palm tree, a park bench, and a two-car slot for guest parking. I found
7922 and pulled up to the curb.

Out of the car, walking up the brick path to the
house, I noticed a portable basketball pole and hoop in the driveway. The hoop
was set low—it looked like six feet. The kid here would be ten or twelve. As I
climbed the three steps to the door and pressed the doorbell, the annoying
whine of an edger somewhere off in the distance drifted in on the soft breeze.

A few seconds later, a thirty-something woman
answered the door. She was wearing a pink sweatsuit, her blond hair tied back
in a ponytail. I took out my badge.

A look of fear came over the woman’s face. “Oh, my
God. What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened, ma’am. My name is Karen
Seagate. I’m a detective from Montana. Could you tell me your name, please,
ma’am?”

“Ellen Winston.”

“Ms. Winston, how long have you lived in this
house?”

“A little over three years,” she said, still
anticipating bad news.

“Do you remember the names of the people you
bought the house from?”

“I think it was Patel. He was a professor at San
Diego State.”

“He was Indian?”

“I’m not sure. That or Pakistani.”

“So you wouldn’t know the people who owned the
house before the Patels, a family named Endriss?”

“No. Never heard of them.”

“Do you know if any of your neighbors have been
here maybe ten years or more?”

“Try the Harbisons, in the yellow house over
there.” She pointed across the street. “They’re retired. I think they’ve been
here a long time.”

“Okay, thanks a lot, Ms. Winston. Sorry I scared
you.”

“It’s not your fault. Just that I’ve never had a
real police officer come to my door.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, “but we’re not
always bringing bad news.” I walked across the street and up to the Harbison
house. I knocked. There was no reply. I looked through the frosted-glass panels
on either side of the door. Nothing moving. I was walking down the path when
the door opened.

“Hello?” the elderly lady’s voice called.

I came running back. “Ma’am, are you Ms.
Harbison?” The lady was wearing faded jeans and a baggy blouse. She had an
attractive face and close-cut grey hair.

“Yes, I am, dear. Who are you?”

“My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a detective from
Montana.”

“From Montana?” she said, a sparkle in her eyes.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but you took a wrong turn.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I am pretty far from home. Can I
talk to you a minute?”

“Sure, I’m always happy to talk. Have a seat,” she
said, pointing to the front stoop. She grabbed the handrail and lowered herself
to the stoop. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Well, I’m trying to track down a man named Warren
Endriss. Your neighbor, Ms. Winston, told me she thinks you might remember
them, in that blue house, 7922.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember them. What was that, four
or five years ago they left?”

“I think it was closer to eight or nine, Ms.
Harbison.”

“Isn’t that funny, the way that happens?”

“It sure is. Can you tell me what you remember
about them?”

“They were a nice family. His name was Warren. She
was Patty. And they had a little girl. I think I was Alison. No, I remember, it
was Amber, because one day—she was only three or four—I explained to her what
her name meant.”

“Do you know why they left this neighborhood?”

“It was very sad. I don’t know exactly what
happened, but the couple split up. Warren left, and soon after Patty and Amber
left, too.”

“Do you know where Patty and Amber went? Was it
someplace here in the area or far away?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it was here in town
somewhere. It was tough for Patty and Amber, I remember that. She was such a
brave little girl.”

“You mean about the divorce?”

“No, the disease. She had diabetes. She had to
take those shots, five times a day, I think it was. You could see it in her
parents’ faces. It was like torture for them.”

And at that moment I knew why Warren Endriss killed
Arlen Hagerty.

*  *  *

I got back in the car. The
sun was climbing in the east, shining straight into my eyes. The car was
already warm. I turned the ignition halfway so I could lower the windows. I got
my cell out and hit the speed dial for Ryan.

“Hey, Karen.”

“Ryan, I need you locate Endriss’ ex-wife,
Patricia. They got married in the early nineties, either in the Sacramento area
or San Diego. Get her maiden name off of that. Then check for an address in the
San Diego area. There’s a Lieutenant Davenport at SDPD who’s human. See if he
can run it down. If you don’t get a hit, see if she’s remarried, using her
maiden name on the marriage certificate.

“Anything else?” Ryan said.

“Yeah, do it fast, Ryan, then call me back
immediately, okay?”

“I’m on it,” he said and hung up.

I sat in the car, letting the sun warm my face,
trying hard not to think about the case. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Had
Endriss been acting the whole time, going out to drink with Hagerty like they
were friends, laughing with him, standing there patiently during the debates
when Hagerty gave his slippery-slope arguments? Maybe Endriss was the one
slipping down the slope, trying as hard as he could to understand what Hagerty
was saying. And maybe Endriss succeeded, at least some of the time. Until that
last night, at least, when he got the call.