Body Language (22 page)

A woman at the desk saw me enter and offered to take my coat, draping it over an extra chair. I asked about Parker, and she told me he was at work in the stacks, pointing the way. Making my way through a narrow aisle of metal bookshelves, which housed not books but folders filled with photos and clippings, I emerged into a clearing where Parker sat working at a round library table. He looked up from the heaps of material he’d pulled from the shelves. “Oh, hi, Mark,” he said, rising, checking his watch as though he’d lost all track of time.

“You need to come up for air now and then,” I told him. He laughed, sitting again, and I joined him at the table.

“Did you manage to drag Thad to lunch?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I did, and it was productive. He, Joey, and I decided that Saint Cecille’s will bury Suzanne—so that’s
one
issue resolved.”

Parker nodded. “Yeah, but what about the
tone
of it? Did Thad behave?”

“He was fine. This may be premature, but I think his hostility toward me is actually beginning to wane. It didn’t hurt that I offered to lend him my car.”

“Hey”—Parker laughed—“whatever it takes.”

“In fact,” I continued, “if there was any difficult behavior, it came not from Thad, but from Joey. He worked himself into a little snit at one point and made quite a scene. I think the hostess was ready to dial nine-one-one.”

“Oh, no. Really?” Parker shook his head in amused disbelief. “Not one of his threats about turning blue?”

“Exactly. But Thad snapped him out of it, and we had a nice lunch. Then, during dessert, who should arrive but Elliot Coop?” I leaned toward Parker, elbows on the table, knowing the next bit of information would be of great interest to him. “Guess what. Suzanne had been collecting personal files, dossiers compiled by private investigators around the country. They were left with Elliot for safekeeping, and he asked if I’d like to have them.”

“
Well?
” said Parker, rising an inch or so from his seat. “Where
are
they?”

“They’re still in Elliot’s car,” I answered calmly. “I didn’t want to appear too anxious. He’s going to drop them off at the house.”

Parker literally rubbed his hands together, hungry to get at them.

“It’s intriguing, to say the least,” I said, “but I can’t imagine what’s in them.”

Without hesitation, Parker said, “
I’ve
got a theory. And it fits what I’ve been finding here. Look”—he slid a pile of folders across the table toward me, opening the one on top—“I’ve begun to reconstruct Suzanne’s morgue research, and it seems to have focused on two areas. First, her older brother, Mark Quatrain.”

I glanced through the folders he had given me, and, sure enough, they contained newspaper accounts of my older cousin’s high school and college achievements, his victories as a swimmer and a runner, his being sent to Vietnam, his death there. Conspicuously, there was nothing mentioning his rape and murder of the Asian girl. The photos were old, stiff, and unnatural. Anyone could see that he was handsome, but he had the look of being frozen in time, in an earlier generation, without those vital sparks that had let him live in my imagination for so many years. Missing were the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand in my hair, the way he moved—his body language.

“Second,” said Parker, sliding another pile of folders toward me, “her research also focused on the period three years ago when her father died.”

The second group of clippings reported Edwin Quatrain’s death with page-one headlines, accompanied by various retrospectives of his work at Quatro Press, founding it with a long-gone partner and nurturing it into the county’s biggest industry. There were less flashy stories, consigned to the paper’s business pages, detailing the probate investigation of his estate, which was ultimately resolved, without incident, naming Suzanne Quatrain as his principal heir. The photos of my uncle were far more recent than my memories of him, and it surprised me to see him in his seventies. His image, like his son’s, was now frozen in time, though this wizened Uncle Edwin seemed to peer at me not from a past generation, but from an age I had not yet known.

The photos of both my cousin and my uncle stirred emotions that sapped my reasoning, and I found myself unable to analyze the hard facts within the files. “I’m sorry,” I told Parker, “but I don’t know what to make of all this.”

Parker scooted his chair closer to mine, as if he needed to speak confidentially. Leaning nearer, he touched his shoulder to mine. With lowered voice, he said, “I have a theory, and it may sound farfetched, but hear me out. Before she was murdered, Suzanne went to a lot of effort to review, first, details of her brother’s death and, second, details of the probate investigation when her father died. Maybe she had reason to see some correlation between those two events.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “That’s not at all farfetched, but I can’t imagine what that correlation could be—can you?”

“
Yes,
” he said forcefully, but his voice was now barely above a whisper. “Mark Quatrain may still be alive.”

The words caught me totally off guard, and I felt my jaw muscles slacken. Reacting to my dumbfounded expression, Parker amplified, “More to the point, I think that
Suzanne
may have thought that her older brother could still be alive.”

“
Parker
,” I said at full voice, pulling back from him as if to clear my head and force us back to reality, “what on
earth
leads you to such a conclusion?”

“Hear me out,” he repeated, fixing me with his stare, luring me close again. “Consider: Barret Logan told us a few nights ago that Mark Quatrain’s body was so badly mutilated in the ambush, his remains were identified on the basis of his dog tag. Some thirty years later, Edwin Quatrain died, leaving an enormous estate to be settled by a haggling crew of probate lawyers. I suspect that the lawyers, leaving no stone unturned, reviewed the circumstances of Mark Quatrain’s death in Vietnam and concluded that someone with a motive could have switched identities with a dead man on the battlefield.”

Listening, I realized that Parker’s theory was not so farfetched. It made sense. I recalled, “At the time of the ambush, Mark Quatrain was awaiting a military trial on charges of rape and murder. That would make him plenty motivated to change identities and start a new life—if he actually survived the attack and if circumstances permitted him to make the switch.”

Parker reminded me, “Suzanne said, within minutes of first meeting me in your front hall, that she was involved in a big research project, that it related to DNA. And, in fact, I’ve traced numerous books and articles on that very topic, which she checked out from the
Register’s
morgue.”

“And DNA,” I picked up his reasoning, “is used, forensically, to identify people. It fits. She may have been searching for her brother, who was presumed but not proven dead. She may also have employed private investigators in hopes of locating him, which would explain the existence of Elliot Coop’s dossiers.”

“Exactly,” said Parker. He leaned back in his chair. “I doubt, however, that I need to point out to you that this theory, while compelling, still lacks something.”

“Exactly,” I echoed him, standing. “The ‘why.’ Why would Suzanne expend so much time, effort, and money researching the mere
possibility
that her brother was still alive? After all, her father’s estate was settled—uncontested—and she was the principal beneficiary. Did she simply want to make sure that there would be no future claims against her?”

“A possible obsession, but not likely,” said Parker, standing. “Or, was she just hell-bent on avenging her brother’s murder of some unknown Asian girl, a total stranger?”

“Another possible obsession,” I admitted, “but again, not likely.”

“We’ve got some thinking to do.”

“I’ll say.” I couldn’t help laughing at the puzzle we’d created for ourselves. I stepped to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work, Parker. You’ve taken this further than I thought you could—and you’re not even on the payroll yet.”

“Soon enough,” he assured me, “but first things first. If we don’t clear you of suspicion with the DA, I could be out of a job before it starts.”

He was right. I had not yet gotten used to the idea that a lot of people would soon depend on me for their livelihood—all the more reason to resolve Suzanne’s murder quickly, to clear my name before any rumors could hurt the
Register
or its staff. I mused aloud, “I should have listened to Glee Savage that first morning she came to visit me.”

“Oh?” said Parker, unsure of what I meant.

“She said that she sniffed a story here all along. What’s more, she felt that it was all tied to Suzanne’s recent research. If your ‘brother from the grave’ theory pans out, Glee’s going to have one hell of a story on her hands. She asked for the assignment, and I gave it to her.”

“You assigned it to Glee? I mean, she’s features—soft news.”

“Have you read her stuff? She’s one hell of a writer. Just as important, she has a real passion for this story. In fact, this probably wouldn’t even
be
a story if it weren’t for her persistence in pursuing it. She deserves the assignment.”

“Fine,” said Parker, busying himself with the files on the table. “I didn’t mean to question you. It struck me as an odd decision at first, but if nothing else, Glee should bring a unique slant to the story.” His words were agreeable enough, but his manner in handling the files seemed uncharacteristically slipshod, and I could not help wondering if he resented my assigning the story without consulting him. As managing editor of the
Register
, he could expect to be routinely responsible for such decisions, but as publisher, of course, I could take an active role in any matters that interested me—and this story interested me greatly.

As I mulled over whether this incident signaled potential trouble in my future working relationship with Parker, the morgue librarian emerged from the stacks to tell me, “You have a call, Mr. Manning. The switchboard sent it to my desk.”

I thanked the woman, excused myself from Parker, and returned to the front of the reference room to answer the phone. “Good afternoon. Mark Manning.”

“Hello, Mark! It’s Roxanne. Hard at work up there?”

“Yes, actually.” I laughed. “Did Neil talk to you about this weekend?”

“He called this morning, right after you called him; then I had to reach Carl. Another winter holiday in the north woods sounds fabulous, Mark—we’d
love
to come. But there’s one small hitch. Carl has an important meeting here in the city, so we won’t be able to drive up with Neil tomorrow for New Year’s Eve. But we could leave first thing Saturday, New Year’s Day, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” I told her, delighted to hear it. “You won’t miss much on Friday—we’re planning a small party at the house. As for the rest of the weekend, I promise it will be quiet and uneventful—at least compared to Christmas.”

“Neil tells me that Suzanne’s funeral will be held on Monday. Carl and I are planning to attend. Then we’ll drive back to Chicago. Unless”—she hesitated—“unless I’m still needed up there. If that’s the case, Carl can ride back with Neil, and I’ll stay on with the car.”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you, Roxanne.” As I was speaking, Parker appeared from the rear of the morgue with his jacket—he was overdue for lunch. Hearing me mention Roxanne’s name, he looked at me as if to ask, Are they coming? I gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture.

“Oh,” said Roxanne, thinking of something, “how’s the weather up there?”

“No more snow. The roads should be dry.” But I knew she wasn’t concerned about the drive—she was planning her wardrobe. I added, “Clear skies mean cold temperatures, and, come January, it’s time for the deep freeze. So be prepared.”

“Gotcha.” She sounded preoccupied. I’d swear she was ticking items off a checklist that included multiple furs, muffs, and boots. “We should arrive Saturday at noon or so. See you then, Mark.” We said good-bye and hung up.

I turned to Parker. “They can’t make it till Saturday, but Roxanne is willing to stay on if I need her. Thanks for suggesting that I invite them, Parker.”

“My pleasure.” He zipped his jacket and was about to say something else when Glee Savage interrupted, poking her head through the door from the hall.

She told me, “Mr. Logan wants you in his office, Mark. It sounded important.”

“Parker”—I wagged a finger—“whatever it is, I want you in on it.”

Glee whimpered like an abandoned puppy. I said, “You, too, Glee. Come on.”

I led Parker out of the reference room, and Glee joined the parade, the three of us striding through the corridor to the publisher’s office. His secretary waved us in, and we joined Logan at his desk. “What’s up, Barret?” I noticed that the newsroom staff had seen us pile into the glass-walled office, and some of them started drifting near, discretion outweighed by curiosity.

“We just got word over the city newswire,” said Logan, “that the coroner has filed his report.” He handed me the text.

I skimmed it for pertinent details, then told the others, “The murder weapon has not yet been identified, but the coroner has concluded that the blunt instrument that killed Suzanne was something like a baseball bat. His report says, ‘There were microscopic traces of both varnish and white-ash hardwood in the victim’s fatal wound. However, a pattern of indentations in the wound was found inconsistent with the smooth design of a baseball bat.’”

As I finished reading, my brows reflexively wrinkled. There was something, I knew… but the thought wouldn’t click.

Friday was a busy day at the house. Neil had gotten an early start on his drive from Chicago, arriving well before noon. I hadn’t expected him yet, so I was surprised to see him pull into the driveway as I sat at the desk in my den, studying still more documents related to the
Register
buyout. I rushed through the hall to the back door without a coat and met him on the porch as he carried things to the house from the car.

“What time did you leave?” I asked, planting a big kiss on his mouth.