Without disturbing anything, I went back down the dust-heavy stairs and stopped halfway down. Bucky Mohler had been here. Where were his footprints? Curious.
At the bottom landing another flight of stairs led into the cellar. These weren’t fancy like the ones above. They were constructed of heavy planking, wider than usual, bulked up with massive timbering. They didn’t even squeak when I went down them. A pair of rats scurried across my path, running from the thin light of my flash. Then I moved the beam across the area.
Except for where I was standing, the entire house was resting on solid earth. There was a coal furnace and electrical boxes next to me, some tools propped against the flatly carved dirt walls. The contractors had most likely laid down the foundation blocks that ran around the house, then just built the rest of the structure up from the dirt. Damn. What kind of building codes did they have then?
Another couple of rats skittered away in the floor debris and I aimed the light down on them. Two pairs of red eyes looked back at me for a couple of seconds, then they broke and ran. I saw in the floor mess what might have been footprints, but nothing I could be certain of.
Something was all out of kilter here. I couldn’t tell what it was, but there were ways to find out. When I turned and went back to the stairs, I looked at the shovel and old pickax that leaned against the wall. The pickax was pretty old and the shovel hadn’t been used much.
Things had taken a strange turn since I’d been here. It wasn’t like the old days when all the crazy details could be laid out before a team of experienced pros and the answers would come back in no time. This business of being retired from the department wasn’t all that hot. I still had irons in the fire, and one of them was taking me back to Sunset Lodge.
Davy Ross took me to LaGuardia Airport, and when I got off in Florida, Darris Kinder was waiting for me with the throaty roar of his hopped-up Sunset Lodge police vehicle telling me where he was. “Miss Brice informed me when you were getting in.”
“Like coming home again.”
“Good trip?” It was a subtle question that only a couple of cops would recognize. He knew damn well something was happening and wanted to know if the waters were calm.
“Very good trip, Darris, but it’s not the last.”
The answer was enough. He understood what I meant.
And Bettie was waiting on her porch, the dome light behind her showing through her lightweight sundress so she almost looked naked. I heard Tacos make that happy growl of his and dashed out of the car and up the steps to grab my beautiful doll in my hands. I squeezed her waist the smallest fraction before she melted against my chest and her mouth was reaching for mine. It was wonderful wetness that I never wanted to end.
Then Tacos whined and pawed at my leg and Darris came up and laid my small bag down beside me and said, “Glad to have you back with us, Jack.”
“Thanks for the ride, pal.”
“Any time. Everything okay in New York?”
“Crazy, but it’ll get straightened out.” I paused for a little bit and added, “How about here?”
“Under control right now, but something’s in the air. You know what I mean? That full moon feeling?”
“I sure do, Darris.” I watched his face and he caught the tone of my voice. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
He got back in his car, waved me an okay and drove off.
I sat in a rocker beside Bettie and put my hand on hers. The dog saw me and his tail did that floor-banging bit again. I said, “Honey,” but got no further.
Bettie said, “I like that word.”
So I said it again. “Honey... do you have any... souvenirs from when you worked at Credentials?”
“I’m not sure. Dr. Brice made sure I had a few personal things like that, thinking they might help me some.”
“Did they?”
“Not really. I was blind. I couldn’t see them.”
“Are they here?”
She took her hand out from under mine and stood up. “I’ll get them.”
Most of her trinkets were what girls would keep in their desks. I wondered how old Dr. Brice had gotten his hands on them. Several were cards with holiday greetings lavishly splashed across them. Two were office photos and one showed the back of an unidentified man talking to her old boss. His face was turned away from the lens; he was a big guy, but beyond that there was no way to identify him. The next picture showed Burnwald with a smaller, younger man dressed in casual clothes and though it only showed part of his face I could tell it was the same young tech in the Credentials pamphlet with the 20th anniversary photo. The man in the picture looked familiar somehow.
I looked at the picture a long minute and Bettie asked, “What’s the matter?”
When I described the photograph, she frowned and said, “They must have come out of the collection Florence had. She owned an old Nikon camera and was always snapping shots of anything.”
Maybe old Doc Brice had tracked Florence down and, without tipping Bettie was still among the living, somehow snagged some items that he hoped might help jog Bettie’s memory. Now, finally, those odds and ends were doing that very thing. And maybe it was time to bring Florence back into the game.
“Think I could find her?”
Bettie raised her eyebrows at the request and said, “It’s been a long time, Jack. But I do... I do remember she lived in her family house taking care of her parents. After all these years I’d assume the parents must have died and she’d own the house now. Is that helpful?”
“Maybe. Where was the house?”
“In Brooklyn. Near the Parade Grounds.”
“What street?”
“I think it was...” She flipped through mental files, then smiled as she remembered. “Beverley Road! I think it was Beverley Road.”
“Remember the number?”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“You know... Dr. Brice told me one of the things he was able to turn up was my old address book. It might be in there...”
She got up again and rummaged through her desk drawer and brought out a small leather-bound pad and handed it to me. I found Florence Teal’s name, address and phone number and transcribed them into my own notes.
I wasn’t going to go back to New York for this information, so I picked up Bettie’s phone and dialed the number.
And it was still active.
I asked, “Florence Teal?” when the lady answered and she said, “It’s Florence Randall now. Who is this?”
“My name is Jack Stang, ma’am.” It was a big secret to share with Bettie’s old friend. But Bettie trusted her, and I would have to. “I’m here with someone you used to work with at Credentials — Bettie Marlow.”
“That can’t be,” she told me abruptly. “Bettie has been dead a very long time.”
“Presumed dead, Mrs. Randall. How would you like to speak to her?”
“First, who are you?” Her tone was very sharp, though an element of hope was in there, too.
“I am a retired New York City police officer, ma’am. If you want I can give you my badge number and you can call the city police and verify my identity.”
The whole episode must have been a little too heavy for her and she said in an odd tone, “Put Bettie on.”
I handed the phone to Bettie.
She said, “Florence, this is me, Bettie. It really is me.”
And that was all she had to say.
Her friend recognized her voice at once and I could hear her squeal and watched Bettie laugh with pleasure and for five full minutes they exchanged innocuous information... and one not so innocuous exchange, Bettie making her old friend swear to keep this contact absolutely confidential.