"Nothing, Jackie, old boy," Connie replied, winking at Marlene. "Just a little girl talk."
Heading west from the airport toward Denver, Jack Swanburg explained that they were meeting in a room at the Douglas County Sheriff's Office with the 221B Baker Street Irregulars. "We've helped with a couple of their cases, so the sheriff allows us to use the room," he explained. "One of your gal pals will be there. Charlotte Gates flew in from Albuquerque, and I hear there may be a couple more surprises."
"That's great," Marlene said admiring the view of the mountains just to the west with the sun glistening off the snow on the peaks. She liked Gates, who was the first of the 221B Baker Street Irregulars she'd met.
The Irregulars were an eclectic mix of scientists and cops, many of them retired, who had formed the group more than ten years earlier for the purpose of combining their skills and specialized knowledge to locate the clandestine graves of murder victims. Since the early days when law enforcement agencies had been leery of these "amateur detectives," they'd gained a reputation by performing as promised until their assistance was sought by agencies all over the world. Their methods ranged from ground-penetrating radar to forensic botany and bloodhounds, plus a healthy dose of deductive reasoning made famous by their hero, the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, who, according to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had lived at 221b Baker Street in London.
Marlene had met Charlotte Gates, a forensic anthropologist from the University of New Mexico and director of the Forensic Human Identification Laboratory in Albuquerque, in New Mexico. John Jojola had asked for the professor's help locating and exhuming the hidden graves of Taos Indian boys murdered by the priest Hans Lichner. That was the same time that Marlene and Lucy had met Jojola, who Marlene had assisted in solving the crimes, and he'd thereafter been swept up in the Karp-Ciampi cyclone, as had the 221B Baker Street Irregulars.
After getting the photograph from Maly Laska, Marlene had immediately called Swanburg, who was the president of the group, and asked for their help in finding Maria Santacristina. He'd asked a few preliminary questions, and then asked how fast she needed the Irregulars to get to work.
"Boy, that's fast," he'd said. "But come to Denver, talk to the gang, and let's see what can be done."
Swanburg reached Interstate 25 and turned south toward Douglas County, a rural but rapidly developing area on the tail end of Denver. As they hit the interstate, they passed a big amusement park that appeared to be closed for the winter. When she saw the bright red Ferris wheel, Marlene thought again about her father, Mario, and in particular about a day trip she'd taken the past fall to Coney Island with him.
In the intensity of the search for Kane and the hostage crisis at St. Patrick's, followed by Rachman shooting Butch, she'd had a tough time getting over to see her dad, who was living alone in Queens. Knowing he'd be even less forgiving on the telephone, she'd just gone over to see him and realized that she'd indeed been gone too long when she saw the state of his yard.
All of the many decades they'd lived there and raised a family, Mario and Concetta Ciampi had always been very conscientious about their yard. They had a system, he said. He took care of the lawn and trees; she was in charge of the flower beds. Now it looked like a house where, as he liked to complain, "nobody cares about nothing."
The yard was covered with unraked leaves from the previous fall, and the flower beds and lawn were overgrown, dried up, and brown, even though the neighbors' neatly kept yards were beginning to show hints of green. The neighborhood was once again becoming popular with young families, who exhibited pride of ownership-like her parents once had-and, she imagined, probably looked at the Ciampi house with disdain.
Inside, the house was in even worse shape, with stacks of un-washed dishes in the sink and lying around the kitchen and living room. It also smelled like he hadn't opened a window all winter or taken out the trash regularly. Even the odor of his pipe, which she'd loved as a child, now clung like a stale gray fungus to the walls, furniture, and drapes.
She found him sitting in his favorite chair in the living room with the curtains drawn, watching a rerun of a college basketball game in a stained bathrobe and his underwear. He had a beer in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other.
"Geez, Pops, do you think you could clean up every once in a while?" Marlene said. She meant it to come out lighter than it did, but the Catholic guilt trip was washing over her in waves and she was feeling a little stressed out.
"Why? It's not like I have company coming over," he replied sarcastically. "And your mother doesn't mind."
The criticism stung Marlene and the comment worried her. Mario was convinced that her mother's soul was trapped in the house, waiting for him to join her before she "went to heaven."
It was one of the reasons he resisted her suggestion that he move into an assisted-living community. He was showing early signs of senior dementia-not as debilitating as her mother's Alzheimer's had been, but enough that she worried about him hurting himself. But every time she brought up the topic of "the nicest community near the beach on Long Island," he'd reacted angrily, and so far she'd left him where he was.
The dementia, which seemed to come and go like the tide, frightened her. By the end, her mother had not remembered Marlene's name and suspected that the "real Mario" had been replaced with an imposter. It was horrible to watch a woman who had always been so strong-the real rock of the family-leave her mind before she left her body.
The thought made Marlene feel even guiltier because she hoped that she wouldn't have to witness the same progression with her father. It would mean an extra visit to the confession booth and yet another promise to be a better daughter.
Determined to start right then and there, Marlene made him get dressed, which he'd done only with a great deal of grumbling. Prying him out of the house, she'd driven to Coney Island for a hot dog at Nathan's. Munching the dogs-which he'd said "are nothing compared to when we used to come here"-they'd strolled down the boardwalk and stopped in front of the Coney Island amusement park, which was also closed for the season.
The sea air and hot dogs had a marvelous effect on Mario's disposition. He pointed at the Ferris wheel with a big grin. "You remember when you and your mother and I would come here?"
"Yeah, Pops, I remember," she said. "I asked you what would happen if the Ferris wheel came off and started to roll to the ocean, and you said, 'Why, it will keep going all the way to France, where they'll pin it to the side of the Eiffel Tower like a giant pinwheel."
Mario laughed. "You believed me and demanded to ride over and over again, hoping it would roll to the sea. Finally, they were closing the park and we had to leave, which was a good thing because your mother and I were sick to our stomachs from so many rides. But you were so mad when I pulled you out of the seat that you kicked me in the shins."
"And Mom said you deserved it for telling me such lies," Marlene said, giggling.
Mario gazed a moment longer at the Ferris wheel, then sighed. "Those were great days, eh, Marlene," he said. "Your mother was so young and beautiful. She stayed so beautiful…though not so young, I have to say."
Marlene had nestled up against him as he put one of his thin arms around her shoulders. "I miss her so much," he said. "I am not afraid to die. In fact, I look forward to it so I can see her again."
"I miss her, too, Pops," Marlene replied. She felt for just a moment what it was going to be like when he was gone, too, and vowed again to make the effort to see him more often, and bring her kids.
Fifteen hundred miles away, Swanburg was asking her a question for a second time. "How's Butch?"
"Oh, um, great," she stammered. "He still needs to take it easy, but he's recovering and antsy to get back to the DAO."