There was a black binder with a handsome leather slipcover. McCaleb opened it and found that it contained documents relating to the wills of both husband and wife. McCaleb saw nothing unordinary. Each spouse had been the other’s beneficiary, with the children following in line in the event of both parents dying. McCaleb didn’t spend a lot of time with it.
The last file he looked at was simply labeled WORK and it contained various records, including performance evaluations and various office communications. McCaleb scanned the employment reviews and found that Cordell had apparently been held in high regard by his employers. McCaleb wrote down some of the names of supervisors who signed the reports so he could interview them later. Last he scanned the other correspondence but nothing interested him. There were copies of interoffice memos as well as letters of commendation for Cordell’s chairing of the engineering firm’s annual blood drive and his volunteer work in a program that provided Thanksgiving meals to the needy. There was also a two-year-old letter from a supervisor praising Cordell for stopping and helping the injured victims of a head-on collision in Lone Pine. Details of what Cordell did were not in the letter. McCaleb put the letters and evaluations back in the file and returned it to the file drawer.
McCaleb stood up and looked around the room. There was nothing else that raised any interest. He then noticed a framed photo on the desk. It was of the Cordell family. He picked it up and studied it for a moment, thinking about how much the bullet had shattered. It made him think of Raymond and Graciela. He envisioned a photo that had the two of them and McCaleb in it, smiling.
He took his empty water glass into the kitchen and left it on the counter. He then stepped into the living room and found Amelia Cordell sitting in the chair she had taken earlier. She was just sitting there. The television was not on, she had no book or newspaper in her hands. She appeared to be just staring at the glass top of the coffee table. McCaleb hesitated in the hallway from the kitchen.
“Mrs. Cordell?”
She shifted her eyes to him without moving her head.
“Yes?”
“I’m finished for now.”
He stepped in and placed the receipt on the table.
“These are the things I am taking. I’ll get it all back to you in a few days. I’ll either mail it or bring it up myself.”
Her eyes were on the list now, trying to read it from three feet away.
“Did you find what you need?”
“I don’t know yet. These sorts of things, you never know what is important until it becomes important, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really.”
“Well, I guess I mean details. I’m looking for the telling detail. There used to be a game when I was a kid. I don’t remember what it was called but they still might have it around for kids today. You’ve got a clear plastic tube that stands vertical. There are a bunch of plastic straws running through holes all around the center of it. You load a bunch of marbles into the tube so that they are held up by the straws. The object of the game is to pull a straw out without any marbles dropping. And there always seemed to be one straw that when you pulled it out, everything came down like a landslide. That’s what I’m looking for. I’ve got lots of details. I’m looking for the one that brings the landslide when it’s pulled out. Trouble is, you can’t tell which one it is until you start pulling.”
She looked at him blankly, the way she had been staring at the coffee table.
“Well, look, I’ve taken too much of your time. I think I’ll be on my way and, like I said, I’ll get these things back to you. And I’ll call you if anything else comes up. My number is on the inventory list there in case you think of anything else or there is anything I can do for you.”
He nodded and she said good-bye. He turned to head to the door when he thought of something and turned back.
“Oh, I almost forgot. There was a letter in one of the files commending your husband for stopping at an accident up near Lone Pine. Do you remember that?”
“Sure. That was two years ago, November.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Just that Jimmy was driving home from up there and he came across the accident. It had just happened and there were people and debris thrown every which way and that. He called for ambulances on his cell phone and stopped to comfort the people. A little boy died right in his arms that night. He had a hard time with that.”
McCaleb nodded.
“That was the kind of man he was, Mr. McCaleb.”
All McCaleb could do was nod his head again
McCaleb had to wait out on the front driveway for ten minutes before Buddy Lockridge finally drove up. He had a Howlin’ Wolf tape playing loud an the stereo. McCaleb turned it down after climbing in.
“Where you been?”
“Drivin’. Where to?”
“Well, I was waiting. Back to the marina.”
Buddy made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway.
“Well, you told me I didn’t have to just sit in the car. You told me to take a drive, I took a drive. How am I supposed to know how long you’re going to be if you don’t tell me?”
He was right but McCaleb was still annoyed. He didn’t apologize.
“If this thing lasts much longer, I ought to get a cell phone for you to carry.”
“If this lasts much longer, I want a raise.”
McCaleb didn’t respond. Lockridge turned the tape back up and pulled a harmonica out of the door pocket. He started playing along to “Wang Dang Doodle.” McCaleb looked out the window and thought about Amelia Cordell and how one bullet had taken two lives.
25
THE PACKAGE from Carruthers was waiting for McCaleb in his mailbox. It was as thick as a phone book. He took it back to the boat, opened it and spread the documents across the salon table. He found the most recent summary on the Kenyon investigation and began reading, deciding to learn the latest developments and then go back to read from the start.
The investigation of the Donald Kenyon murder was a joint FBI-Beverly Hills police operation. But the case was cold. The lead agents for the bureau, a pair from the special investigation unit in Los Angeles named Nevins and Uhlig, had concluded in the most recent report, filed in December, that Kenyon had likely been executed by a contract killer. There were two theories as to who had employed the assassin. Theory one was that one of the two thousand victims of the savings and loan collapse had been unsatisfied with Kenyon’s sentence or possibly feared he would flee justice once again and therefore had engaged the services of a killer. Theory two was that the killer had been in the employ of the silent partner who Kenyon had claimed during the trial had forced him to loot the savings and loan. That partner, whom Kenyon had refused to identify, remained unidentified as well by the bureau, according to this last report.
McCaleb found the outlining of theory two in the report interesting because it indicated that the federal government might now give credence to Kenyon’s claim that he had been forced to siphon funds from his savings and loan by a second party. This claim had been derided during Kenyon’s trial by the prosecution, which took to referring to this alleged second party as Kenyon’s phantom. Now, here was an FBI document which suggested that the phantom might actually exist.
Nevins and Uhlig concluded the summary report with a brief profile of the unknown subject who had contracted the murder. The profile fit both theories one and two: the employer was wealthy, had the ability to hide his or her trail and remain anonymous and had connections to or was even part of traditional organized crime.
Aside from the report breathing life into Kenyon’s phantom, the second thing that interested McCaleb was the suggestion that the employer, and therefore the actual killer, were connected to traditional organized crime. Traditional organized crime in FBI parlance meant the Mafia. The tendrils of the Mafia were almost everywhere, but, even so, the mob was not a strong influence in southern California. There was a tremendous amount of organized crime in the area, it just wasn’t being perpetrated by the traditional mobsters out of the movies. At any given time there were probably more Asian or Russian mobsters operating in southern California than their counterparts of Italian descent.