Case Closed

by Jan Burke

Genres: Mystery; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Jan Burke comes the last of six short story collections—sure to please fans of suspense masters Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, and Robert Parker. Case Closed is a mini-anthology containing a brand-new short story—“The Last Place You Look,” featuring Frank Harriman in his younger days as a rookie cop—with an added bonus of three stories from the highly acclaimed print anthology Eighteen : “At turns chilling, funny, poignant—and always insightful” ( New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman); “Astonishing…wry…these stories are sure to delight” (Jeffery Deaver, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Kill Room).

Release date: November 17, 2014

Publisher: Pocket Star

Print pages: 160

Sample

Case Closed

The Last Place You Look

Bakersfield, California

July 7, 1976

Frank Harriman and his partner were on a break, sitting in a Denny’s. Waiting for desperately needed coffee, he spoke into his handheld cassette tape recorder, making notes from their last call to help him with the inevitable paperwork.

“Altercation began when Mr. Martin threw a plastic bag filled with excrement—allegedly left by Mr. Jackson’s dog on Mr. Martin’s lawn—onto Mr. Jackson’s front porch. The bag broke on landing. . . .”

He glanced up to see a look of horror on his partner’s face. Jimmy Chao had only been with the Bakersfield Police Department six months longer than Frank. And based on his expression, Frank was pretty sure someone must have walked into Denny’s with a sawed-off shotgun and was aiming it at the back of his head.

Then Jimmy whispered, “Dude. The radio!” He pointed to Frank’s hand.

Frank then realized that there was no one with a shotgun. His own worst enemy was in the booth: Frank himself, too tired to think straight.

He wasn’t talking into his tape recorder. He was talking into his radio unit. And he had just entertained everyone on duty in Bakersfield with details of the dispute between the drunken neighbors.

“Uh . . . 10-22,” Frank muttered into the radio. Disregard.

He could already hear the clicks of radio buttons being hit on and off, the others indicating laughter.

They were going to give him more shit than Mr. Jackson had on his front porch.

• • •

As they drove back to headquarters at the end of their shift, Jimmy tried to console him. “Stuff like this happens to every rookie. If we do something in a ridiculous way just once, that will be the moment the whole world is watching. Hell, it even happens to the old-timers. You ever hear anyone say, ‘I just about Blanked myself’?”

“My dad told me about Eric Blank.”

“Yeah, that’s right—I guess you’ve already heard all those stories.”

Frank thought about his dad, also a member of the Bakersfield PD, hearing about his fuckup, and his stomach clenched. His dad wouldn’t chew him out or anything like that. He would be calm. And hiding his embarrassment. Which was worse.

“I haven’t heard all of them,” Frank said, thinking of a few new stories his training officer had shared with him. “But I did hear about the night Blank overestimated his sphincter’s endurance rating.”

“Too long in the car,” Jimmy said, nodding. “Could happen to anyone: long shift, radio call to radio call. But Blank not only crapped himself, he went into the restroom of a 7-Eleven, lowered his pants, and used his tactical knife to cut his underwear off himself.”

“Really don’t want to talk about this before eating breakfast,” Frank said.

“You’re the one who just broadcast a report about dog shit.”

“Yeah. Didn’t need a reminder about that, either.”

“Sorry.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Jimmy, who was driving, pulled over and said, “Listen. First time I was patrolling solo, just a few weeks before you graduated, it happened to be a rainy Friday night. Being the new guy, when a roadkill call came in, I was sent to do the pickup. Big Irish setter, although you could hardly tell what it was at that point.”

Frank decided it would be useless to remind him about breakfast again.

“So, have you done animal pickup yet?” Chao asked.

“Yes.”

“After hours?”

“Yes.”

“Awful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so you know that you’re supposed to take the carcass to the walk-in freezer at animal control, put it in one of those big fifty-five-gallon drums, and get the hell out, because the stench in there gets into the wool of your uniform and reminds you of the entire experience for the rest of your shift.”

Frank nodded. Definitely no breakfast. Chao was probably doing this to him on purpose. Then again, Chao could be socially clueless.

“So I’m alone on a rainy Friday night, dragging this big damned dog carcass into the freezer, and I can’t find a drum with enough room in it for him. It’s midnight, I’m looking into these god-awful drums, and it’s freaking my shit out. Plus, the smell. I’m about to shoot my cookies. So I leave the fucking dog on the floor and run out.” Jimmy sighed gustily.

“Animal control complained?” Frank asked.

“Of course. I had to go back on Monday and deal with it.”

“Really?”

“I don’t blame them. Wet dog, freezer floor, and fifty or sixty hours of elapsed time.”

“The dog froze to the floor.”

“You should try for detective.”

It was, in fact, what he dreamed of doing—but today wasn’t going to get him any closer to that goal.

• • •

After the shift, Frank wasn’t entirely surprised to find a paper bag filled with dog shit in his locker.

• • •

The razzing hadn’t let up much a week later. It hadn’t taken long for the others to realize that a bag of crap wasn’t going to do great things for the locker room’s shared air quality, though, so giving him shit began to take less literal forms. His superiors were giving him all the worst jobs, his fellow officers were still raising their hands at the end of briefings and asking, “Can we hear from Harriman about everything that happened on his last shift?”

All of this made him suspicious, one afternoon, of his training officer’s grin. Gregory “Bear” Bradshaw didn’t temper his enjoyment as he said, “This sounds like a job right up your alley.”

The dispatcher had sent them to an address where they were to take a missing persons report from Mrs. Frieda Sarton.

“Is there something funny about a missing persons report?” Frank asked.

“Oh, no. We have to take Mrs. Sarton seriously.”

Frank decided silence was his best option. Bear was gregarious by nature, so Frank was pretty sure he could wait him out.

They pulled up to the curb in front of a large, old, two-story, Craftsman-style home at the edge of town. The suburbs were moving toward it, but hadn’t reached it yet. Frank was tempted to ask if it was really within the city limits—if it wasn’t, the missing persons case was the problem of the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. But that would have been a stupid rookie question. Dispatch wouldn’t have sent them out of their jurisdiction. Bear wouldn’t have had that look of someone handing off a snakes-in-a-can gag gift, gleefully anticipating the moment the lid would be removed.

The spacious lot was surrounded by a graying picket fence. The front lawn was more brown than green but otherwise cared for. A large tree shaded the sidewalk and house. The shady, wraparound porch reminded him of the one at his parents’ house—there was a big wooden swing in front of one large window. Venetian blinds covered all the windows, slats closed.

There was a pale yellow Cadillac parked under a bougainvillea-covered pergola that served as a carport. Farther up a long concrete drive stood an old garage, one that looked as if it had been designed to shelter horses and a carriage.

An elderly, frail woman in a floral print housedress came out to stand on the porch.

“You ought to be able to handle this on your own,” Bear said, waving to the woman. She waved back timidly, elbow held to her side, fingers giving a slight flutter before she looked down and away, waiting.

Wondering when the hell all this hazing would end, Frank stepped out of the patrol car and approached the house. When he was within a couple of yards from the porch, the old woman took a step back, as if afraid of him.

He stopped, smiled, relaxed his posture, and shut out all thoughts of being irritated with Bear. That wasn’t fair to this old lady. “Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Sarton?”

She nodded.

“I’m Officer Harriman. Did you call to make a missing persons report?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “My husband. Could you please try to find him?”

“I’ll do what I can. Do you want to talk out here?”

She nodded, seeming relieved. She motioned to the swing. He was half-afraid the thing would collapse, but as he sat gingerly on it, he found it was sturdy, and the eyebolts that attached it to the porch roof seemed likely to hold. The air was cool, here on the porch. Maybe not as cool as it was in the patrol car, with the windows up and the air conditioner on, but this was better than standing out in the sun.

Mrs. Sarton sat as far away from him as she could on the swing, but her posture relaxed a little.

He took out a notebook. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “What’s your husband’s name?”

“I already told the other officers, including that one there.” She lifted the tip of her index finger to indicate Bear. It was the slightest of gestures, made as if she didn’t want Bear to see her pointing him out.

“I’m new on the job,” he said. “Maybe you could act as if I’m the first person who ever heard about this.”

She nodded. “Thought so. The others think it’s funny.” She paused, then said with surprising fierceness, “It’s not funny at all.”

Frank believed her, but at the same time, he knew there was something about all of this that Bear and the others found laughable, crazy, worthy of ridicule. He wasn’t even close to seeing what that was, but he felt a sudden fear that she would say something to him that would make him laugh. And knew that it was the one thing he shouldn’t do, especially not in her presence.

Frank had been raised around cops. Bear and others who had worked with his dad had been regular guests in the Harriman home over the years. They were family. So he had an appreciation of cop humor, and considered it essential to staying sane on the job. But there were rules—at least among the kind of officers he wanted to emulate. You didn’t use that humor to ridicule the vulnerable while they were asking for your help.

What had happened here? What had made the others treat this as a joke case?

“No, there’s nothing at all funny about a missing person,” Frank said. “I’m sorry if anyone gave you the impression that it is. But because I’m so new, I’ll need your help.”

She nodded again. “My husband, Derek Sarton, D-E-R-E-K S-A-R-T-O-N, is missing. Here are a few photos of him.”

She handed him a set of photos that she had clearly prepared in advance. One showed a tall, heavyset bald man in a Hawaiian print shirt, black shorts, and sandals. He was tanned and smiling as he lifted some beverage in a martini glass toward the camera. Frank guessed he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Another showed him in a group of men in suits. He was younger, with more hair and less weight. It was a business photo, some kind of groundbreaking ceremony, next to a sign that said, “Future Home of Sarton Industries.” The third was of a couple with a young son. They were well-dressed, including the boy, who looked to be about ten. Sarton was a handsome man, probably in his midthirties, and petite Mrs. Sarton appeared to be near the same age. Judging by the clothing and hairstyles, the photo had been taken in the 1940s.

“Thank you. When did you last see Mr. Sarton?” he asked.

“It was Halloween.”

“About eight months ago?” He thought he could figure it out now. Mrs. Sarton probably constantly pestered the detective who had taken on the case. The case was as cold as a cod’s belly and Frank had been sent here for “goodwill,” to keep the citizen happy. Empty public relations for a case unlikely to receive any other department time and energy.

“No,” she said. “Not quite six years ago.”

“Six years?” He managed not to shout it.

“October 31, 1970.”

He glanced at Bear, still in the car. Saw him laughing.

Frank wrote the date down in his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

She teared up. “You aren’t going to leave? That’s all I usually get to say before they say something rude to me and leave.”

“I’m staying here to listen to you until I’m ordered to do otherwise.”

She smiled at him. “Bless you, Officer Harriman!”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he said quickly. “You’ve made a report before, right?”

“Yes, although I don’t believe any real effort was made to find him. Detective Pointe told me that Derek probably just wanted to get away from me.”

“He said that?” Pointe was an ass. Frank knew few departments gave missing persons cases to anyone for whom they had high expectations. You could see the pasture from most missing persons desks. Pointe, who would put more effort into avoiding work than the work itself would have cost him, was not the pride of the department.

“Not at first,” she admitted. “I think I annoyed him. Even my son told me to give up and stop bothering the police.”

“Is your son at home now?” Frank asked.

“Harold?” She hesitated, then said, “Well, I hope so, but I’m not sure that’s possible. If by ‘home’ you mean heaven. But maybe he asked for forgiveness at the last. Not for me to judge.”

“Your son is deceased?”

“Yes.”

He noticed that she didn’t seem too broken up about it. “Is there a reason you doubt . . . uh . . . where he ended up?”

“Of course. I’m quite sure he killed his father. Or helped his wife to do it.”

Frank cursed silently. Either this was much bigger than he’d thought—way too big for a rookie—or she was delusional and nothing he said or did would matter much. She didn’t seem crazy, though, just a little odd. In his few months on the job, he had already realized that he was going to be spending much more time as a half-assed mental health worker than he had expected, but he definitely wasn’t prepared to assess a situation like this.

He looked over at Bear again, then back to Mrs. Sarton. “Did I mention that I’m new to the job?”

She glanced toward the black-and-white, then added, “Yes, you did, a few times. I suppose the fact that you’re not like that jaded fellow over there is why I’m comfortable talking with you. Why don’t you come into the house? It’s a complicated story, but I’ll try to explain it all to you, Officer Harriman.”

What did he have to lose? “Sure.”

She pulled out a set of keys and began unlocking dead bolts. Six of them.

A seventh key unlocked the door itself.

She paused, then turned to him. “My home isn’t a mess, exactly, but I never let anyone in here. I hope you’ll forgive the condition of the living room. And it’s an old house that has belonged to three generations of old people, so we’ve each added a layer of things to it, I’m afraid.”

Thinking of his mother, who had placed ceramic frogs and other knickknacks on virtually every surface of their home, he said, “Please don’t worry about it.”

As soon as he said that, he found himself hoping she wasn’t talking about a situation more along the lines of the home of his mother’s sister, Aunt Alice, the super pack rat. Much to the family’s dismay, Aunt Alice had been in the news over it.

He looked toward Bear, who was now frowning. Fine. Frank smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, then followed Mrs. Sarton into her home.

He was relieved. Like his mom’s living room and dining room, these rooms had shelves and side tables loaded with knickknacks, although most of Mrs. Sarton’s looked considerably older and more expensive than ceramic frogs. There were pictures of elegantly dressed men and women. A few of Mrs. Sarton showed her in stylish clothes. All were placed in neatly arranged groups. This house was orderly and clean.

Still, one wall of the living room had about thirty cardboard boxes lined up on it. They were tidily stacked and labeled, but each label was printed only with a series of numbers, using some kind of system that didn’t give him any clue as to their contents.

Well, at least it was cooler in here than on the porch.

“Have a seat, Officer Harriman,” she said, gesturing toward the dining room table. “May I offer you a glass of iced tea or a soda?”

“I’m fine, thank you. But please get something for yourself if you’d like.”

She shook her head, and when he pulled out a chair for her to be seated first, she said, “Congratulate your mother for me. You have excellent manners.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell her you said so.” He sat across from her and took his notebook out again.

She sighed. “I’ll try to tell it as simply as I can. My grandparents were successful in the oil business. I was their only grandchild. I still earn money from their interest in certain wells. I inherited enough money from my grandmother’s estate to make me quite the prize. I could have had any one of a number of decent men who courted me, I suppose, but I fell for a bit of a bad boy, as foolish girls do. I hadn’t yet gained complete control over that money, which turned out for the best.

“My father realized I was going to marry Derek come hell or high water, and so he made a bargain with Derek. He made a complicated arrangement to help my husband start a furniture manufacturing business just before we married in 1925. My father hoped to protect me, and to make me think twice about what I would do with the money in my grandparents’ trust.”

“Do you have funds of your own, completely under your own control?”

“Yes, but most of it is protected by the trust. My father invested his own money in the business, and then his interest in the company came to me. I don’t want to make it sound as if money was all there was to our marriage, or that all the money we had came from my family. Far from it. Derek achieved as much as he did through hard work. We diversified. The business did well. Well enough to survive the Depression and to expand during the war.

“We opened other locations. We bought a big house in Los Angeles, but we kept this home, which had belonged to my grandparents. It’s paid for, and we both liked Bakersfield. Our only child, Harold, was born here in 1930.

“When my husband reached the age of sixty, he decided to retire. Harold was thirty-five and had been raised in the business, but I wasn’t sure he was ready to lead it. Still, Derek and I kept peace over the years by not interfering with each other, and he did the day-to-day running of the business. So when Derek said he wanted Harold to take over, he took over. We moved back here. We could have gone anywhere, but as I said, we liked it here.”

“So what year was that?”

“We moved back in 1965. We still owned the company, although Harold received a generous salary. I kept thinking it was nice to be back in a place where it was quiet and there wasn’t so much traffic.”

“I take it Harold stayed in LA?”

“Yes. Harold married his secretary that year. Evelyn. Never liked her, but he was a grown man, free to do as he pleased. I could hardly hold my own marriage up as an example, so I kept my mouth shut. We rarely saw them.

“As for the company, things seemed to go along fine for the first four or five years. I thought I might have misjudged Harold, at least in some ways. Then in 1970, in early October, Derek received a call from the head of accounting, saying Harold had fired him, and that Derek needed to get someone in there to watch over things, because Evelyn had Harold completely under her spell.”

A twinkle came into her eye and she said in a low voice, “You know, men like to believe witchcraft is involved, when all that’s really happened is that they’ve started thinking with something a little south of their belly buttons.”

Frank laughed, and she smiled back at him.

“Well,” she continued, “we already knew Evelyn dominated him, and had from the start. After hearing from the accountant, though, Derek called Harold to ask what the devil was going on. Harold became defensive and gave Derek an ultimatum, saying Derek needed to decide if he was really retired or else come back in and work, and if he was coming back, Harold would resign. Derek had always spoiled Harold, and he caved in to that threat. And besides, he was enjoying being retired. In some ways more than others.”

“How so?”

“He had found himself a floozy out here. She wasn’t the first, and she wouldn’t have been the last, but he didn’t want to break things off with her.”

“You weren’t upset about that?”

“I got upset the first time I found out about one of his flings. That was in 1930, when I was pregnant with Harold. I won’t trouble you with all the sordid details of my marriage, Officer Harriman. I’ll just say that after that day, Derek and I slept separately.” She paused. “No, I’ll add that Derek doted on his son and was a charming, intelligent man. He knew how to make me laugh and how to make me forgive him, at least to some extent. We were compatible in our strange way. After forty years of being married to a man I knew to be a tomcat, I wasn’t in any position to start making a fuss. Nor had any desire to do so.”

“Do you mind if I ask why not?”

“I had an independent life. I could travel where I wanted to, take up whatever interested me, and I knew he would raise no objections. I know the women in your generation expect that, but most women in mine did not. I played the corporate wife to perfection when Derek needed me to, in large part because the success of the company helped me to live a comfortable life.”

“Didn’t it hurt?”

“The first times, terribly. But then . . . I realized that Derek loved being in love. The passionate, early days of it. So he’d have a crush on this one or that one, but I was the only one he kept in his life over those years. I don’t delude myself. We were comfortable with each other, but he stayed for completely mercenary reasons, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mentioned the complicated agreement? There was a contract signed before the marriage. My father owned most of the company. His interest in it had since come to me, and his lawyers made sure it came to me individually. It’s not community property. Derek’s percentage still gave him substantial wealth, but he would have lived a very different lifestyle without me.”

“So your son and daughter-in-law were ruining the company, but your husband was too busy having an affair to do anything about it?”

“Not for long. Derek decided he’d had enough. One day he rented a U-Haul, hired a couple of helpers, and made the two-hour drive down to our plant in LA.”

“When was that?”

“Friday, October 16, 1970. He came back late that same night. He was all worked up. Told me he had gone in and raided the offices. Took out boxes and boxes of paperwork from around the time his accountant had been fired. Some other things, too—chemicals and tools. Drove back up here and put them in the garage. Some he brought into the house.” She pointed to the boxes in the living room. “Made me mad as a hornet. He had the whole garage and a couple of the upstairs rooms all to himself. Why did he need to clutter up my living room? Anyway, I soon forgot all about that, because when he came back from returning the U-Haul, he told me he was going to fire Harold, and maybe even have him arrested.”

“Why?”

“Said Harold had been embezzling from us. That he’d been using cheaper chemicals that didn’t come from good sources, and gave the workers inferior tools to use. But he made it look on the books as if nothing had changed. Derek was going to go through everything and find out exactly what Harold had done.”

“Did he?”

She sighed. “He started to go through the ones in here. Then Harold showed up the next day, and the two of them went out drinking, and next thing I knew, Derek came back home and said everything was going to be okay. I asked how. He said he had worked things out with Harold and wouldn’t say more.

“When I pressed him, he said news of havey-cavey stuff would be bad for the business. That made sense, but I didn’t like the fact that as usual, Harold would pay no penalty for wrongdoing. Derek asked me if I wanted to see my son in prison. He said Harold had made a bad marriage, and all of this was Evelyn’s fault. I didn’t say anything, and he got mad at me and went over to Marlena’s place. His mistress’s apartment.”

“You knew who he was seeing?”

“Oh yes. Marlena Gray. I’m not sure it’s her real name, though.”

“You said you last saw him on Halloween?”

“Yes. Two weeks had gone by since he made that first trip to LA. He had started going through the papers here, and before long he was mad at Harold again. One morning, Derek told me he was going to go back down to LA again to tell Harold he had to rehire the accountant and kick Evelyn out. We argued over whether or not that was the best thing to do, and he told me not to wait up for him. I’d heard that plenty of times over the previous four decades. That night, I guess it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I told him maybe he should take his girlfriend with him. He said maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t bother coming back. He’d said that before, too. Usually I’d say something in protest, but that time, I didn’t.”

She sounded remorseful and depressed. She fell silent.

Frank waited. His dad had once told him that the ideal rookie would be an alien with excellent eyesight, giant ears, and no mouth.

Suddenly, Mrs. Sarton sat up straight in her chair. She came to her feet and marched over to a big bay window, then yanked open its largest blind. As the blind flew up, Bear’s face appeared on the other side of the glass.

Startled, Bear jumped back, then turned bright red with embarrassment. Frank, who had reflexively stood from the moment she rose, struggled mightily for self-control.

“Shame on you!” Mrs. Sarton shouted through the glass. “Shame on you!” She brushed one forefinger along the other in the time-honored gesture.

Under other circumstances, that would have made Frank lose it. But he saw that she had started crying, and lost the urge to laugh. He put an arm around her thin shoulders and turned her away from the window, and scowled at Bear—who scowled back, but slunk off toward the picket fence. Frank guided Mrs. Sarton back to her chair.

She pulled a delicate handkerchief out of one of her pockets and tried to regain her self-control as she wiped her face. For a time, she just cried harder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept saying.

“I suspect you’re overdue for a good cry. Don’t worry about me. I grew up with two sisters. Tears don’t freak me out.”

She laughed at that, and sighed gustily. “Oh, thank you. I guess I did need that cry. Lord, I’m tired of living like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Afraid. Locks and alarms and all that. I might as well have gone missing. In some ways, I have—I’ve gone missing inside this house. I’m alone too much. I know it, but I ju