If Angels Fall (38 page)

The professor explained. Ngen nodded. “Yes, that would
help.”

Sydowski wanted to know what kind of meat the man gave
the dog, and did Ngen see a store’s logo on any wrapping or packaging?

The professor translated. Ngen thought for a moment.
It was hamburger in a white tray with transparent wrap.

“What sorts of things does Ngen write in his star
journal?”

The professor asked Ngen.

“Dates and times of everything he saw in the night.”

“Did Ngen make such notes the night he saw the man
take the dog?”

Yes, he did because it was so unusual.

“May we borrow the journal?” Turgeon asked.

The professor made the request. Ngen looked to Psoong,
who nodded.

One more time, because this was so important, Sydowski
wanted to know what happened when the man approached the Nunns’ yard.

Ngen said the man threw some hamburger into the dog’s
kennel and the dog ate it without making a sound. Then the man opened the gate
and the dog ate more from his hand. Then the man picked up the dog, took him
under his arm, and walked to his truck and drove off.

“Did the man throw the wrapper away?”

Ngen thought. Yes, he tossed it aside.

“Where?”

Somewhere in the alley near the yard.

“Again, what did it look like?”

The woman explained, then said something to Min, who
left the room. She returned with three packs of frozen meat. Ngen touched a
package of sausages, packed on a white foam meat tray with clear plastic
wrapping and a producer’s label with a bar code on one corner, with the date,
weight, cost, and a product code.

Turgeon made notes. Sydowski reached for his radio and
summoned the head of the IDENT unit to Ngen’s room. The man arrived, his eyes
darting to the boy, the meat, Sydowski, then Turgeon.

“This is what we’re looking for, Carl,” Sydowski said.

Captain Carl Gray turned the package over in his
hands.

“Sausages?”

“A meat tray and wrapper just like this one,” Turgeon
said.

“The guy lured the dog away with wrapped hamburger,”
Sydowski said. “If we could find the wrapping, label, and product code—“

“Right.” Gray came up to speed. “Then we could narrow
where and when he bought it.” Gray reached for his radio. “I’ll call my team
for a briefing. But it’ll be a needle in a haystack, Walt.”

“I know. It’s been nearly a month.”

Gray left, and while they thanked Ngen and his family,
something ate at Sydowski, something he needed to know, so he told the
professor to ask.

“Why didn’t you come forward yesterday?” the woman
said.

Ngen looked at Psoong, at Min, and the professor, who
immediately knew the answer. They were scared.

Sydowski nodded.

Then Ngen looked directly at Sydowski and in a little
boy’s voice that was awash with emotion, spoke spontaneously, rapidly, forcing
the professor to struggle to keep up with him.

“They were scared that police would send them back,
but he loved this country, it was his home and did not want to make trouble
because he knew that people who make trouble are punished. The day after the
dog was taken, Ngen saw the little girl and how sad she was. He saw the signs
in the neighborhood with the dog’s picture and heard her calling him every
night. He wanted to tell her that he saw a man steal her dog, but was afraid.”

Ngen began crying. Min comforted him.

“His heart ached for the little girl who loved her dog
so much. Ngen knew what it was like to love someone and lose them. Now the girl
is gone and he is terrified. It is all his fault. Had he spoken earlier, maybe
she would be safe. And now that he has spoken, maybe the kidnapper will come
for him? Please do not punish his family. He is sorry. Please forgive him!
Please!”

The professor dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski and Turgeon exchanged glances.

By Monday afternoon,
Reed was atop Russian Hill, approaching a Victorian mansion
overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. A gabled roof topped its three stories,
twin turrets, and colossal windows. The open front porch was edged with ornate
spindled railing, and the clipped lawn was rimmed by a wrought-iron,
spear-tipped fence.

Would he find answers here? Anything that would bring
him closer to Keller? So far, the house was the only lead he and Wilson came up
with after digging all Sunday and this morning. No matter what they tried,
quietly using their sources in a number of agencies, scouring the Internet,
they could not nail a good address for Keller. He was invisible.

Even Professor Martin provided little help.
Coincidentally, she popped by the
Star
that morning to thank Reed over
coffee in the cafeteria for the feature on her group. Reed made time for her
because he wanted to know more about Keller, but he was careful not to tell her
about his suspicions. And if Martin had any, she kept them to herself.

“Tom, I just wanted to thank you. After your article
ran, we received pledges of support and calls from bereaved parents searching
for help. I thought your reporting and writing was sensitive.”

“Don’t thank me. Say, what did Keller think?” Reed was
casual.

“I don’t know. He’s so private. Why do you ask?”

Reed shrugged. “No reason. I mean, he really didn’t
like me.”

She was wearing a summer dress and sandals. Almost no
makeup.  She was attractive, Reed thought. “I’m glad you left him out of your
story. He has a lot of pain to deal with right now.”

“Don’t we all Kate?”

Reed’s cell phone rang. He had to go.

Standing to leave, he asked Kate to put him in touch
with Keller again. He wanted to apologize. She would, only she did not have a
number or address for him. It was curious. Maybe she had taken his number down
incorrectly, or there was a mix-up. Anyway, none of the others knew him or where
he lived. And something strange had happened.

“He stopped coming to the sessions after you visited
the group.”

“Really? It was because of me?”

“I don’t know. It could be a number of things. I mean,
I don’t know much about him beyond his loss of his three children. And I am
worried because the anniversary is coming up. I’ve been trying to find him. I
believe he gave me a phony number to protect his privacy. If I locate him, I’ll
let him know you would like to see him again. I owe you.”

It was Molly Wilson who called Reed. She had tried
finding Keller’s wife, Joan Keller. Joan Webster, if she was using her maiden
name. She checked the DMV, voters’ registration, everything she could think of.
Nothing.

As for Keller, only a San Francisco post office box
and two other addresses surfaced from all their checking. One was for the
bungalow that the Kellers’ rented for a couple of years in Oakland during the
late 1960’s. Wilson knocked on some doors, went through old directories, trying
to find old neighbors, see if Keller kept in touch with anybody. Nothing.

They were missing something obvious. What the hell was
it? Reed reflected, coming to the last address, their last hope for a lead: the
mansion on Russian Hill. He pushed opened the unlocked gate, entered the yard,
and gazed at the house where Keller had lived with his wife and children twenty
years ago. Before their lives were destroyed.

No one answered the bell. Reed waited. Rang again. He
heard the clank of metal on stone and went around to the side, where a woman
was on her knees, tending a rosebush. Property records showed the owners were
Lyndon and Eloise Bamford, who bought it from Carlos Allende, who bought it
from Keller about a year after the tragedy. The robust woman appraising Reed
appeared to be in her sixties. She had the attractive, intelligent face of a
lady who was not easily intimidated.

“May I help you?” She patted a trowel against a gloved
hand.

“I’m looking for Eloise Bamford.”

“You found her. Who are you?”

“Tom Reed, a reporter with
The San Francisco Star
.”

“A reporter?” She stood and accepted his card.

“Sorry to interrupt you. I was hoping you could help
me.”

Sensing something behind him, Reed turned and faced an
uneasy Doberman. “I have identification if you would care to see it?”

Eloise Bamford smiled.

“No, you look the part. Go away, Larry,” she ordered
the dog. “We’ll go to the back porch. I’ve just made lemonade.”

They sat in exquisite cane chairs and Reed admired the
Bamford’s backyard. It was a sloping garden, with an oasis of large trees, dells
of ferns, and fiery-red rhododendrons, pathways lined with rose-covered, stone
retaining walls.

Reed sipped pink lemonade and told Mrs. Bamford—who
insisted on being called Eloise—about the bereavement group feature and his
hunt for Keller. He did not reveal his fears about Keller, keeping his urgency
out of the conversation, hoping Eloise might jump in.

She didn’t.

As he continued, Reed was drawing the conclusion he
had hit another dead end. He showed Eloise the articles of Keller’s tragedy.
She read them while he absorbed the garden’s tranquility.

“Yes, I remember the case and the Allendes.” She gave
the clippings back to him. “They were from Argentina. Sold the house to us
after a year. Couldn’t stand to live here anymore. Sad.”

“Why was that?”

“Too many ghosts.”

Reed nodded.

“Of course you know how Joan Keller died?”

She was dead? “I was trying to find out.”

“Suicide. Here. Not long after the children drowned.”

He had never found any stories about that, nor an
obit.

“Joan Keller’s death was what led the Allendes to
sell. They didn’t know the Kellers’ history until someone around here mentioned
it. Mrs. Allendes couldn’t bear to stay in the house. They sold it. Moved back
to Argentina. I think he was a diplomat.”

“The tragic history of the house didn’t bother you?”

“Not really.”

Eloise wanted to know why Reed would come to the house
looking for Keller when he hadn’t lived in it for such a long time.

“It’s because I can’t find him. I know it’s a long
shot, but I thought you might have a current address for him. Do you know him?”

“Not at all.”

“I see.” Reed was at a loss. “I just thought coming
here might help me find him. After the story on the university’s research,
Keller seemed to vanish.”

“Like a ghost himself.”

“I suppose.” Reed thanked her for her lemonade and
time.

“Why do you need to find him?”

“I need to talk to him about his tragedy. The
twenty-year anniversary is coming up. The
Star
wanted a memorial
feature.”

“Mmmmm...” Eloise kept turning Reed’s card over.

“I’m curious,” Reed said.

“It’s part of your job.”

“How did Joan Keller die?”

Eloise sipped her lemonade and looked out at the
garden for a moment, watching a pair of swallows preening in the birdbath.

“She hung herself in the attic sometime after her
children drowned. She was a tormented young woman.”

How would she know? Reed nodded. A sweet-scented
breeze caressed them as Eloise tapped his card in her hand.

“Some of the family’s things are still up there.”

“Things?”

“In boxes. The Allendes never touched them. I don’t
think they ever used the attic. We just shoved the stuff into a corner,
thinking somebody would claim it one day. We tried to locate Edward Keller
ourselves years ago. No luck.”

Reed understood.

“Would you like to look at it? It might help you.”

The air in the attic was stifling.