William Krueger - Blood Hollow

“She’s at the Pilons. Claire invited her for a sleepover.”

“Make sure she’s careful. Make sure both of the girls are.”

“That’s a roger.”

“I love it when you talk cop.”

“I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

After he hung up, he punched in the number Jo had given him for Glory Kane. The phone at the other end rang several times before it was finally answered.

“Rosemount. This is Sister Alice Mary.”

“Sister?”

“Yes?”

“I’m trying to reach Cordelia Diller.”

“It’s rather late. Everyone is in bed.”

“She asked me to call her.”

“Is it an emergency of some kind?”

“I wouldn’t call it an emergency, no.”

“Then I’m sure she didn’t intend for you to call near midnight. I’ll see that she gets your message first thing in the morning. Is there a number where she might return your call?”

Cork gave her the motel telephone number.

“Sister Alice Mary, where are you exactly?”

“Just outside Dansig, Iowa, right on the Mississippi River.”

“I guess I mean what are you? What is Rosemount?”

“We’re a retreat center for Catholic women, particularly those who are considering entering a religious life.”

“You mean becoming a nun?”

“That’s certainly one of the options.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Cork hung up and spent a few minutes trying to picture Glory Kane as a nun. God might be able to see it, he finally decided, but his own eyes were way too blind.

Cork didn’t sleep well. He got up early and tried calling Glory Kane in Iowa. All he got was a busy signal. He showered, shaved, dressed, and tried the number again with the same result. He went to a little restaurant down the street from the Claremont Inn and ordered eggs Benedict. They weren’t bad, and the coffee was good and strong. He read the Los Angeles Times. The sports page, anyway. The Twins had dropped a game back of the White Sox for the division lead. He returned to his motel room and tried one last time to reach Glory Kane. The line was still busy. He wondered just how popular a retreat center in the boondocks of Iowa could be.

At eight, he presented himself to the receptionist at the contact desk of the Worthington Clinic. A blonde with a Rodeo Drive walk showed him to Steven Hadlestadt’s office. Hadlestadt stood up to greet him and they shook hands.

The man was younger than Cork had expected, early thirties. His head was shaved smooth of hair. He had a narrow face with intelligent, blue eyes. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit and a red silk tie.

“I admit I expected just a phone call, Sheriff O’Connor.”

“It’s important, so I came in person. Is it Dr. Hadlestadt?”

“Yes, but not M.D. I’m the clinic administrator. Won’t you sit down?”

Cork sank into the soft leather of a chair. The office was beautifully appointed, and through a long side window there was a stunning view of the San Gabriels.

“Before we go any further, may I see some identification?”

Cork pulled out his wallet and handed over a card.

“This is a driver’s license,” Hadlestadt said.

“That’s right.”

“May I see your law enforcement ID?”

“I don’t have one at the moment. I’m the former sheriff of Tamarack County. I held that office for eight years. Currently, I’m working as a consultant on law enforcement issues.”

Hadlestadt handed back the driver’s license. “Then you’re not actually a cop.”

“Would you look at this, Mr. Hadlestadt?” Cork thrust at him a copy of the Duluth News Tribune, the April issue in which the headline read “Aurora Girl’s Death Ruled Murder.” The story ran with a photo of the young woman.

“Is that Charlotte Kane?” Cork asked.

Hadlestadt’s eyes took in the headline, then scanned the story and the photo. “It certainly looks like her, but I don’t see how that could be.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, she died four years ago. Or at least that’s what I thought. And for another, it says here she’s only seventeen. Charlotte Kane would be twenty now.”

“What happened to Charlotte four years ago?”

Hadlestadt put the newspaper on his desk. “You say you’re a consultant. In what capacity on this case?”

“I’m working for the attorney whose client has been charged with the girl’s murder.”

For a moment, it appeared as if Hadlestadt was considering the advisability of answering. Then he seemed to give a mental shrug. “Charlotte disappeared. They found her car a couple of days later. Lots of blood, but no body. As I understand, it was a pretty awful scene. The police carried out a thorough investigation, but I believe they never did find out exactly what happened to her. It was a terrible thing. She was such a terrific kid.”

“Did they ever find the body?”

“No. At least not as far as I know.”

“Was Fletcher Kane ever a suspect?”

Hadlestadt tensed. “No. And I can tell you right now I’m not going to say anything that would reflect badly on Dr. Kane.”

“Please understand that I’m only after the truth. A young man has been accused of murdering Fletcher Kane’s daughter, who appears to have been already dead. Mr. Hadlestadt, all I’m asking is that you help me understand how that’s possible.”

Hadlestadt rocked back in his chair. For a few moments, he looked away from Cork and studied the mountains framed by the office window.

“What do you want to know?” he said.

“When you knew him, what kind of person was Dr. Kane?”

“Terribly demanding of himself and his colleagues. A perfectionist. Sometimes difficult because his standards were always so high. But absolutely wonderful with patients. Compassionate, understanding.”

This last part caught Cork by surprise, though he tried not to show it.

“He hired me. I worked with him for several years. I have nothing but admiration for him as a physician and as director of this clinic.” Hadlestadt leaned forward, put his arms on his desk, and laced his fingers. “When Dr. Kane took the responsibility of heading Worthington, it was a place that catered exclusively to a wealthy clientele, people who wanted to buy back their youth or who wanted things done to their bodies they thought God had overlooked. Kane changed that. He hired talented physicians and gave them resources. Over time we’ve become known more for the reconstructive work we do here on victims of physical trauma. Automobile accidents, burns, that kind of thing. Don’t get me wrong. We’re still Hollywood’s favorite choice for a nose job, but that’s not at the heart of Worthington anymore, thanks to Fletcher Kane.”

“Why did he leave?”

Hadlestadt shrugged. “What happened to Charlotte. It devastated him. He never got over it. He seemed to lose a part of himself, the best part, honestly. He resigned as director, withdrew from the rest of us, from the social life here. He asked for a new staff, which was a bit odd, but we accommodated him. He became secretive about his work. Considering everything he’d been through, I suppose most of this was understandable. It didn’t surprise me at all when he finally left.”

“What can you tell me about Charlotte Kane?”

“Aside from the fact that everybody loved her, not much. Maybe you should talk to someone who was closer to her. Try her mother. I’m sure she’ll be interested in this.” He tapped the paper.

“Her mother?” Cork said. “I thought Kane’s wife was dead.”

“The marriage may have died, but Constance Kane is alive, I assure you.”

She lived in a big house in Ganesha Hills, above the Los Angeles County fairgrounds. The place was hacienda-style, two stories of beige stucco with a red tile roof. The property lines were marked with tall cedars, in almost exactly the same way as the boundaries of the Parrant estate back in Aurora. There was a fountain in front, a porcelain maiden pouring water from an urn into a small pool. The maiden had a young, pretty face and blank eyes. Cork rang the bell. Constance Kane appeared immediately.