Bloodlines

“Can you?”

“Yes. I thought you were championing him, and now that I think back on it, you didn’t actually do that.”

“That’s the symptom. Not the problem. I may not treat a first-year reporter the way you and the Old Boys Club do, but I can see his faults. I’m not completely stupid just because I’m not on the street, you know. I am not incapable of seeing when a twenty-two-year-old is full of himself.”

This was so close to what I had thought of her, I turned red. Worse, she had known me so long, I knew she was reading that blush for the guilt signal it was. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Really sorry. I mean it.”

Silence. The food arrived. Nobody made a move to touch it. As the minutes passed, I went from feeling contrite to feeling injured by her refusal to at least give some token acknowledgment of my apology. Did she want me to grovel?

“Lydia, please. Let’s not let a little creep fuck up our friendship, okay?”

She looked me right in the eye and said, “He’s not the one messing it up.”

“You know what? You’re right about that.”

I stood up, threw a twenty on the table-much more than I owed, but I wasn’t going to be accused of sticking her with the bill on top of everything else-and though I knew I was letting my Irish temper get the best of me, I left.

I needed to cool off, and sitting in the newsroom with Lydia would not accomplish that. I glanced at my watch. I thought of my options, used my cell phone to call John Walters and tell him where I’d be, and walked around the block to the newspaper’s parking lot. I got into the Jeep and drove home.

Cody and the dogs were delighted. The friend and neighbor who usually spent time with them during the day was out of town, so I got an especially enthusiastic welcome. My mood of righteous indignation couldn’t withstand that. I played with them for a while-tossing a catnip toy for Cody, stuffed squeaky toys for the dogs. That worked off some tension for everyone involved.

I went back to reading O’Co

Mitch Yeager had been on trial for something? O’Co

Max might know about it. I called him and had the good fortune to catch him at home. “I’m leaving to go see Lillian in a little while,” he said. “Do you have my cell phone number?” He gave it to me.

“Are you in a rush? I could call you back later.”

“I can talk now for a few minutes. What can I do for you?”

“I hope you won’t mind my asking, but do you know if Mitch Yeager was ever arrested?”

“Mitch? Not that I know of. He wouldn’t have told me about it if he was, though-he was really hung up on being thought of as respectable. Which, come to think of it, argues for a shady past, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, wait-are you sure you heard something about Mitch and not Adam Yeager?”

“Adam Yeager…why is that name familiar?”

“He was Mitch’s brother. Ian’s and Eric’s dad. In fact, my former name- Kyle-was his middle name.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, he was dead long before I was born. My mom always said Eric and Ian were going to grow up to be just like their father-jailbirds.”

He suddenly broke off, then started laughing.

“What’s so fu

“I was just thinking that she was right.”

“Yes, although she probably didn’t predict the part about life on a tropical island.”

“No. I wouldn’t mind that, if they’d stay there.”

“So you’ve heard the rumors, too.”

“Oh, it isn’t rumor. They come back to the States on a fairly regular basis.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain. I have them watched, Irene. If I thought for a moment that they were going to harm you, I’d…I’d make sure it didn’t happen.”

I was stu

“You’re angry,” he said.

“No-not angry. It’s just weird. I mean, I wish you had told me sooner.”

“I’ve thought about it, even came close to telling you a couple of times. But two things stopped me. One was that you’ve been through some horrible experiences in the time since they’ve been released, and it just happened that whenever I’d come back into town, certain that I was going to tell you, the timing was always wrong-I didn’t want to upset you with talk of people who might not ever come near either one of us again.”

“What was the other reason you didn’t tell me? That they’re too old?”

“No. Evil does not retire.”

“No pension plan.”

He laughed. “I guess that’s it. Besides, they both keep in good shape, so I wouldn’t feel safer from them because of age. No, the other reason I didn’t tell you was Frank. If I told you, you might tell him, and…I didn’t want Frank to feel obligated to mention my surveillance of them to his department.”

“I understand,” I said. “But it won’t be a problem.”

“Good.”

“I know you’re ru

“Oh-not much, really. Mom was upset that she always had to say that he died in the war, because he died during the Depression, in prison. She said something about how he didn’t live more than a year in prison. That’s why Eric and Ian were raised by Mitch. I remember Mitch always kept a photo of him on his desk. I know that’s not much information, but you might say that by the time I was old enough to ask about him, I had learned not to ask about him.”

“What do you mean?”

He took so long to answer, I thought we might have lost the co

“Oh, Max…”

“I never saw her alive again. She died two years later. She fell down some stairs.” After another silence, in a much quieter voice, he added, “Or so I was told.”

57

H E ENDED THE CALL JUST AFTER THAT, BUT I WAS UNEASY. A MINUTE OR two later I called his cell and told him that I just wanted to make sure he was all right. He said he’d be fine, thanked me for my concern, and promised to call me again later.

Adam Yeager’s death would be worth looking into. I hooked up my laptop and tried to find him in the Social Security Death Index, but he wasn’t in it. That index began in 1937. Since he wasn’t in it, it was possible he was dead before 1937. Or at least not earning wages. I supposed prisoners might not have had Social Security numbers at that point.

I decided to do more research when I got back to the paper.

Thinking about Max made me think about the days when we first met. Here we were, two decades later, and he still didn’t know if his parents were the people who had been found in the trunk of that car. That in turn made me think of all the other unanswered questions I had about the night Corrigan had been attacked and the Ducanes murdered. I decided I’d go through the notes O’Co

Opening the box marked “Jack” brought a flood of memories. At first, it was difficult to concentrate on the task of studying the contents rather than to sit reminiscing about those early days of working with O’Co

I came across the photo of Betty Bradford, she of the pink underwear, owner of the buried Buick. Jack Corrigan had been set up by her, and nearly died as a result. “I wonder if you’re still around,” I said aloud. She looked to me now as she had the first time I had seen this photo-pretty woman, young but hard-edged-although now thought I perceived a little insecurity beneath the cool.