“Yes.”
“Where does she live?”
“Here in Bakersfield.” I gave him the address.
“Brandon, could I use your phone?”
Brandon seemed distracted, but he nodded. Cassidy, in the meantime, started using his cellular phone to call his team back in Las Piernas.
I called Bea Harriman, worried. I could hear several voices in the background, but she said, “Oh, Irene, I’m so glad you’re here in town. Your friend at the paper said you’d be here around five. Are you staying overnight?”
“I’m not sure, Bea. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t mind having company on such short notice.”
“No, no, not at all. Some family friends have stopped by, and Cassie and Mike are over. We should be together.”
“Did my — uh, friend mention that Detective Thomas Cassidy is with me?”
“No,” she said, drawing the word out in a sound of uncertainty but recovering quickly. “It’s good that you have someone protecting you, though. By all means, bring him along.”
As I hung up, I glanced over at Brandon. He was starting to sweat again. Receiving the fax had sent him back into a panic. “Look,” he said, “maybe you shouldn’t be here. Letting you come here, I might have put other people in danger, too. You should go.”
“Brandon—”
“Please! Please just copy the last article and go!”
I looked to Cassidy for help. He was pretending fascination with the index tabs on the front of a file cabinet.
Staying out of it. Fine.
I went back to the microfilm reader, made the copies, rewound the spool. I shut down the machine and took the boxes of film to Brandon. He was seated at his desk, his hands shaking as he tidied papers. He didn’t look up at me.
“Thanks for letting us in here, Brandon,” I said. “And thanks for coming down here on a Saturday and all. Sorry for the trouble. You’re a true friend. When Frank is back home safe and sound, I’ll bring him by to thank you personally.”
“I’d like that,” he said, still not meeting my eyes. “Good luck, Irene.”
When we were back in his car, Cassidy said, “You were mighty gracious to him, considering he was giving you the bum’s rush.”
“No, I wasn’t. He’s up there feeling guilty.”
He grinned and opened the palm of his hand, pretended to write a note to himself. “Lady has a mean streak.”
“Keep that in mind.”
“Where to next?”
I wasn’t quite ready to face Bea, and she wasn’t expecting me until five. “A late lunch?”
“Sounds great.”
The coffee shop was just around the corner from the paper. We were the only customers, having arrived during those hours between lunch and dinner when sugar packets are replenished and ketchup bottles are refilled.
Cassidy ordered the biggest burger they offered, complete with salad and fries. Although it had been a long time since I had eaten, I didn’t have an appetite. I ordered a bowl of chicken soup and left it at that.
I handed Cassidy a copy of the last article and read my own copy while we waited.
According to the article, which quoted only unnamed “sources close to the investigation,” new discoveries had been made in the Ryan-Neukirk case. Dr. Gene Ryan had an addiction — not to drugs, but to gambling.
According to the sources, Ryan often flew to Las Vegas in his private plane but engaged in illegal gambling with local bookies as well. The arrest of one of the locals, coupled with several major drug busts, ultimately led to the new revelations about Ryan.
With Ryan’s addiction came gambling debts. Big ones. The doctor was making good money, but not good enough to keep up with his losing streaks. He also felt pressure to keep up appearances — in addition to the plane, the Ryans had a large home in an upscale neighborhood, a pair of Mercedes, country club memberships, and other costly trappings.
Ryan sought out investments that could give him quick turnaround and high yields — as well as a guarantee that the IRS wouldn’t hear of any profits. Nothing legitimate fit the bill.
Police now linked him to previously unsolved cases of hospital drug thefts, thefts that probably led to Ryan’s involvement with his killer — Christopher Powell.
Powell, it had been learned, had been introduced to Gene Ryan several months before their emergency room encounter. Powell was connected to an as-yet-unidentified supplier, a man who needed help transporting drugs. Ryan and his plane were hired, and soon the doctor was able to pay off his gambling debts. In true addict style, though, Ryan returned to the tables, gambling even more recklessly.
Indications were that Ryan had been active in a large-scale drug transportation operation not long before his death. Neukirk and his trucking business may have been involved as well, although that remained unclear.
The waitress served Cassidy’s salad. “What do you make of these reading assignments they gave you?” he asked once she had walked away.
