Sins of the Mother Page 4

  She pulled out her worn paperback, flipped through the dog-eared pages until she got to a picture kept in place by two solid paper clips, then handed the sheriff a screenshot blown up from a video. After all these years, she didn’t need to look at the photo to describe the all-natural topless brunette with big, curly hair in the style of the day. This particular image revealed a bright-pink birthmark on the back of the subject’s right arm.

  “I’m fairly certain this was her.”

  Martin studied the photo, then picked up another from his desk, a still taken of the corpse in the other room.

  “Doesn’t help much, does it, Sheriff?”

  “Boz,” he said, again. “You’re not entirely sure?”

  “Boz. I assume you’ll want some blood or a swab.”

  Martin’s eyes lingered on the photo. “We’ll have to send your sample to the state lab, but that should take care of matters.” He returned to her. “You haven’t seen your mother since your birth?”

  “Not in person. And from that angle, I don’t really remember anything pretty.”

  Martin finally laughed.

  Caitlin continued. “Of course, I looked her up from time to time. I think she left the industry in ’85, was arrested in San Francisco in ’89, then again in ’90, back in LA. Possession, then DUI. Nothing after that.”

  Martin set the photos down. “Maybe what’s in the safety deposit box will give you some closure.”

  “Maybe.” Caitlin returned the photo to the Bitch Book and refastened its rubber bands. What would closure even look like? A photo album full of pictures of Caitlin taken throughout the years from a stalker’s distance? Enough cash to quit work, maybe buy the LA Voice out from under the current regime? The name and location of her birth father? Regardless, the return flight she’d booked didn’t head home until the next afternoon. “How far away is Coos Bay?”

  CHAPTER

  8

  SHERIFF MARTIN OFFERED a ride in his SUV, but Caitlin opted to follow in the relative silence of her bright-green rental pickup. It wasn’t that she minded the company of strangers—she’d never had a problem making small talk—but Los Angeles rarely provided a winding country road with little to no traffic through beautiful woodlands, and the size of the pickup meant she could look down on all the other cars like a god.

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived in the town of Coos Bay, a picturesque isthmus dividing the Pacific Ocean from the namesake bay on the east. Rolling past fifty-foot piles of bucked and limbed Douglas fir trees outside more than one sawmill, Caitlin noticed they’d turned onto the 101, the same road that ran from Hollywood all the way to Seattle.

  Like at home, signs advertised familiar fast food and coffee, but the tugboats and trawlers docked along the bay and the mom-and-pop shops offering fresh fish-and-chips reminded Caitlin more of New England.

  The buildings, from single-story shopping centers to multistory office classics, had a built-in-1926-refinished-in-1980 feel, all weathered by rain and time. Caitlin counted several bar and grills lit by neon Pabst and Miller Lite logos, but the presence of sushi, Thai, and multiple Mexican places surprised her.

  They turned past a two-story building whose white brick walls had been covered by three giant photo panels of Olympic runner Steve Prefontaine. She was no Olympian, but Caitlin made a mental note to include the area in a future run, then shook her head. In her haste to pack, she’d left her running shoes behind.

  The sheriff took a side street to a bank parking lot. Like the streets around the restaurants, the lot offered plenty of available spots. She took the space next to the sheriff’s SUV and followed him to the door, where a uniformed officer from the Coos Bay Police Department waited. Martin introduced the man, who’d walked down from the city’s station house, but Caitlin could tell the meeting was a matter of interdepartmental courtesy and neighborly friendship. After a bit of small talk, the officer walked back to his station and they entered the bank.

  “Technically, I don’t have a right to be there when you open the box,” the sheriff said, after a teller had gone to retrieve the safety deposit container. “Since I haven’t gotten a warrant, everything in that box is considered your private property.”

  Caitlin shook her head. “I want you around in case there’s a mouthful of teeth and fingertips in this thing.”

  The teller returned and directed them into the safety deposit box vault. A long metal container sat on the table in the center of the room. Sheriff Martin opened a duffle bag and pulled out a camera, latex gloves, a handful of empty evidence bags, and one already-labeled Ziploc with a single key inside.

  He turned on the camera and took a test shot. “Better glove up.”

  Caitlin wriggled her fingers into a pair of disposable gloves, pulled the key out of the bag, and slid it into place.

  Martin raised the camera, hit record, and dictated the time, location, parties present, and a full disclaimer that he was there by Caitlin’s permission.

  Caitlin turned the key, took a deep breath, and touched the lid. “Let’s see what’s behind that dead woman’s door number two.”

  She pushed the panel back and up.

  No bats flew out, no overwhelming stench made her retch, no golden gleam made her avert her eyes.

  “Huh,” she said, underwhelmed.

  Martin leaned over her shoulder. “So what is in the box?”

  Caitlin reached for the first items. “Two California driver’s licenses, both expired in 1998. The first would probably be how the account was opened.” She handed him a faded plastic card with the name Sharon Sugar. “The other”—she paused and cleared her throat—“for Maya Aronson.”

  The faded photo showed the same face as the picture she’d given the sheriff, but here the woman was nearer Caitlin’s current age, in her early forties. Instead of the made-up starlet of the adult video, Caitlin found herself looking at a carnival mirror image of herself. Maybe not the nose, but the eyes and the lips definitely came from the same family tree.

  Martin handed her an open evidence bag. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” Caitlin placed the licenses into the bag, then reached for the next item, a black spiral notebook. “Okay, this looks like a journal or diary.”

  She perused the contents. Handwritten entries followed dates. Definitely a journal.

  Martin reached out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to requisition this notebook as part of a related investigation.”

  Again, the distinctions the sheriff was making between relevant evidence and Caitlin’s property felt unusual. Despite the hair rising on the back of her neck, she nodded and handed it over. “As long as I get a copy.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Just as soon as my forensics team checks it out.”

  Martin bagged the notebook, and Caitlin reached for the final item, a letter-sized envelope.

  “Oh,” escaped her lips. She shook her head, staring at the name written on the outside. “This is addressed to me.”

  It didn’t feel like a pile of cash, nor a detailed photo scrapbook, but for the first time since her teens, Caitlin actually had a piece of communication directly from Mama Maya. Maybe there was such a thing as closure.

  Suddenly aware of her mouth going dry, she opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out a trifolded piece of paper. Trembling, she straightened out the lined notebook paper and read the words to herself.

  Caitlin.

  I’m sorry this is the first letter I’ve ever written to you. Well, sent. I’ve written so many but never dared to bother you. Most of them said the same thing. I’m proud of who you have become and ashamed of who I was.

  If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Which means I made another wrong choice.

  I trusted someone to be true.

  They obviously weren’t.

  And you’re the only one who might care.

  The townspeople hate us.

  The police can’t be trusted.

  The Daughters have been misled, and either th
e Light has gone out, or the Cataclysm awaits.

  I can’t count the mistakes I’ve made in my life. There are too many. The only good thing I ever did was to leave you with Matt. And maybe what I’m doing now. Maybe what I’m doing now will count when the names are read.

  Though I have no right, I love you, daughter.

  Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird.

  Find the Five.

  * * *

  She watched Martin read the letter before placing it in with the rest of the box’s contents. “What are ‘the Five,’ Sheriff?”

  “What’s that, Miss Bergman?”

  “The letter mentioned ‘the Five.’ Any idea what that means?”

  Martin shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know a lot about Dayan dogma.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “You said your mother has a record. If we get any prints from the box, we’ll match them up. Of course, unless we get DNA that matches our victim—”

  Caitlin understood. “You still won’t know for sure—legally, that is—that the victim is my mom. You’ll need my DNA.”

  The sheriff already had a sealed tube in his hand. “If you would be so kind, swab this around your mouth.”

  Caitlin broke the seal, ran the sponge on a stick around her gums and cheek, then gave the sample back. “How soon will you know?”

  “This has to go up to Springfield. Not sure how long it’ll take them.”

  “Even though it’s a murder?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “If it was a murder.”

  For the briefest of moments, Caitlin wondered just how far her jaw could drop. “The woman’s missing her teeth and fingertips.”

  Martin glanced away and broke down the camera gear. “True, but the cause of death was a blow to the back of the head. There’s a lot of high drop-offs in these parts, lot of ravines. We might be looking at an accident—or even suicide.”

  Caitlin assumed the sheriff had heard the sound of her eyes bugging out of her head, because he turned back her way.

  “I said might. Obviously, whoever messed with the body didn’t want her identified, but that could mean anything. We’re looking at all of the options. I’ll let you know when we’ve got something.”

  More red flags than a communist parade went up in Caitlin’s head. She didn’t get the feeling Martin was a bad man, but she could tell he wanted nothing to do with the body found in the woods. But if that was the case, why bother calling her at all? And why was he handling this himself rather than delegating it to a deputy?

  “Fine,” she said. “When can I get a copy of the letter and the journal?”

  “I can have them scanned by Monday and get you a downloadable link.”

  “And the originals? I’m old-school, Boz. I like to hold a book in my hands.”

  Caitlin watched him chew the answer over. Personal effects of murder victims typically stayed in evidence lockers until convictions were made. His treatment of the journal would indicate his seriousness about the investigation.

  He snapped his hard-shell camera case closed. “Once we make the positive identification and get this whole nasty incident wrapped up, I’ll make sure to mail it your way.”

  For a county sheriff, the man knew how to say as little as possible.

  Caitlin walked toward the doorway, then reached for the bars of the open metal door that provided a second layer of protection behind the massive circular vault entry. As she slid one hand down the cold steel, her thoughts worked like busy little beavers, sending her into her tunnel.

  Was she going to wait for a lab report on a sponge full of spit to find out what happened to her mother—as in, the biggest question of her forty-some years on earth?

  Sheriff Martin didn’t seem to give a damn, and Caitlin figured any attempt to learn about Mama Maya through fellow cult members would be an uphill climb. Plus, she had to make a decision about work soon: whether to stay and watch her beloved Voice slide into the world of biased propaganda or to kiss ass through her address book to find employment at some other soon-to-fail publication. That kind of big-ticket life-altering direction change would require a solid week of organizing her closets, painting the kitchen, alphabetizing the bookshelves, and every other variation of procrastination she’d prefer over making the call.

  As logical and realistic as those nagging real-world points were, Caitlin knew they’d already lost to one stupid line from the letter.

  Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird.

  Back from the depths of her tunnel, she cleared her throat. “Save the cloud and print me a real copy. I’ll still be in town.”

  Martin zipped his bag and stood up straight. “You’ll still—”

  “I’ve got some time before I need to get home. I’ll reschedule my flight, find a hotel, and look around the state of Jefferson.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  NORMALLY CAITLIN OPTED for a local bed-and-breakfast when on the road, but a low-budget name-brand place on the edge of the bay offered rooms for sixty bucks a night. Confident she could find something nicer if her trip turned into an extended stay, she checked in, threw her suitcase in the room, then walked to a downtown bar with a banner advertising happy-hour drink specials.

  One cocktail and a plate of decent fish-and-chips later, Caitlin got out her laptop. Five minutes of background searches on the State of Jefferson brought her first smile in hours. Her homeless piece wouldn’t make the next issue, but Caitlin knew she could knock out two thousand words about Jefferson that would complement the three-state piece with a few phone calls. She wouldn’t change the world, but she might be able to expense her road trip—if Stan made room for the story. She typed up a pitch and shot off an email.

  That done, she started down the other rabbit hole and typed Daughters of God.

  The search, too generic, returned ten pages of results, but nothing referencing a cult.

  She thought back to the other name Martin had mentioned, the Dayans.

  As a Hebrew surname, she discovered, Dayan meant a Jewish religious judge, but in Sikhism, the word Daya meant suffering in the suffering of all others, a state deeper and more positive in sentiment than sympathy.

  Neither corresponded to a mass-published theism.

  What else was there?

  Maya Aronson’s letter mentioned the Light and the Five. Caitlin fought back a laugh. What religion didn’t include light or numerology?

  As in the bank, only one line in the woman’s note carried any significance.

  Be stronger than me, my crystalline bird.

  “Screw you,” Caitlin said, loud enough to turn the heads of the two guys at the only other occupied table in the place.

  She held up her hand. “Sorry, my computer did a thing.”

  The men went back to their beers. Caitlin got the waitress’s attention, ordered another drink, and tried not to think about the only other written message she’d ever gotten from her birth mother. The candles of her thirteenth birthday cake burned bright despite the years.

  * * *

  “What’s this, a book?” she asked her dad, feeling the give in the only one of her presents wrapped with brown paper. She’d already opened the gift she’d really wanted, a new Sony Walkman cassette player. Better than the other models, this one had a built-in microphone that would let her record audio, like the reporters on TV.

  “You’ll make detective before I do, Slugger.” Her father scratched his ear like he did when he had something uncomfortable to say.

  Caitlin looked the package over. “Another Chandler? Or maybe MacDonald? I like how he writes women.”

  That got him to smile. “Why couldn’t it be the new Sue Grafton?”

  “Too thin to be a modern mystery,” she said. “Feels flimsy, like decadent pulp.”

  He turned his blue Dodgers cap around. With the hat and his cop moustache, now the bushiest it’d been in years, her dad had a real Kirk Gibson thing going. Most of the men in the
city did; the Dodgers were two games from the World Series. “What else do you see?”

  She flipped the package over and found the paper barely held together by two lonely pieces of tape. She met her dad’s eyes. “You didn’t wrap this.”

  He reached for his pack of Marlboros, lit a fresh one. “Why do you say that? Show your work. You know, like you refuse to do in math class.”

  “The math in my class is so easy only idiots should have to show their work.”

  “You’re a middle-schooler who does calculus for extra credit and never makes a mistake, Caitie. Your teacher thinks you’re cheating.”

  “That dinosaur doesn’t believe women are capable of reasoning. You’re not like him, are you, Dad?”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Come on, genius. Let’s hear some reasoning.”

  “Fine.” She tapped on the package. “This is not your style. I had to cut into the other presents with a knife. This thing will slide open with a fart.”

  He gave her his best stern-dad eyes. Not the same as his serious on-duty look, because she could always see the smile ready to break free. “Caitie—”

  “Sorry.” She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight. “I mean this package would blow open with a gentle summer breeze.”

  “Better,” he said, taking a drag.

  “From my butthole.”

  His laughter interrupted his exhale, and the whole thing turned into a coughing fit. “Oh my sweet girl, save it for your bat mitzvah.”

  Now she was the one with the serious face. “I thought we agreed I didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s a rite of passage, Caitlin.”

  “For a religion neither of us follow.”

  “Being Jewish isn’t always about believing in God.”

  “No, I get it, Dad. I watch 20/20.”

  After watching the Israelis arrest Ivan “the Terrible” Demjanjuk—supposedly a notorious former concentration camp guard at Treblinka—in April, Caitlin rarely missed the news. Added bonus: Barbara Walters didn’t take shit from anyone.