The Disappearance of Penny Page 10

I was getting an entirely different picture here. The diary read as if it were written by an eleven year old, not a young woman in her late teens. Could it be possible that Penny Hopkins was still a little girl? I mean, inside her head, maybe she had never grown up.

  And maybe the problem was more medical than emotional.

  Later in the diary, just two weeks before her disappearance this entry appeared: “I can’t take it much longer. I feel like I’m being torn apart, I love them so much.”

  I was starting to get pissed off the further I read. The girl obviously needed help and all she was getting was continued pressure from those two idiots she “loved.”

  The final pages grew even more anguished, until the very last entry: “I saw something just now that I think gave me the answer. I must go see Louie and ask for his help. I know he’ll help me, but I know what I’ll have to give him to get him to do it. It will be worth it, though. Daddy and Paul will be friends again.”

  The entry was dated the Friday she disappeared. She saw something that gave her the answer?

  Like what?

  And how could Melendez have helped?

  “Hank?” Brandy’s voice called from the bedroom, thick with sleep.

  “Out here.”

  She came out wearing a sweat shirt I had gotten as a gift once. On the front it said PRIVATE and on the back it said EYE. When she saw it she went crazy and ended up sleeping in it. That was all she wore, but she was so little that it covered up the most vital parts.

  “You okay?” she asked, sitting next to me on the couch.

  “I’m fine. There are just things going ‘round and ‘round in my head that won’t let me sleep.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, indicating the now closed book in my lap.

  “A diary, Penny Hopkins’ diary. I took it out of her room. I was hoping it would give me some insight into her character, or some idea of where she went.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yeah, a little. She’s confused, disturbed. She needs help.”

  “Do you think she went on her own?”

  “I was starting to. I thought maybe she finally realized that the two men she loves didn’t think any more of her than they did of a horse they fought over. She was just something else they were fighting over, not because either of them loved her, but because she was another piece of property to compete for. I thought maybe she’d seen that and took off.”

  “And now?”

  I tapped the book cover. “The girl in this book is too naive to ever realize that. She was still looking for a way to bring them together, the two men she loved most in the world. Jesus!”

  I got up to bring my dish and cup into the kitchen, and to shake myself from the mood I was in. I thought about a drink but decided against it. I was pissed, but I didn’t want to get maudlin.

  “If only I could get one solid picture of her in my mind. Everyone agrees that she was beautiful on the outside, but I get different opinions on what she was like on the inside. Whatever she was like, she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

  “Hank, you talk about her as if she were … dead. Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what I think, Brandy. She says in her diary that she saw something before she disappeared that might have solved her problem. If I could figure out what she saw, where she saw it, maybe I could figure out what it told her.”

  Brandy came over and put her hand on my arm.

  “Maybe you should try to sleep on it.”

  “No, I can’t sleep. You go on back to bed. You’ll want to get to the track early, for the workouts. I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t have to — ” she started to protest.

  I kissed her briefly, to shut her up. “I want to. Go on, get some sleep.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe I’ll watch some television. Go on, will you? I’ll be along soon.”

  She agreed finally, kissed me and went to bed.

  Earlier, I had some intentions of asking her about what I’d read in the transcript I’d found in Hopkins’ desk, but I hadn’t been able to. You have to have more faith than that in people you like.

  I sat on the couch again. Actually, I didn’t want to watch any damned television, I just told her that to —

  Wait a minute!

  It came to me like an electric shock.

  She saw something, as in “saw” on television!

  The TV guide I had seen in her room had check marks next to several programs.

  That was what she had seen, a program on TV.

  From what I could see from the diary, she was naive enough and impressionable enough to be influenced by something she saw on the television, but what could it have told her that would help her with her problem?

  In order to know that, I’d have to see the movie, too. And to do that I had to get a hold of a TV guide and see if I remembered what shows had been circled.

  Step one for tomorrow, then, was to identify that movie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I woke up the following morning stretched out on the couch with a blanket thrown over me. It was as if realizing that I might have a solid lead, having deciphered the last entry in Penny’s diary, my mind had relaxed enough to allow me to finally fall asleep.

  Brandy was gone. She left me a note saying that she hadn’t the heart to wake me so she had covered me, made a pot of coffee and left it on the stove. She signed it, “Love, Brandy,” which was something I would have to deal with at a later date.

  I got dressed and went out to try some stores to see if they carried that particular TV guide. They all informed me that they put out the new magazine on Wednesdays, and that they didn’t have the old one around. The new one wasn’t applicable until Saturday, so the one I wanted was the old one, which meant I was out of luck. I told them all that if they should find one I would appreciate it if they would hold it for me. They all agreed, but gave me the same look.

  When I’d hit five places and got the same answer from all five I realized that I was half a block from “Debby’s Pub.” I could kill two birds with one stone: pay her the money she had won on Eddie Mapes’ winner, and ask her if she had an issue of that particular guide.

  The place was crowded when I walked in and I wondered why so many people would be drinking that early until I noticed that they weren’t drinking, they were eating.

  Most of them were eating some sort of eggs, although I did notice some pancakes, and even a steak or two.

  Debby was behind the bar, but she was facing away from me when I walked in.

  I moved across to the bar and said, “I didn’t know you served food.”

  She turned her head and when she saw me gave me a genuinely beautiful, pleased smile. She was even more lovely than I remembered.

  “Henry, hi. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, but I — ”

  She held up her hands. “No but, please. I want you to sample our cuisine. My cook will be very insulted if you refuse.”

  “You have a cook?” I asked, surprised. This nondescript, no name establishment was turning out to be much more than just a bar.

  “Sure, my cousin.” She took a few steps and called through a doorway, “Rosellen.”

  A very pretty girl with big blue eyes and blonde hair tied back in a ponytail came out and said, “Debby, I’ve got four orders of eggs on.”

  “I want you to meet a friend of mine. Henry Po, my cousin and cook, Rosellen Gannero.”

  “So that’s Henry,” she observed. “He’s cute, Deb.”

  “So are you,” I told her.

  “And she’s a great cook,” Debby added. “What will you have, Henry?”

  “No menu?”

  “Just name it,” she told me.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll put myself in both your capable hands. Whatever you two decide.”

  “Deluxe, Rose,” Debby said to her cousin.

  “Right. See you later, Hen
ry,” she said before slipping back into her kitchen. “I hope so,” I answered.

  “C’mon, “Debby told me, “sit over here.”

  She led me to a table in a comer and sat with me. It was the only available table in the place.

  “We keep this table open for important visitors,” she explained.

  “I’m flattered. Do you watch television?” I asked her.

  “What?” she asked, shaking her head as if to make sure she had heard right.

  “Television, you know, the idiot box? Do you watch it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you buy a TV guide?”

  “Well, yes, but — ”

  “Which one?”

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then told me which one. It was the one I wanted.

  “Could I have it, for a while?” I asked.

  She leaned forward and asked, “What do you do for a living, Henry?”

  I handed her one of my current business cards: Henry Po, Special Investigator, New York State Racing Club.

  “Is that like a private detective?” she asked, eyes widening.

  Everybody had illusions about the “private eye,” I thought.

  “I am a licensed private investigator, yes,” I admitted.

  “And you need my copy of last week’s TV guide for something that you’re working on?”

  “Right.”

  Rosellen came over at that moment with my breakfast and set it down on the table in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I said, unable to believe my eyes.

  “Bon appetit,” she gave my cheek a fleeting stroke with her hand.

  “You eat your breakfast,” Debby told me, “and I’ll go upstairs and get that guide.”

  “Okay.”

  I stared at the table. There were scrambled eggs, home fries, an honest to God breakfast steak, a few strips of bacon, toast, coffee and orange juice.

  It was the best breakfast I’d ever had outside of Sally’s. The eggs were firm, the potatoes weren’t mushy, the bacon was crisp, the steak tender, the juice fresh and the coffee was definitely the best I’d ever had, bar none.

  Rosellen came for the plate before Debby returned.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Fantastic. Rosellen, you are one hell of a cook,” I said sincerely.

  She was obviously very pleased. She gathered up the plate and utensils and, before going back to the kitchen, said, “And this is the least of my talents.”

  I’ll bet it is, I thought, as I watched her pert little ass make its way back to the kitchen.

  Debby returned, carrying a copy of last week’s television guide.

  “You’re lucky, “she told me, handing it to me. “I kept it because I’m a crossword nut and I haven’t done this one yet.”

  “You don’t strike me as the crossword type. Aren’t these a little easy for someone who does them all the time?”

  “To a crossword nut, any unfinished puzzle is unfinished business,” she explained, “no matter how simple it may seem.”

  “I’ll get it back to you,” I promised. “Thanks, Deb.”

  “More coffee?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  I made a mistake right off. I had Friday on my mind because that was the night of her entry, therefore she couldn’t have seen the movie Friday night. As soon as I realized my error I turned back to Thursday night and found what I thought were the three programs Penny had checked off.

  I narrowed it down pretty quick because only one of the programs continued on past midnight to end on Friday morning. If the program had influenced her that strongly, the chances were good that she had made her entry right after seeing it.

  The listing told me that the movie had been shown on a local station and I had a friend that worked at this particular station. The rest of the listing was just the title, the fact that it was purported to be a drama, it had been made in 1949 and the plot description simply stated, “Silly love story.”

  It didn’t tell me anything about why or how the movie had affected Penny, but it did tell me something else important, and that was that it told me my next move. I’d have to get in touch with my friend at the station and try to arrange a private screening.

  Debby returned with my second cup of coffee, and one for herself.

  “Does it help?” she asked, seating herself across from me.

  “It helps a great deal,” I told her. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. How was breakfast?”

  “I told Rosellen, she’s a hell of a cook. It was great. I’m going to have to change the name of this place.”

  “Oh? To what?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not quite sure yet just what kind of place it is. How about ‘Paradise’?”

  She laughed. “That’s so sweet,” she said, touching the back of my hand with hers. “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t you advertise? You could probably make a fortune.”

  “I’m making quite enough, thank you,” she explained, and for a moment a shadow crossed her face and the smile fled. “I make enough to pay Rosellen and to live the way I want to live.” She smiled again and added, “That’s all I need.”

  “No ambitions to be wealthy?” I asked.

  She shook her head and answered: “None. How about you?”

  “I did, once. Thought I could make it gambling. You know, cards, horses. I went broke, worked my way back up and decided to be satisfied with what I could get. I didn’t have your potential.”

  She didn’t remark when I steered the conversation back to her. I decided to take her off the hook.

  “We’ll have to continue this conversation another time. Oh, here are your winnings,” I added, handing her three dollars and ninety cents.

  “The horse won?” she exclaimed, then looked at the money in her hand and counted it. “That’s all?”

  I took her other hand and said, “Remind me to explain short-priced favorites to you, sometime.”

  “I’ll remember, “she promised. She looked at the money in her hand again and added, “No wonder you went broke.”

  We got up and walked to the kitchen door together.

  “Thanks a lot for a great breakfast, Rosellen.”

  “Come back anytime,” she called back, then stuck her head out the door and said, “Debby’s off on Tuesdays.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her.

  I turned to Debby and said, “Thanks again, Deb. How much do I owe you for breakfast?”

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, you can’t — ”

  “Next time we talk, remind me to explain short-priced breakfasts to you.” I smiled. “I’ll remember.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I walked from Debby’s to West Fortieth Street and Broadway, where my friend’s office was at the television station. He worked on the twentieth floor and I hoped he would be in his office, as he rarely is.

  I took the elevator up and was buzzed through the locked glass doors by the receptionist.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Henry Po to see Chris Stein.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said, and dialed her phone.

  There are some chairs out in the reception area, and in one of them sat a girl with absolutely stunning legs. She appeared to be about twenty and was probably there for a job interview. Her face wasn’t that pretty, but she’d get the job. A pair of legs like that could be forgiven anything.

  “A Mr. Po to see you,” I heard the receptionist say into the phone. She listened a moment then hung up and said, “Go right in. Do you know the way?”

  “Yes, I do, thank you.”

  I took a last look at those legs and then went through a metal door to my right. I walked past some desks which were occupied by some very pretty girls, and wondered if their legs could match those of the girl out in the reception area.

  When I reached Chris’ office I found him as I always find him. He was seated a
t his desk amid a jumble of books, film cans, cassettes and videotapes. As I entered he extended his hand without rising.

  “Hello, Henry. So glad to see you.”

  “Hi, Chris. How are you?”

  “Oh, busy, very busy and very tired.”

  “As always.”

  Chris was in his early forties, chunkily built with a habit of working and playing more than he slept — much more than he slept. Most people’s waking hours outnumber their sleeping hours by a ratio of two to one. Chris’s ratio is probably six to one and fluctuating. He was active in several writing organizations, which is how we met. He had asked me to speak at a dinner for a group called The Mystery Writers of America, an organization for which he is regional vice-president. After that evening we became friends.

  “I haven’t seen you in such a long while, “he complained. “How have you been?”

  “Fine, Chris, just fine, but I could use your assistance right now.”

  “My help? I don’t know how I can help you, but I’ll do what I can, you know that.” Then he gave me a disapproving look and added, “You know how I hate horse racing.”

  Actually, he hated gambling of any sort.

  “This has nothing to do with horses, Chris, it has to do with movies.”

  “Well, in that case, what’s the problem?”

  I took the TV magazine out of my jacket pocket and showed him the page I was concerned with.

  “The movie your station showed at eleven-thirty I need either a screening of it, or a detailed explanation of what it was about.”

  He read the description — what there was of it — and put the book down. “Well, I never saw it, so I can’t give you the details.”

  “What about the screening?”

  “I don’t know if they would go for it here,” he told me. “I could probably borrow the film and you can screen it at my house. When do you want to see it?”

  “As soon as possible. It could be important to something I’m working on.”

  “All right, call me later and I’ll let you know if I was able to get the film.”

  “I’ll call you at four.”

  “Fine.”

  I got up and thanked him.

  “Can’t you stay for lunch?”

  “I’d like to, but not this time. I’ve got things to do.”