Paradox

by Catherine Coulter

  Cindy shuddered and hung on to Sherlock. “My mom and dad were here. She yelled at me, said it was my fault for inviting a stranger to my apartment. We argued, and they stalked out. My older brother, Hank, he’s an army sergeant in Afghanistan. I know he would have come and hugged me like you’re doing. Even if he’d agreed with my folks, he would have stayed with me.” She hugged Sherlock tighter and started crying. She wheezed out, “It was my fault, really. I did flirt with him. He—Victor—was nice and polite, and I thought maybe he’d give me some of that huge bankroll he had. But then the second he got to my apartment, he turned into a monster.” Cindy put her face against Sherlock’s hair, tightened her arms around her, and wouldn’t let go.

  Sherlock rocked her, whispered against her tangled hair. “You’re all right, Cindy. You survived and learned not to trust someone you don’t know well.” She eased her back to look at her face. “No matter what anyone says, you saved yourself from a very bad man. You did it, no one else. Now it’s time for you to get ahold of yourself and tell us exactly what happened so we can catch him, make sure he never tries this again.”

  A lone tear streaked down Cindy’s pale cheek. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, yes, I can do that.”

  Sherlock said, “You said the photo the chief showed you was Victor, but he looked different. How?”

  “His hair was dark brown, on the long side, and he had glasses, with black frames that made him look smart, you know? And he had this pathetic beard. He was so nice to me, so cute—he left a hundred-dollar bill, and his dinner was only twenty dollars. I saw him pull it out of a big rubber-banded roll of hundred-dollar bills. But it wasn’t all about the money—well, some of it wasn’t. I liked him, I really did. He was sweet and very respectful. And then he changed, so fast. He wanted to kill me.”

  53

  * * *

  “I’m going to record this, Cindy, is that all right?”

  Cindy had already described everything to Chief Pearly, answered his questions over and over. Now she realized why Chief Pearly had made her repeat things. He’d done it on purpose, to help her remember all the details. She could tell it all easily now, in logical order, thanks to him. She described how Victor had followed her to her apartment in a mud-brown Chrysler, described exactly where she’d been standing in her apartment when he’d come at her.

  Sherlock said, “That first time you kicked him, you said you meant to kick him in the crotch, but you got him in the belly. He screamed at you that you’d kicked his staples?”

  “Yes. But what staples? Had he just had surgery? He didn’t act like he’d been in pain at all, not until I kicked him. He bowed in on himself, and I could tell I’d really hurt him. He screamed at me, but it was strange. His voice was high-pitched, and he sounded crazy mad.”

  Sherlock felt the saliva dry in her mouth. She looked over at Dillon. He didn’t look surprised.

  Chief Pearly said, “Cindy, are you sure you heard him say ‘staples’?”

  Cindy nodded. “We talked about this, Chief. It had to be surgical staples. I mean, what other kind could there be? Then he came at me again, and again, and I finally managed to kick him in the crotch. That sent him to his knees, howling. I ran to the front door, but it was really humid and the door stuck. He was screaming at me in that mad, crazy voice again. I looked back, saw he had a gun. I knew I couldn’t get the gun away from him.” Her voice hitched. “I kept pulling on the door, and it opened just as he fired. I swear I felt the heat of the bullet as it went past my head, and see? On my neck? The Band-Aid? When the bullet slammed into the door, splinters came flying out. I ran and ran all the way to Chief Pearly’s house on Gleason Road. He went back to my apartment, but Victor was gone.”

  Chief Pearly said, “Cindy, you said he was driving a mud-brown Chrysler.”

  She nodded. “Like I told you, Chief, it didn’t occur to me to look at the license plate number. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, but you remember the plate was white, which means the car’s registered in Virginia. Agent Savich, you said you think it could be headed to Fort Pessel, Virginia?” Chief Pearly pinned Savich with a look. “How do you know he’s headed to Fort Pessel?”

  “It was a home of sorts to him for a while, but basically, it’s my gut talking.”

  Savich knew Victor might already have been to the Smiley house and dug up the bank robbery money as soon as he’d escaped. He had shown off a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills to Cindy last night. Then why would he go back? If he already had all that money, not just a roll but a suitcase full, why was he still here? There had to be a reason, besides revenge. Savich already had agents camped out at the Smiley house in Fort Pessel, watching for any sign of Victor.

  He studied Cindy’s pale, very pretty face. “Cindy, I’d like you to tell me as best you can exactly what Victor was like when he attacked you and you kicked him in the stomach.”

  “It was sort of like that old movie about that weird guy who was two people—Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” She shrugged. “That sounds crazy, but really, all of a sudden, he looked like he wanted to rip off my face. I remember his eyes, they were darker, slitted, and mean, really mean. The change in him, it was scary, terrifying.” She swallowed. “Do you believe me?”

  Savich said, “Yes, I believe you.”

  Sherlock said, “So you were hoping this cute guy with his wad of bills could be your ticket out of Winslow?”

  Cindy’s eyes fell to her flip-flops. “Well, yes, I guess.”

  Sherlock looked at the girl who’d survived Victor Nesser. “How old are you, Cindy?”

  Her eyes went to Sherlock’s face. “Twenty. On August twenty-ninth. I’m a Virgo.”

  “Virgos with guts are really good at applying themselves, Cindy. Sounds like you could make a top-notch Virgo.”

  “How?”

  “First thing, figure out what interests you. If you don’t know, go online and look at some of the curriculums of the state schools in this area. You could take some required classes this fall. It would help you figure out what you want to do.”

  Cindy looked at her in amazement. “You want me to go to college? Some dumb state school? My folks would laugh at me, tell me I’m wasting my time. My friends would laugh at me for trying to be a geek, and worse. As for my sister, she’d tell me to marry Jimmy Folks and have babies.” Cindy actually shuddered.

  “Would your brother Hank laugh?”

  Cindy didn’t even pause. “No, I guess Hank would tell me to get off my butt and go for it.”

  Sherlock hugged her. “There you go. Maybe it’s time for you to be more open to things, to make a change. Skype Hank, see what he has to say. The important thing is not to waste this wonderful life you’ve been given, not to sell yourself short. Look at what you already did—you saved yourself from a very scary man.”

  Cindy stared at Sherlock, then she laughed. “I’m not about to sell myself short, not anymore. And I’m not about to waste my time sitting on my hands in some dorky classroom with other kids who don’t give a crap about the history of the world. No thank you. I have better things to do.”

  “What sorts of things, Cindy?”

  “Well, before last night, before that crazy man Victor, I couldn’t make up my mind. I realize now I was too scared to take a chance, but it’s like you said, Agent Sherlock, I’m a hero. I saved myself. No more doubts, no more being scared. I’m not going to put up with all these local hicks shouting at me all the time. ‘Cindy? Get me catsup.’ ‘Sweet cheeks, get me another beer.’ ‘Hey, cutie, wanna go out with me?’ ” She shuddered. “No more. I can do better than that. From today on, I’m going to be Tennessee. Yeah, Tennessee Wilcox—that name has guts, not a name to mess with, not like Cindy. The creeps can get their own catsup. And I’m going to save my money and go back to Las Vegas.” She beamed at Sherlock, hugged her again, and gave the chief back his jacket.

  Back in the Volvo, Savich turned on the air-conditioning, leaned over to pat Sherlock’s arm, kissed her, and cupped her
face in his palm. “Good try, sweetheart. Tennessee has a real ring to it. Perfect for Las Vegas, don’t you think?”

  54

  * * *

  SPARROW CREMATORIUM

  HAGGERSVILLE, MARYLAND

  WEDNESDAY

  The Sparrow Crematorium was a modern two-story white stucco building with beautifully kept grounds, standing in the middle of a small park of pine and maple. Cars were tucked discreetly to the side with a dozen or so sitting under the blazing sun, most with sunscreens across the windshields. There was no hint of smoke or cinder in the air, maybe because they cremated at night. Like most people, Ty knew they burned bodies in an oven, then scooped up the ashes and put them in an urn of the family’s choosing. And like most people, she didn’t want any more particulars.

  Sala and Ty walked a long flagstone path toward the main entrance set beneath two white Doric columns. No one seemed to be about.

  “I’ve never been to a crematorium before,” Ty whispered. “All that white, it looks so clean, so—sanitary.”

  “I guess that would relieve my mind if I planned to cremate one of my family, and that’s the point. Ty, pull up, I want to talk a minute. Let’s catch some shade under that oak tree.” The shade felt good, relieved the nearly skin-searing heat a bit. Sala said, “Here’s the thing about Mr. Henry LaRoque being cremated here: I can’t help but remember that crematorium in Noble, Georgia, the Tri-State Crematory. They weren’t burning bodies like they were supposed to, they were throwing them out like refuse on their property. I remember people even reported seeing bodies next to the building, but the local sheriff kept claiming everything was fine.

  “It’s a textbook case, right? Lots of papers written about it, FBI profilers chewed it over, and yet I still don’t understand why they did it. Why didn’t the owners simply cremate the bodies like they were paid to do? Running the ovens costs that much? If so, why didn’t they simply pass the cost along? If it was only about greed, then why not at least bury the bodies deep? No one would have ever known what they did. It was rank stupidity—imagine dumping dead bodies like so much trash close to their facility. Didn’t the owners think people would notice? Didn’t they consider they’d be reported?”

  He paused, looked out over the peaceful lawn. “And now we find a whole lot of bones in Lake Massey. And the belt buckle in among all those bones. And we are at another crematorium.”

  Ty said, “I remember the owner, Ray Brent, served twelve years in prison. And of course many families sued in civil courts. But it’s not enough for what he did—for years. I remember thinking he should have gotten life imprisonment.”

  Sala said, “There’s flat-out crazy, like Victor Nesser, and then there’s evil, people who are so perverted there don’t seem to be any limits, like Brent.”

  Ty said, “Sala, I get it. We’ll find out if the Sparrows dumped those bodies in Lake Massey. Doesn’t exactly look like that kind of place, though, does it?”

  “Neither did the Tri-State Crematory in Georgia.” He studied her face, summer tanned, her intelligent green eyes with absurdly long lashes, her curly dark brown hair blowing around her face, her stubborn chin and the line of freckles marching across her nose. Sala realized he admired her. More than that, he was grateful to her. “It’s all about helping the victims for you, isn’t it? Most recently me.” He squeezed her arm. “Thank you, Ty.”

  Ty lightly touched her fingertips to his hand. “And thank you for being here with me. Now, let’s go have a talk with the Sparrows. I saw you on your iPad on the way over here. Did you find anything interesting?”

  They looked up when an older couple walked past them, their heads close together, in quiet conversation. He waited until they were out of hearing. “I looked up the Sparrow Crematorium, established by the current owners’ grandparents in the mid-sixties. The parents, Elaine and Jonah Sparrow, were both killed in an auto accident five years ago, clearing the way for the current owners, their children, Landry and Eric. Landry, the older son, is forty-four years old, and he’s married to Susan. She’s thirty, married Landry nearly six years ago. A pretty big age difference between them.”

  “So Susan married Landry Sparrow before the parents died in the auto accident.”

  “Yes. Their car ran off a bridge into the Kersey River about thirty miles east of here during a bad snowstorm. It was ruled an accident. What a suspicious mind you have, Chief Christie.”

  “No, not really. So now the younger generation is running things.” Ty waved her hand around her. “This place looks up-to-date, modern, well maintained. It’s in a beautiful setting. It looks prosperous, like they’re doing well financially.”

  “And not all that far away from Lake Massey.”

  “Sala, to be honest here, a Serial makes the most sense to me, not another rogue crematorium dumping bodies they were supposed to burn in the oven.”

  “Easy enough to determine,” Sala said. “We can have some of the urn ashes they returned examined, verify they’re human.”

  Ty frowned at him. “I never thought of that.”

  He grinned at her, chucked her chin. “Well, I’m FBI, and you’re only a lowly police chief.”

  They were both smiling when they opened the wide white double doors and walked into the foyer of the Sparrow Crematorium to be hit in the face with cold air. It was wonderful.

  “Nice place,” Sala said. The white walls were wainscoted with dark wood, making a beautiful contrast. There were flowers on a single table, a mirror behind it. It was like a lovely home, except that at the end of the foyer was an obvious reception area. An older woman with beautiful gold hair streaked with thick hanks of white sat behind a mahogany desk, watching them approach. The area was softly lit, soothing, Ty supposed, for the mourning families, reassuring them they were in the right place, doing the right thing.

  It was very quiet, the older couple who’d passed them outside nowhere to be seen. Where were the owners of all those cars in the parking lot? Perhaps at a viewing? Simply standing here in this building made Ty uncomfortable. Was it because of a human’s natural fear of death and being forced to face it? Was being burned in an oven better than being buried under six feet of black earth? The dead person wasn’t there to care. It was so quiet, she noticed her own boots clacking across the rich dark oak floor.

  The woman gave them a full, warm, very sympathetic smile. “How may I help you?”

  Sala pulled out his creds and handed them to her. She studied them a moment, then looked at Ty’s ID. “I’ve been expecting you. Mrs. Chamberlain at the post office called to tell me you’d be coming to speak to Susan because of Gunny. Oh yes, forgive me, I’m Ms. Betty Chugger. Ever since Mr. Chugger ate himself into a heart attack and keeled over while he was fishing in his boat, eating a hot dog, I decided I wanted to be called Ms., not Mrs. I guess that makes me all modern now. I hope you’re not here to tell me Gunny’s dead?

  Ty said, “No, she’ll be fine, but she isn’t called Gunny anymore. It’s Leigh, Leigh Saks.”

  “Leigh? Why Leigh? Why did Lulie change her name?”

  Sala said, “Leigh herself changed back to her birth name, told her mother she was no longer Gunny, she was Leigh. That’s her real name, Leigh Ann Saks.”

  “Fancy that,” Ms. Chugger said, shaking her head. A beam of sunlight from the skylight overhead speared down on her hair, making it look like spun gold. “After a blow to the head, it’s a wonder she even remembered her real name. Well, strange things happen all the time, don’t they?”

  “Indeed they do,” Ty said. “Did you personally work with Leigh, Ms. Chugger?”

  “I hate to say anything about a person who could die—”

  “We told you, ma’am, Leigh is going to be fine,” Sala said. “Were you working here when Leigh was?”

  “Oh yes. Gunny—Leigh—worked here about a year before she left to go to work at the post office. You ask me, that was a favor to Lulie, hiring poor little Gunny—Leigh. Sorry, she wasn’t Leigh then, she was Gunny, b
ut all right, I can call her Taylor Swift if she wants. I remember you had to explain everything to her slowly, usually twice, but when she learned, she did simple tasks well. She’s a lovely girl, beautiful like her mother, Lulie—silly name, but Lulie’s such a superb baker, no one cares.” Ms. Chugger shook her head. “It’s a pity, but Leigh was born simple, or the idiot doctor who pulled her out of Lulie must have ruined her brain, whatever. Poor child.

  “I remember Lulie called Susan to tell her Gunny admitted she couldn’t stand working here any longer, too many nightmares about seeing people on that conveyor belt headed into the oven.” She looked put out. “There’s nothing depressing or scary about it, I assure you. Everything is done with great respect. Landry oversees that part of our services. He always says a prayer for the deceased. Besides, if Gunny—Leigh—ever saw anything, she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Chugger,” Ty said. “We’d like to see Susan Sparrow now.”

  Ms. Chugger nodded over her left shoulder. “She’s in the second office to your right. Both the boys are with her.”

  “Boys?”

  “I mean both Landry and Eric Sparrow are with her. I’m old enough to be their mother, so yes, they’re still boys to me.”

  Ty said under her breath as they walked down the wide hallway, past former Sparrows’ portraits on the walls, all the way back to the mid-sixties, “Didn’t you say Landry was forty-four?”

  “I guess if you live in a small town, you stay young until all the older folks die off. Then you graduate to being an adult.”

  Ty paused a moment to look at the painting of a handsome middle-aged man and woman identified by a gold plaque as Elaine and Jonah Sparrow, who’d died in the car accident and were the parents of the current Sparrows.

  “They were fine people,” a woman said from an open doorway down the hall. “I’m Susan Sparrow, do come on back.”