by Flora, Kate;
Twelve
Back in the parking lot, he thanked them both for their good work and saw them both react with pleasure. He told Dani that as soon as she’d determined the make of the saw, she should let Sage Prentiss know. Then he watched them drive away. They’d done good work out there. Now he had to curb his impatient desire to know what that saw could tell them. Would the section of broken teeth match? Would there be blood on the saw that could be matched their victim? Could Wink and Dani find fingerprints on the saw or the bag? So many possibilities. It would be hard to wait for the answers.
He sat in the truck, debating whether to get the dog out here now, or keep the path closed for another day. The expense of another day of patrol’s time, plus the complaints they could expect from frustrated walkers and joggers brought him down on the side of now. Assuming, of course, that their K9 handler was available. He made the calls to get that underway, confirmed the dog, and called Kyle and Perry to update them.
This time, Perry answered. “Got anything?” Burgess asked.
“Maybe. It’s the usual, ‘I think I remember her, but the person you really need to talk to isn’t in today’ thing. And I can’t reach the person I really need to talk to, so I’m in ‘come back tomorrow’ mode. How about Terry?”
“He’s drawing blanks. But I may have something.” He told Perry about the saw.
“Cool. People have no idea how weird these cases can be. I couldn’t even tell Lily about the crime scene. She just patted her belly and said she didn’t want to hear it.”
He battled the urge to ask Perry whether he was comfortable with a lifetime of not being able to discuss his cases. Some cop marriages worked like that. Perry was in a bind. He loved Lily and she was pregnant with his child. Burgess didn’t see how he could have had a relationship with someone who never wanted to hear about his cases. He was lucky Chris was a nurse. She didn’t flinch at things, frequently reminding him that nurses saw a lot of ugly and troubling stuff as well.
“They’re bringing the dog over to see if there’s anything else out there we might have missed. Remy spent hours crawling around on his hands and knees, but he’s done, and the dog will be more efficient. Maybe you want to come out, we can have our meet here, then go home and have a quiet evening.”
Stan Perry laughed. “In your dreams. The night Joe Burgess goes home and has a quiet evening with an unsolved homicide going? Not possible. But sure. Meeting now would be good. Then I can go home and listen to Lily fuss about how impossible it is to find a dress when she’s big as a house, and what color the linens should be. I am really looking forward to that. See you in ten.”
“Before I forget,” Burgess said, “The best man thing. Suit? Tux? Dress uniform?”
“I don’t even know what I’m wearing,” Perry said. “I’ll check with Lily. She’s going nuts. I think the invites will be e-mailed. They should be going out tonight.”
“So what happened? You finally propose?”
“I was getting around to it. Before I got there, she proposed to me and I could hardly say no.”
Musing on how that proposal went—had Lily gotten down on one knee? Had she had a ring in her pocket?—Burgess called Kyle and updated him. Kyle was good with meeting now. Said he might need twenty minutes, he had to pick Anna up at day camp and bring her home. It was just weird, according to the rest of the world’s norms, to go from a horrific crime scene to taking the family for fireworks and ice cream. To go from trying to identify a murdered girl to picking your own girl up at day camp. How did they all manage to sit at their dinner tables, chatting about everyday stuff, when the insides of their heads were papered with horror?
In cop world, of course, nothing ever goes as planned. The dog had to be postponed because they had a missing three-year-old. Kyle had to pick up Anna and then Lexi and drive both girls to their mother’s house and Stan was needed at home to consult about the flowers.
So, despite the strain it put on the department’s budget, Burgess left patrol in the lot for another night. They’d release it in the morning after they brought in the dog, but if there was more to be found, he didn’t want to make it easy for the bad guys to sneak in and get it. It frankly didn’t make sense to him for the killer to leave something like that saw near the body site. Nor, for that matter, to have left the body there. But killers were sometimes stupid, or had their own kinds of logic. Often part of his challenge was understanding that logic.
He called Chris, said he’d be home for dinner after all, and headed back to 109.
There was a message on his computer from the officer who’d followed Hooper. He’d run the plate number. Car belonged to an eighty-five-year-old woman named Ida Mae Wilson who lived out in the Deering Flats. They had followed the car to that address, where Hooper had parked and gone inside.
Who was Hooper and what was his relationship to Ida Mae Wilson? Another question for Burgess’s growing list. He’d get Dani to grab a shot of Hooper from their surveillance tape, see if anyone recognized the man. Get Rocky to do a search, learn everything he could about Charlie, or Charles, Hooper. If that was even his name. Despite the sins parents committed in naming their children, Burgess was pretty sure the man’s name wasn’t Ida Mae Wilson. Probably good to do a search on Ida Mae Wilson as well.
He ran his own quick search to establish that she wasn’t dead. Then, because he still had some time before dinner and it was too soon to expect anything from Dani and Wink. He decided to pay a visit to Hooper to see if Mrs. Hooper was at home. His desk was covered with messages, but a quick review said none of them were urgent.
On the drive to Hooper’s house—if it was Hooper’s house—Burgess puzzled over Captain Cote’s uncommon silence. He couldn’t recall a newsworthy homicide in the past where Cote wasn’t breathing down his neck immediately, demanding updates and reports. Was the man unwell? Up to his ears in the challenges of handling the business with Bambi Bailey? Afraid to put his usual pressure on Burgess because he owed Burgess his life? That would be a surprise. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, and when he and Kyle had rescued Cote, they’d never for a moment expected Cote to return to work as anything but his usual aggravating and insensitive self.
Figuring he should be grateful for small favors, he shelved Cote and thought about what approach he should take when he got to Hooper’s house.
As it turned out, he didn’t get to take any approach, because Hooper’s—or Ida Mae’s—car wasn’t there, and no one answered the door.
Deciding to come back later, he headed for home. His family wasn’t back yet, so he grabbed his good suit, his dress uniform, and Chris’s favorite dress, and drove them to the cleaner’s.
Windows down, enjoying the salt-tinged, soft summer air, he was cruising back home, thinking of summers in his childhood, when his cell phone rang. Cote, at last? But it was Stan Perry.
“I’m back at the tattoo parlor, Joe. The guy who may have done Mermaid’s tattoos just came in, and they had him call me. I think you should hear this.”
He reeled off the name of the place, Sweety’s Tattoos, and an address.
So much for family dinner. He was almost home, so he stopped and dropped off the flowers he’d gotten for Chris, left a quick note of apology, and got back in the truck.
This wasn’t the first time he’d used a tattoo to help ID somebody, just the first under these circumstances. He didn’t understand the desire for tattoos. His concern was keeping his skin intact, not decorating it. His decorations were the scars from crossing paths with bad guys during thirty years on the job.
He found the place, parked, and found Stan inside, deep in conversation with a guy the size of a refrigerator, with a braided red beard and a ponytail. Perry introduced him as Levon “Call me Vonnie” DeSpain.
DeSpain offered him a beer, which he refused, and pointed to a chair. “Take a load off, Sarge. Me and Stan here are hoping maybe you’ve found your girl.”
Thirteen
“I wouldn’t normally discuss o
ne of my clients,” DeSpain said, in a voice so deep it sounded like the rumble of a Harley, “but Stan here tells me that the girl you’re looking for is dead, so I guess talking about her can’t do her any harm.”
He flicked a glance at Perry, looking for confirmation.
“If it’s our girl,’ Perry said. “Tell Joe what you just told me.”
“She was just a kid,” DeSpain said. “I’d guess not more’n fourteen, if that, except she looked older ’cuz of the boobs, you know. Kids don’t have boobs like that. At least not skinny little kids like her. But she was very poised. Very sure of herself. She knew what she wanted and she had the money to pay for it.”
“When was this?” Burgess asked.
“Back in the winter. January, I think. Business was kinda slow after Christmas. People were kinda tapped out, so I had the time. Come spring, summer, I have people booked maybe two, three months out.”
“Did she come alone?”
“Nope. Had some guy with her. First I thought maybe her daddy, but she didn’t act like he was her daddy. Then I thought maybe he was her sugar daddy, but there wasn’t nothin’ sweet about him. He didn’t say much, but he just acted indifferent, maybe, and kind of irritated, like he’d let her come get a tattoo, but he was pissed about it. Except when I balked at her age, which she lied about anyway, he said ‘we’re paying you, okay, so just give her the goddamned tat that she wants.’”
“What did she look like?”
“She was pretty. Very pretty. Maybe 5’5”. Long dark hair, a brown that was almost black. Big brown eyes with a ton of eye makeup. Had one of them…what are they called? Heart-shaped faces. I think that’s what they’re called. She was a sweet little thing.”
A big guy himself, Burgess figured everyone was little to DeSpain. “She tell you her name?”
DeSpain tugged on his beard. “She was a little hinky about that. She started off okay, said her name was Shelley. Then the guy said something, or maybe it was just he made a sound, you know. And she kinda gasped, like she was scared. I was fillin’ out the card, see. I keep cards on people, you know, so I can keep track of appointments, and what work I’ve done for ‘em. Sometimes, you know, person’ll come in complaining about some work I did, only it worn’t work that I did. It was someone else screwed up and they’re trying to put it on me. Anyways, she stops and won’t give me her last name. She says just Shelley will do.”
“Do you take pictures, too, so you can keep track of the work you do?” Burgess asked.
“I do. Lotta times, it’s not of people’s faces, you know. Just of my work.” He smiled proudly. “It’s art, you know. We don’t always get credit for that, but it’s art.”
Burgess looked at Perry. “Is there a card? You’ve seen it?”
“There is. It’s definitely the same tattoo. But it’s just the arm. There’s not much more to see.”
Burgess was disappointed, of course. But still, they were getting closer. “Do you mind if we take the card and photos, Mr. DeSpain? So we can match it to our victim?”
“I got no problem with that.”
There was a curtain behind DeSpain, and behind the curtain, a tool was buzzing and someone was moaning softly, a steady, sotto voce litany of oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
“How many times was Shelley here?”
“Three, I think.”
“And did the man always come with her?”
“Two times it was that same one. The light haired, indifferent one. One time, it was another guy. Looked like a businessman. He was meaner to her. But that girl, someone was using her as a punching bag. She was always bruised.”
“Can you describe the men?”
“The first one, he was in his forties, maybe, with light hair. He used something on his hair, what my teenage kid calls ‘product’ to keep it in place. Kind of a narrow face without enough chin, if you know what I mean. He looked weak. Like a wimp. His body, it looked strong and fit. It was just his face, you know. It was weak and what my grandma woulda called peevish. Like he was not a happy guy and liked to take his problems out on others.”
Hooper, Burgess wondered? When he got a picture, he’d bring it back and see if DeSpain recognized the guy.
“Tell us about the second guy.”
“He looked, I don’t know, kind of like an insurance salesman. He was wearing pants and a vest that matched, like somewhere there was a coat to make it a suit. Shirt and tie. Nice if you don’t mind guys wearing lavender. The shirt, I mean. The tie had purple and pale yellow stripes. Kinda bright. ‘Course, I don’t know what he does, so maybe where he works they’re okay with lavender shirts and purple ties. World is changing, ya know?”
He got kind of a gleam in his eye. “You’d never guess I used to work in insurance, would you? I was shaving one morning, getting ready for work, and suddenly I thought, this sucks. I’m not happy, why am I doing this? So I studied the art of the ink, as I like to call it, and when I was ready, I gave my notice, started growing my beard, and quit.”
He waved an arm to indicate the room. “Been doing this twelve years and I’ve never been happier.”
“Anything distinctive about either man? Anything that might help us locate them?”
“Not really. We didn’t chat or anything.” DeSpain shook his head, then said, “Well, the meaner one, and he was older, too, like fifties, not forties, he drove something like a town car. You know, those black cars that pick up VIPs at the airport. Like one of them. I kinda wondered if he was a limo driver. They dress nice, too. I didn’t ask him, though. He was a snob and made it clear he wasn’t interested in talking to someone like me. That time, it was maybe February, the girl, Shelley, seemed real down, so I was paying attention to her.”
“Did you notice bruises on her that time, too?”
DeSpain nodded. “That time was when I called DHHS, hoping maybe they could do something for her. Kid like that should have a better life.”
He stopped, remembering why they were there. “’Course, I don’t know whether they even would have been able to find her, when all I had to give them was a first name, Shelley, and a phone number. That number could have been fake. Her name coulda been fake, but I thought it was real from the way the guy acted when she said it. I never called her or nothin’. I decided the next time she came, I was going to get more information from her and really do something. We had another time scheduled, to put some more flowers around that mermaid, but she never came back. And I forgot about calling that number.”
He looked at them, like he wasn’t sure, after what he’d said, that they’d believe him. “I’ve got a kid of my own. She’s sixteen. I worry all the time.” He grabbed his head in two big hands. “And now you’re telling me this girl Shelley is dead.”
“If that’s your work in the picture Perry showed you, then yes,” Burgess said, “she is dead. We appreciate your help. We’d also appreciate it if you didn’t speak of this to anyone. We’re trying to keep the details about her tattoo out of the press. We don’t plan to use it unless we can’t identify her any other way.
“No problem there,” DeSpain said. “I’ve got no love for…what’s it called? The Fourth Estate.”
Burgess and Perry didn’t either.
He thought of something else. “This girl, did she ever touch them, the card or the pictures?” He was thinking about fingerprints.
“Not that I recall.”
It was a long shot. Not likely that girl that young was in the system anyway.
“Thank you for your time,” Perry said, and they left.
Perry had the card, and DeSpain’s pictures of the girl’s tattoo as it progressed. They’d go over them with a magnifying glass, but it didn’t look like the pictures were going to give them much.
“Good work, Stan,” Burgess said. “Got time for a drink or are bridal flowers and table linens calling?”
“When you put it that way, I’ve got time for several drinks. Guess I should be grateful we’re planning this in two weeks ins
tead of two years. Oh, and I spoke with Lily. She says your dress uniform.”
Burgess didn’t drink that often. Alcohol represented his best friend, temptation, and nemesis. He sometimes needed the comfort it brought. Always feared that he’d find he was turning into his father. But tonight he wasn’t ready to go home. It looked like Stan wasn’t, either.
“I think we should call Terry, too.”
They’d be getting together anyway. Why not now? So Burgess called him.
Kyle rarely came out to drink either. But sitting around relaxing and batting ideas around had proven to be a good way to give nebulous investigations some structure. So far, this felt like trying to reassemble a broken vase from tiny pieces without knowing what it had looked like before it was broken.
Kyle said yes.
Fourteen
Burgess and Perry hadn’t eaten yet, and Kyle was always hungry, so drinks became dinner at the steakhouse where Kyle had met Michelle. It was quiet, affordable, and a place where they weren’t likely to run into anyone they knew. They didn’t need the romantic, candlelit ambiance, or the soft jazz, but it was soothing. Even hardboiled homicide guys sometimes needed to be soothed.
Burgess waited until their drinks arrived to bring up business. Before that, it was family stuff and cop shop gossip—who’d had what crazy cases, who was sleeping with someone other than their spouse, who was in trouble with the brass.
“Speaking of trouble,” Burgess said. “Has anyone heard from Captain Cote?”
“Not me,” Kyle said.
“I did,” Perry said, and the other two leaned in, astonished. “He asked me for an update. Asked where were my reports. Wanted to know all about the crime scene.” He grinned at his colleagues. “Don’t know how I got anointed. Maybe he’s afraid of you two now.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What could I tell him? That we were working on our reports but everyone was out in the field, first twenty-four and all that, and I’d pass his questions along to Joe. Did I do okay? Because I really do not want to become his go-to guy.”
