The last minute booking had Maude and Joe sitting on opposite sides of the plane with no way to talk. She hadn’t forgotten about her partner’s fear of heights and airplane travel, but there was no way to help him cope from across the aisle three seats down.
She knew her best contribution at that minute was to plan how they would capture Robert Dawson. She had the address, 313 Maple Street, Phoenix, Arizona. Some part of her wondered whether the lawyer back in Stillwater was too helpful, maybe he lied to her. Maude remembered that the lawyer told her the address but never let her see the file. Her gut started roiling, the classic response to anxiety since she was a kid.
Checks on the internet and through local and state agencies had confirmed Robert Dawson as the owner of a house at 313 Maple Street in Phoenix, Arizona. The location was in a very nice neighborhood, near shopping and bus lines. When Maude and Joe’s flight was over, and they had rented a car from one of the agencies that gave cops a good deal, Maude bought a local map for getting around the city.
The brown rental had a GPS unit but she liked the old-fashioned printed map for seeing what else was around the area. The house on Maple Street was in a sheltered area near the subdivision park and backed up to a green belt. An elementary school was two streets across, and one over from the address they were seeking. Those details didn’t come up on the GPS. Maude was puzzled about the location of the house close to a school. It hadn’t occurred to her before that Dawson might have kids of his own. That could prove an even uglier ending to an already sordid story.
A large, leafed-out tree made a perfect spot for observing the Dawson house. The two detectives could come and go from the auto and still see the front door of the residence. They had been parked for two hours with nothing going on except it was getting hotter by the minute. Maude had smoked a quarter of a pack of filtered cigarettes purchased at a local convenience store. Her regular brand of unfiltered smokes was not part of the store’s offering, much to her displeasure.
She sat and smoked outside the car, the edict from the rental agency was ‘no smoking’ inside. Lately she had been thinking about the selfishness of exposing Joe to secondhand smoke; her new resolve was to keep the county car smoke-free so her partner wasn’t part of her bad habit. Fortunately for the rental agency, Maude had already put her new stringent rule in place before she picked up the vehicle.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the first activity at 313 began with a school-age boy opening the front door and entering the residence followed by a tall woman with blonde hair and sensible low-heeled shoes. The car she drove was last year’s red, sporty convertible coupe with room enough for herself and one other. The shoes belied the woman’s affinity for the stylish car; perhaps it belonged to her husband.
Maude whispered to Joe, “Suppose that’s his wife?”
“Don’t know. She looks good,” he replied, adding, “I like blondes. That’s why I’m in love with you, Maude.”
“Maybe he’s not far behind. I’d sure like to get this over with,” she said, ignoring the teasing. ”My butt starts hurting when I have to sit too long.”
“Not much meat there,” Joe said with a sidelong glance.
“There’s enough,” she growled.
“Look Maude! There’s another car. Maybe it’s Dawson,” Joe said, moving to a better position to watch the house.
Both detectives tensed, wondering if this was it, the end to a long hunt for the criminal Robert Dawson, the Heartless Killer. Maude felt her pulse increase, the adrenalin beginning to surge. She hoped that Dawson was in the car.
When the door to SUV opened, a tall man got out of the vehicle, his salt and pepper hair long at the collar. A handsome man as far as Maude could tell, but not Robert Dawson.
“That’s not him. Maybe a boyfriend? Joe, I guess we wait some more. Can you see anything through the glasses?” Maude asked hopefully, watching him position the binoculars.
“Nah, nothing. Drapes buttoned tight. Blinds pulled. West side of the house, blocking the sun,” he said, matter-of-factly.
At six o’clock they grew skeptical. “He isn’t coming,” they both said simultaneously.
“Joe, see if you can get around behind the sedan and get a plate number, then call it in. We might find out who’s driving it.” Maude said, staring through field glasses at the house. “Let’s go, Joe. I’m going to the house. I didn’t come this far to sit in the dark as mosquito bait. You going?” She asked. Legs in motion, Maude headed across the space between them and the house.
“You bet I’m going. I’ll get the plates when we get there,” Joe answered.
The trip across the park was spooky as they waited for gunfire, for the bullet in the head. But it didn’t happen. The house was quiet. Maude went for the door, ducking under any cover she could find.
The evening twilight was settling in, darkness not far behind.
Using her left fist, she pounded on the door, keeping cover, with Joe close by as back-up. The bullet-proof vest felt heavy across her chest, its protection over the vital parts of her torso. ‘Don’t take a bullet in the head. Present your body first. Keep your head covered’. Basic academy training. Her weapon in the right-side holster was in reach, the small, leather strap undone.
Another knock on the door. “Police, open the door,” she yelled. Her voice broke at the last minute, a tribute to the unfiltered cigarettes she chose to smoke. Again, she knocked, motioning for Joe to go to the back door, to watch for people exiting.
A cacophony of sounds came from the other side of the door; chains being removed, a bolt sliding back, the door knob turning on squeaky ball bearings, all assaultive to Maude’s overly sensitive hearing. The door slowly opened as Maude pulled the weapon from her holster making slow motion memories to be viewed later as gin flowed down her throat.
“May I help you?” the tall man asked, hiding behind the door. “What do you want?”
“Police. Open up!” Maude commanded, the authority of her job carrying weight.
“Okay, okay, the door is open,” the man said, standing quietly, a perplexed expression on his handsome face. “May I ask what this is all about?”
The tall blond woman had changed her clothing and sensible shoes for a pair of capris and flip-flops, the between-the-toe shoes so popular in warm climates. Maude had a momentary recall of wearing similar shoes for a day or two, but after they wore a blister inside her big toes, she threw them in the garbage.
“Excuse me, but what is your name, and what are you doing in this house?” She asked, keeping her hand on the weapon.
“We rent the house, we’ve been here for two years. We hope to buy the property, but so far the owner hasn’t set a price through the leasing company,” the handsome man eagerly informed the detectives. “My name is Donald Brook, and this is my wife Kirstin. We moved here from Natchez, Missouri and found the listing in the real estate ads on the internet.”
“Do you know the owner of the house?” Maude asked, making a mental to give the lawyer back in Stillwater a good screwing, just not the kind he was looking for. She knew at the time he gave in much too easily, coming forth with Dawson’s address in Phoenix.
“No ma’am, we never met him. We pay our rent through a management company and direct any maintenance complaints to them,” Brook answered.
“What’s the name of the leasing company?” Maude countered, wishing she was holding the slimy lawyer’s nuts in a pair of vice grips. “We need a phone number and an address and you are not to try to contact the owner at any time to tell him we’re looking for him. Got that?”
“Yes ma’am, anything we can do to help. Can I ask if the owner is in some kind of trouble?” Brook asked inquisitively.
“No sir, you may not. This is police business. My name is Detective Maude Rogers, and this is Detective Joe Allen, from Madison, Texas, Police Department,” Maude said, taking the paper with the address from the woman.
“Sorry we didn’t ask you in,” the woman said. “I don’t wa
nt to scare the children.”
“Sure, we understand,” Maude said, thinking that too many kids were scared of the police.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Joe piped up before Maude could say anything more.
Joe handed the man a business card and said, “If you hear from the owner, we would appreciate it if you would call this number.” He had been standing beside Maude since he’d checked the back door of the house. Taking a bead on his partner’s attitude, he knew that it was time to go before she alienated the man and woman.
After driving away from the house and deserted streets of the subdivision, the two detectives parked and sat quietly for a minute, discussing what they had learned.
“Okay, what do we do now?” Joe asked.
Maude thought a little more before saying, “Tonight we check in at the hotel and get some rest. I could use a drink.”
“Sounds good to me too. Let’s get some dinner, and then we can knock back one or two,” Joe said, his stomach growling low and noisily.
“Good idea, when was the last time we ate? Let’s try the restaurant in hotel.”
The hotel rooms proved to be the best places they had stayed, with firm comfortable beds without lumps, and good pillows that were soft while giving good support. Food was sounding less enticing than the bed, but Maude had promised to meet Joe in the dining room within the hour.
She checked out the facilities in the bathroom and discovered the signature of Porcelain Worx. The business part of Robert Dawson must have been working overtime considering the size of Phoenix. She wondered where he found the time to create chaos and still work at the salesman’s game, a difficult occupation. That must be how he found the women.
Even in her own home and rent house, the porcelain company logo could be found. His knowledge of Mary Ellen must have come from time spent in the house as he set up the installation, a perfect cover. Granted, most salesmen would not participate in the installation of their products, but when the killer decided to be a part of the process for his own ends, who would question his presence there.
The two victims on East Avenue had frequented the soup kitchen in Madison. Maude remembered from seeing some of the invoices from Porcelain Worx in Philadelphia, the soup kitchen had been part of a group that received donations of equipment from the huge company.
Serial killers, thought Maude, may be best described as opportunists. The often-used excuse by a thief was the same—“it was there, so I took it”. Robert Dawson didn’t choose his victims, they fell into his view in the same way the thief glimpsed a fat handbag on a woman’s arm.
Mary Ellen was a victim, not only of her killer, but of circumstance.
Maude had purchased the new porcelain products from a local company in Madison, and when the installation was done, the men who came were like all installers and maintenance personnel. They were shadows no one ever remembered. Maude took the guilt hit for Mary Ellen’s death. Though she was an innocent in the process that Dawson used to facilitate his victims, she had provided the opportunity for him. There was no justice for that.
Chapter 27
The hotel’s menu choices had gone from basic to extraordinaire. Maude was usually unconcerned with the gourmet’s selections, a basic food item was usually sufficient for her tastes. That night, however, the cordon bleu was something out of the ordinary, and she wanted to try it. The chef was a master at his craft, not content with ‘the tasteless product that was bulk packaged’ as he often told his guests. The dish was superb, and Maude enjoyed her meal, putting Dawson out of her mind in the pleasure of eating.
She ventured the thought that Joe believed he was still in Texas when he ordered a chicken fried steak with gravy and fries. He seemed happy enough with his own choice and sat back afterward, drinking a glass of wine.
“Joe, I think I know how he’s been doing all this,” Maude told him after the plates were cleared. She went on to explain her belief that the killings were opportunities taken, and not the result of researching victims. Joe nodded a few times as she laid it out for him. He listened as she accepted blame for the losses of Mary Ellen and her friend Chris Cole.
“Partner,” he finally said. “You can’t blame yourself for his atrocities. Dawson has had you in his sights for most of his life, his sickness growing every day. You’ve been living your life, not hurting anyone that didn’t deserve it. The end result is, we have to stop him, never mind how he got here. It’s too late to save Mary Ellen, but maybe we can save some other innocent woman.” Joe knew how guilt could debilitate someone, and hoped to talk Maude down from hers before it became a problem.
“You’re right,” she said, after ordering a gin and tonic from the waiter. “Let’s get out of here and sit beside the swimming pool.”
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be in that pool,” Joe said, glad to hear Maude’s tone changing.
“Well, you swim for me. I have some drinking and figuring to do before we get started tomorrow. I need to find our contact at Phoenix PD. The boss said he’d take care of getting us some help. We need to find the leasing company, and discover where Dawson is living now. That’s a good place to start.” Maude already had her notebook out, writing the events of the day as they had happened. She sipped her gin and tonic, determined to stay sober. Her life tomorrow might depend on it.
The night went quickly, and the bed called her to its comfort, but the guilt and fear awakened her later from a restless sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she had a cigarette. The room was a no smoking one, and Maude was on her best behavior, being considerate of the hotel rules. Deciding to go outside for a puff or two seemed a good idea. Surely there was a place for smokers in the building.
She looked at her watch, it was 2:00 AM, and the night was pitch black, the last hint of the moon having taken its rest three days earlier. Her weapon on the dresser nudged the back of her mind, but she ignored it, and pulled on a short-sleeve shirt, and long, sweat pants for the trip outside. Those between-the-toe shoes would be good about right now, she thought, propping her leg on the edge of the bed to tie her tennis shoes.
In front of the ice machine an ashtray had been set up for the use of smokers. Several butts were sticking out of the sand that filled the container, lipstick stains on some, but most were browned by the nicotine and tars that seeped through the paper. Maude looked long at the color of the paper and thought about her lungs and how they must be colored the same.
That thought nagged at her as she lit up and took her first deep drag from the cigarette. Cancer was a terrible disease, bad in every way. She had watched her mother die from it without ever smoking a day of her life. Grace Hamilton was as clean living as the Pope, not even sacramental wine polluted her body. Why someone got the disease and others didn’t was a mystery that puzzled doctors and researchers. Maude knew she was obsessed with a fear of cancer, believing that her demise would be from rogue cells in her body. What the hell. You die from one thing or another, but we all die, she thought, stubbing out the butt.
The outside air had cooled, even more than it would have back home, and Maude liked the feel of the breeze. She glanced at the full parking lot, curious how so many people could be in one place all together and not recognize one other.
Catering to the fitness generations, the hotel had provided a well-lit hiking trail around its borders. The borders were lined with tall, skinny trees for shading the trail’s sweaty guests. Surrounding the property were fast food drive-ins and small businesses. A pool store’s neon sign was still lit, the image of a beach ball bouncing at the edge of a pool, flashing its come-on to the heated population of a desert city. Across the street, a large mall lit up the darkness, lights on in several buildings indicating late night workers or early morning openings.
Maude decided to walk along the hiking trail to get the stiffness out of her joints, thinking maybe that would help her sleep. She considered going back inside to get her weapon, but changed her mind, thinking of the hour and the lights on
the trail. The brightness was deceptive in its illusion of safety. Who would think of mugging anyone in such bright light.
A short walk around the track and she was tired, the weight of the day taking its toll on her body. She took a deep breath of the dry air and returned to her room, barely stifling a yawn as she slid the key card through the lock. Sleep was essential for the next day, and even a few hours would be enough to get her through.
Breakfast was quick, coffee and rolls, a continental offering by the hotel. Maude felt the need to get in touch with Phoenix PD to advise them that two detectives from Texas were in their jurisdiction. Hopefully they would be provided an officer when and if they needed help.
Joe was fresh from a long night in bed after swimming in the hotel pool for an hour the night before. He had met two women at the pool and spent time with both of them, but left them at their hotel door and went to bed. His mother would have been proud of him for getting his rest instead of participating in other activities.
The light of day put a different slant on the night before, and Joe wondered if maybe he should have gone to the room with the women as they had requested. Who knows what the day will bring? I might die. But at least I’ll die well-rested.
The killer they hunted was smart, and Joe believed the man was not without knowledge of their trip to his city. Joe figured the lawyer that Maude spoke to in Stillwater, Oklahoma had informed his client of their approach. Dangerous times lay ahead.
The watch commander at the Phoenix Police Department put Maude through to Lieutenant Sorenson, the contact that James Patterson mentioned. Sorenson was brief with his message.
“Yeah, I have an officer to help you guys, two if you need them. When you figure out what you need, call me. Meanwhile we can run the name Dawson for you. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he ran a stop sign or two. If he has a history with us, I’ll get back to you.”
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 23
